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eggplantmaniac420 · 10 months

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At 3 P.M. today, Tidus, the beloved main character of Final Fantasy X, best known for his swordsmanship and happy-go-lucky attitude, will be struck by an impossibly unfortunate streak of bad luck that will render him unable to hit enemies with a single attack. According to experts, this unprecedented series of misses will not be the result of some latent bias in the random number generator, but rather can only be attributed to sheer coincidence. The astronomically small possibility of such an occurence has left fans and mathemticians equally baffled, but according the latest models this pattern is expected to continue until many billions of years from now, when the increasing entropy of the universe renders the Playstation 2 inoperable.

According to Final Fantasy X walkthrough youtuber slammedunk95, Tidus's inefficacy will make completing the story impossible: "Although other party members such as the Ronso, Kimahri, can make up for Tidus's shortcomings with their attacks and special abilities, there are a number of encounters where Tidus is expected to kill enemies on his own, something that he will no longer be statistically capable of." Additionally, he added that he was "concerned" about how Tidus's condition might "affect his sense of self wirth [sic]", adding that "Auron is... certainly not going to be pleased with him."

A number of theories have been proposed in order to explain Tidus's condition, though none have so far proven completely satisfactory. One explanation that had made the rounds on social media is the so-called "Reading Glasses Hypothesis". Proponents of the hypothesis suggest that Tidus is far-sighted, requiring a pair of reading glasses in order to read without strain, and that by some accident he has left them on his face, rendering his regular sight so blurry as to reduce his accuracy to nothing. Critics, however, have pointed out that a pair of reading glasses would clearly be visible on Tidus's model, and numerous analyses have failed to find any visual indication of their existence. Supporters counter that Square Enix programmed the game not to render the glasses onscreen, likely as a convenience to the player. Confusing the matter further, a number of conflicting screenshots have emerged, some showing Tidus with glasses, some appearing to show the barest outlines of a nearly invisible pair, others depicting him utterly bare-faced except for his signature smile. Square Enix themselves have been strangely silent on the matter, and nearly all attempts to contact them have been met with silence.

Yesterday morning, longtime series composer Nobuo Uematsu was spotted leaving a downtown ice cream parlor with two two-scoop waffle cones, one in each hand, alternating his licking between them as he strutted down the crowded sidewalk, deftly weaving through oncoming pedestrians, cones perfectly balanced, his blushing tongue darting out from between his lips to catch every stray drop melted by the sun, never losing even an ounce of that precious ambrosia, smoothing the surface of the strawberry scoops to a glossy sheen with his warm papillae, wearing away at the mountain of mint chip with nothing but the determined rubbing of that pinkish organ - stained pinker by artifical strawberry colorings - whose articulate flapping might, with any luck, reveal the secret of Tidus's bizarre condition to our news crew, who were approaching him at that very moment. Unfortunately, the revered composer politely declined to answer our inquiries, but our quick-thinking cameraman managed to capture a seventeen second clip of him biting into his wafflecones as he walked away. It is unknown at this time if the foootage will prove relevant to the investigation.

Fans of Final Fantasy X are advised to make the most of their remaining time with the profoundly moving story of Tidus and Yuna before the 3 P.M. deadline. Social media is already awash with fan-art and tributes to the critically-acclaimed title, with many lamenting soon-to-be defunct features such as Blitzball and Kimahri. Use the hashtag #TidusFailure2023 to share your favorite moments and memories of the game.

"guys i think it might have started early my tidus just missed five times in a row #tidusfailure2023"

"never mind he hit again. >_< just bad luck i guess"

Additionally, at 2:30 P.M E.S.T, a live contest will be aired on Twitch, with over 150 gamers competing to be the last person ever to hit an enemy with Tidus. The winner will recieve a cash prize of $100, and, unusually, the intellectual property rights to the character himself. Explaining this decision, the CEO of Square Enix remarked that; "He is of no more use to us now than a dried-up piece of lettuce."

Update: As of 4:05 P.M., Square Enix has announced a revised version of the game, entitled "Final Fantasy X: Niimen's Story". Though Tidus still retains his status as the story's protagonist, he no longer participates in combat, instead flying above the party in a hot air balloon and shouting words of encouragement as the rest of the party defeats fiends. Tidus recieves experience points alongside the rest of the party, reflecting the contribution of his motivational shouts. By utilizing the sphere grid, Tidus can unlock new words to use in his cheers, such as "great" or "wonderful", while others, such as "wacko" and "dingbat" may be used to express Tidus's disapproval with the party's performance. In order to maintain the balance of encounters, Tidus's slot in the roster has been filled by a new character named Niimen. Niimen can use all the same attacks and abilities as Tidus, but he is older, and his pant legs are of equal length. As of this time, it is unknown if Niimen will miss with every attack, but all evidence seems to indicate that the probability of such an occurance is so low as to be essentially impossible.

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apas-95 · 5 months

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it's impossible to convey to so many people who argue, often without even realising, entirely on moral grounds, that pointing out the complete inefficacy of spontaneous terrorism, or of disorganised calls for general strikes on instagram, is not done out of some innate moral opposition to them, but on the basic fact that they do not work. the response a lot of people have to these arguments - to say 'well yeah sure a communist revolution would be better, but I'm still gonna be supporting this' - is one that makes absolutely zero sense in the context of the criticism being 'these methods do not do anything'. they are not some lesser grade of Flawed action, they simply do not work. it is a question of pure practicality, among people who do seriously intend on carrying out these actions, not one of posturing.

#there are no half-measures here. you can't say 'yes a CAT would be better - but in the meantime ill do aromatherapy to stop the bleeding'

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loving-n0t-heyting · 5 months

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"scientific research has definitively proven torture absolutely never works for extracting information thus rendering any moral questions around torture-interrogation moot" no. false. cope, skill issue, and ceding too much ground to the enemy

the obvious tell when ppl wield this factoid is that the studies alluded to are never actually cited. there is ofc a good reason for this: ethical standards in human experimentation rule out the sorts of rigorous controlled studies these authoritative pronouncements always bring to mind, meaning such scholarly work as does exist has to rely on considerably less persuasive arguments-by-inference, like pointing to the neurological damage induced by most torture techniques

and anyway we all know the claims are untrue to begin with. suppose there is some information on your encrypted laptop whose privacy you value at all but only finitely, and that someone takes a baseball bat to yr stomach while yr tied up in an effort to extract the password from you with the promise they will cease once the information is obtained. wdyd? exactly

the key to such effective torture is checkability, as (relatively) non-idiotic torture apologists themselves generally admit. anscombe writes satirically:

The Report might be thought, at first inspection, to rule [interrogation by torture] out on the ground that confessions obtained by torture are unreliable, and are therefore not to be introduced. That is true; but torture could often be used to obtain ascertainably reliable information. [...] The correct position, which the Report itself puts forward, is that such evidence should be used where independently confirmable; for example, the model statute reaffirms the ability of the prosecution to produce physical evidence, or any other fact, about a crime, even though information leading to that evidence be discovered by inducements, threats, or oppressive treatment, presumably including torture.

if you need real life examples, this war criminal-adulating mealy-mouthed sycophant has gathered a handful. you might here object (as well as to previous apriori argument) that these examples are somewhat limited in scope and relevance, which might be fair were the pronouncements on tortures ineffectiveness not always so sweeping and categorical. to a universal statement one counterexample suffices as refutation.

the fact that these smug claims of total inefficacy for torture as an information-gathering technique are so readily falsified is indicative of the underlying problem: as an argument against the use of torture it is either disingenuous or made from the same false starting position of the torturer, that the question of whether to torture is a matter of "weighing" the cost to the victim against the cost to "society" as mediated by how well the torture "works." in reality, torture is ruled out simply bc it is torture, just as murdering a teenage boy to harvest his organs is ruled out simply bc it is murder. give that up and youve given up everything

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max1461 · 3 months

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I really have to say that when I see people engaging in, uh... soft apologism for Israel (I mean like, drawing focus in Israel/Palestine discussions away from Israel and onto how bad Hamas is, or how the Israeli side is being unfairly represented, or so on), it basically always makes me lose a little respect for them. Like.

Obviously Hamas is awful. There's nothing wrong with saying this straight up. I don't believe in the kind of neurotic narrative-crafting bullshit that other leftists seem to. People will call it manufacturing consent for US support of Israel or whatever, but I think this is silly. You can't sway US foreign policy by policing a conversation. I've compared it before to the inefficacy of weaving in traffic. It's like, no matter what your goals are, better (except in various edge cases) to go with the slow and steady strategy of "say what you actually think is true, or don't say anything at all". And what is actually true is that Hamas is an awful organization, and I won't hesitate to say it when I think it's relevant.

But. There is a genocide being committed right now, and it is not by Hamas. The current death toll of the war is ~26,000 Palestinians and ~1,400 Israelis. That's 4,000 more Palestinians than last time I made this exact same fucking post a few weeks ago, and... maybe a few more Israelis? It's hard to tell because there's some variations in the numbers that are being reported. That's not even to mention the people who have been expelled from their homes, the infrastructural damage, the damage to public health, etc., which has been exclusively concentrated in Palestine.

This is not a symmetrical conflict. This is a genocide.

I just... there's no other way to say this, but I've seen some people I otherwise respect on here come into I/P discussion and say things like "well this is all true, but Hamas is still terrible blah blah blah", and I see this in pretty much the same light as someone during WW2 being like, "well, the Nazis are awful, but" or "well, the Rape of Nanking was awful, but".

Like. It's not that there's never a time to talk about e.g. atrocities by the Allies in WW2! Those are actually pretty important to talk about! But when there's an ongoing genocide, when the situation is what it plainly is, and I see people repeatedly redirecting discussions of the genocide in away from the actual perpetrators, it's like...

Frankly it just makes me think they are bad moral reasoners. Like I interact with some of these people, I may not know them personally but I know them well enough to be confident they aren't evil or malicious or bloodthirsty. So instead I think they're blinded by bias, or they're in some discourse bubble with the kind of leftists who say Hamas is great and they're being too myopic to realize that dumbass internet leftists (who have always and will always exist) are not the most important issue right now, or whatever. I think they're engaging in a simple failure of moral reasoning. And, I think, an avoidable failure, the kind of failure that makes me look at someone and go "c'mon, man... really?".

The reason I am not so governed by myopic annoyance at internet leftists is that when I see them be dumbasses I say to myself "c'mon, man... really?", and when I have said this enough times about someone I stop taking what they say very seriously to begin with. And so too I often find myself reading I/P discussions and upon seeing one of these "reasonable" voices enter the scene, say to myself "well, this is probably gonna be a silly contribution". Well, anyway.

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falcemartello · 7 months

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Stanno dicendo che devi smettere di usare l'auto, ti devi sbarazzare della cucina a gas, non puoi riscaldare la casa con i combustibili fossili ma lo devi fare con le pompe di calore.

Tutte queste cose sono inefficienti, inefficaci ma molto costose. Insomma stanno praticamente dicendo alla gente di tornare al posto che compete alla plebe.

Non ti meriti la casa, non ti meriti la tua auto.

Le persone che guadagnano centinaia di migliaia o milioni di euro l’anno, non ne risentiranno.

Uno come John Kerry, un personaggio fumettistico, continuerà a muoversi con un jet privato perché serve all’élite.

Tu, invece, non potrai spostarti autonomamente a più di 15 km da casa tua.

Fortunato Nardelli

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thecatslug · 4 months

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Who said it: Strahd or the DM?

(I thought I’d share players’ favorite OOC game to play, courtesy of our campaign quote list)

“I tend to be somewhat vindictive when caught on a bad day.”

“Brooding is very important to my self care”

“The world is full of disappointments. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be mad about its inefficacy.”

“What is your deepest fear? […] That’s stupid. Pick again.”

“You can be self destructive in other ways. You simply aren’t thinking creatively.”

“I too get angry at small children, contemplate their doom, and then find them utterly amusing all in the same evening.”

“You underestimate my peerless ability to self-isolate.”

“Personally, sleep deprivation is my drug of choice.”

“The control issues are bad, but I’m far too controlling to give them up.”

“I say this with the deepest kindness I can muster: did you simply lack human contact for an extended period of time? Were you, perhaps, raised by wolves?”

#strahd and I are way too similar sometimes #hazards of being slavic depressed and lawful evil irl #strahd von zarovich #Strahd #dnd strahd #curse of strahd memes #curse of strahd #dnd memes #Ravenloft #dungeons and dungeons #dungeon master #dnd #ravenloft memes #ravenloft2e #lawful evil

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redvelvetnat · 2 years

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flowers grow out of my grave

vampire!natasha romanoff x wife!reader

summary : natasha and her all-female vampire coven make a point of their hatred towards humanity. but she has her own reasons for keeping you, her loving and devoted human wife, from joining in her living death. word count : 4.3k

disclaimer : 18+, strong language, murder of a priest, a fuck ton of lore, smut, blood kink + sucking, dirty talk (praise + degradation + pet names), fingering, hair pulling

author’s note : gif source. i was really not in a good headspace to write for a long time. this pile of flaming garbage is my gift. this piece of work is not to be copied or translated anywhere. thank you for reading!!! comments and reblogs appreciated <3

It started with an orgasm.

That was the deal - the rule Natasha set when the two of you got married. If she wanted blood from you, she was going to have to give something first. What better to give than an earth shattering orgasm? - she figured.

This deal was an inconvenience to neither of you, unless, of course, either was interrupted before the other. In which case, Natasha was burdened with an incurable sort of hunger.

Most unfortunately for her, tonight was one of those nights.

You find yourself standing outside one of the cells in the castle’s dungeon, holding yourself against the stone wall on shaky legs and the taste of your cum still lingering on your wife’s tongue, which swipes angrily over her extended fangs.

The priest, if his cassock and Natasha’s blatant overuse of the title father is anything to go by, trembles on his knees in front of her - a position, it’s safe to say, you’d much rather find yourself in.

Natasha would agree. As someone who’s been longing to sink her teeth into you for a number of hours, her only goal is to relieve herself of the hunger that burns ever hotter inside of her.

“Father,” she starts, “I have severely more importantly things to worry about than a priest who doesn’t know how to keep his fucking nose out of my business. Surely, that’s no surprise to you?” Her nails, nearly as sharp as the fangs protruding past her lips, are sunk into either side of his jaw.

He chokes on a plead when he looks up at her, ‘please don’t kill me, my people, they need me’, but his cries are inefficacious. Natasha has never cared much for priests, and her patience is a candle in the wind on a good day.

“Your people,” she hisses through a tight jaw, “would be disappointed in how fucking pathetic you look right now.” He cycles through a number of different emotions in the seconds that follow - hopelessness, exasperation, disgust.

When he swings his hand forward to catch the rim of her boot, no one bats an eye. Her sensitive ears only twitch at the rattling of the chains connecting his wrists and the sharp end of her heel locks his binds against the floor.

Hot tears roll down the apples of his cheeks and splash onto the cement below. “Ow - please!” If he’s looking for someone to take pity on him, he won’t find them here.

“Quit your stupid fucking crying.” She plucks a maroon-colored cloth from her breast pocket and shoves it into his slobbering mouth but he only continues to blubber stubbornly through the thick fabric.

She stops to think, or pretend to at the very least, and a blind hope rushes onto his face. You almost feel sorry for him as you watch him cling onto the idea that he could make it out of this alive.

If his crimes, which you’re still unsure of but certainly won’t ask about, aren’t enough to drive your wife into a murderous rage, his irritatingly loud whimpering will be.

He’s fucked, to put it plainly.

The tension is thick and you hold your breath - watching between your lover, the quivering priest, and the four women who stand, silently, against the far wall. Then, a sadistic smile curls onto Natasha’s features, “Dispose of him.”

All at once, three of the four women launch themselves towards him; brandishing their fangs and sinking them into his flesh. You expel a breath, his screams intertwine with the mewling of satisfied beasts.

Without anything more, Natasha turns on her heel to call for the only woman who remains at the wall, ‘Maximoff, come along’, and takes your hand in route to the stairs.

The young brunette attaches herself to your trail, looking as if she had never seen anything so disturbing in her life and you figure - it being her first day in the castle - that she probably hadn’t.

The three of you remain silent through the first few halls, accompanied only by the soft echo of your footsteps and the whisperings of centuries-old ghosts. Natasha liked it this way, quiet enough to finally gather the thoughts in her head.

After a few corridors, Wanda speaks up, “So you’re really Natasha Romanoff?”

It wasn’t hard to tell that she was young, probably the youngest you’ve ever seen in Natasha’s coven. And, with her age, came a sort of curiosity that most of the women had lost long before they reached the castle.

Natasha, unbothered by the brunette’s youthful energy, rounds the corner with her doe-eyed new companion at her heels, “My father was a healer who dabbled in dark magic. He turned me by accident when I was a child.”

She looks back, only briefly, to check that Wanda is still listening, “He built this castle and the village below it to protect people like us.”

It sounded so mundane the way she told it - without all the gore and sorrow that came with being ‘alive’ for thousands of years and destined to do so for thousands more.

“The village too?” Wanda questions curiously, eyebrows furrowing as she tries to keep herself from falling too far behind the two of you. “In the beginning - yes. But it has been long overrun by mortals. This castle is our only true sanctuary, now.”

Dramatic as she is - and she is dramatic - she’s right. The list of living, breathing humans who could cross the threshold into Natasha’s home and live to remember it is incredibly short.

In fact, so few people had ever seen the inside that it had become a sort of tale for the villagers of Alianovna. They had, affectionately, named it The Midnight House; an endearing title for a place that regularly played setting to most (if not all) of their modern ghost stories.

Anyone who had ever stepped foot inside the local pub had likely fallen prey to the bartender - Sir Odinson, he called himself - going on and on with his tales of the unusually pale beings that lived in The Midnight House.

Of course, no one had ever really taken his stories seriously besides the hordes of women who crowded one end of the bar to fawn over the muscled beast of a man.

‘Petrifying creatures - vampires.’ He’d say with a mouth full of cheap whiskey, ‘First time I ever saw one, I was half-way up the mountain with nothing but a trekking stick to defend myself.’

And the women, who never listened very well past all the heroic parts anyway, would collectively swoon - ‘you’re so brave, Thor!’, and ‘you poor thing!’ and ‘please, keep going, sir!’.

He’d curl his finger around the neck of his shirt and pull it down to reveal a single, jagged scar along the crest of his collarbone, ‘only left with this, now’, although it had always looked more like a messy knife wound than a bite.

You often dreamed of watching his audience’s faces if you ever stopped him, mid story, to explain that, not only was their village littered with the creatures they had all become so afraid of, but that it was built for them and named after their leader - Natasha Alianovna Romanoff.

“What about you?” Wanda asks suddenly, eyebrows tight with curiosity, “Have you been one of us for long?” She’s innocent in her curiosity but Natasha hardens and you can feel her rising tension through the vice grip she has on your hand.

Wanda is too young - still trying to make sense of her newfound strength, incurable thirst, and the millions of sounds rushing through her ears at all times - so it doesn’t surprise you that the sound of your beating heart is lost on her.

You only give her a smile, “I’m human, Wanda.”

The utter surprise that follows is expected, the way she chokes on her words and halts to a stop in the middle of the foyer. It doesn’t bother you in the slightest. It does, however, upset your wife.

You allow Wanda a moment of silence to collect herself but Natasha beats you to breaking it. Never late to your defense, she swivels on one heel with her teeth already barred and eyes glowing red as she looks down on the wide-eyed young fledgling.

“Human or not,” she snarls, “she is still part of this coven’s leadership and will be treated with respect. Do I make myself clear, Maximoff?” The fear is apparent on Wanda’s face and she can do nothing but nod stupidly under her superior’s harsh stare.

Though she means well, you know Natasha will only do more harm in trying to intimidate Wanda this way. You sigh gently, squeezing her hand in yours, “I think she gets the point, Tasha.” You assure in a whisper, trying to ease her down slowly

As the tension melts begrudgingly from between her shoulders, you redirect her to the set of large wooden doors at the end of the hall - adorned with the Romanoff family crest in all its glory.

Wanda catches your eyes for only a second and you attempt to calm her nerves with a silent reassurance as two well-dressed, male servants pull the doors open for the three of you.

The apologies that had been brewing in Wanda’s chest melt when she meets the two glimmering silver thrones that stand proud against one wall, both stitched with the same maroon fabric that accents most of the castle.

Your hand grazes over the garnet spider pin at the chest of your wife’s blazer before you part with a chaste kiss. She diverts, Wanda by her side, to a corner of the room where Carol, Maria, and Sharon are still cleaning the priest’s blood off their mouths.

As they reacquainted themselves with Wanda, fed and mostly satisfied, no one is oblivious to Wanda’s failed attempts to take quick peeks of you. The three women each send you inquisitive glances that you dismiss with a wave of your hand.

Her eyes focus, mostly, on the lively skin of your face and her ears are suddenly attuned to the beating of your heart - all things you already expect from the vampires you meet.

Maria, ever your protector, has already puffed her chest in much the same way Natasha has and the other two are quick to follow. Admittedly, it takes a great deal of effort for you not to laugh at their antics.

You wonder if Wanda will have the courage to ask her superiors the questions that burn in her throat - ‘why’d she let a mortal into the castle?’ and ‘why hasn’t she turned her yet?’

Natasha still looks unsure when she joins you at her own throne, moments later. “Give her time, Natasha. This is how it always goes.” You whisper softly against the sharp edge of her jaw.

Maybe it’s because she meets your eyes, then, or she knows your words have truth to them; but her eyes flash a loving amber color. She had spent so long loving you that it rarely occurred to her that anyone could…not.

“You’re right.” She finally murmurs. You only smile at her admission, “Of course I am. Now, how about you get to it? I know all of you are excited to feed.”

“Ladies,” her eyes light up as she stands, waiting for the scattered women to turn their strayed attentions back to her, “Tonight, you must remember your own safety above all else. I’ve received word of a new gang of hunters in the area and we cannot afford to lose any more of us.”

Eyes shift nervously across the room, every woman painfully aware of Natasha’s grim history with vampire hunters. “So, while I do encourage you all to feed to your cold heart’s content, please be smart and stay close to one another.” Excitement rises in their eyes.

“As soon as Wanda is escorted to her living quarters and acquainted with the rest of you, your night may commence.” Everyone twitches to look in the direction of their newest addition, uncertainty looming in the air.

Wanda retreats into herself at the attention and you only clear your throat, “You are dismissed. All of you.” Their exits are swift; courteous nods, soft bids farewell, and a whisper of ‘play nicely’ from you to the three woman who haven’t stopped eyeing Wanda suspiciously.

Natasha makes no effort to move as she watches them part and waits for the sweet silence to blanket the room once more. Watching her collapse into an exhausted heap on her throne, overwhelmed by stress and hunger, causes an ache to settle in your heart.

The truth was a harsh reality; that, as long as you were alive and well, Natasha would always be assured a stable food source. But the same guarantee did not extend to the rest of her coven, no matter how dangerous it got for them to hunt.

“They’ll be alright, Tasha. They’re smart women.” Is all you offer. It won’t help, you both know that as well as the other, but she appreciates the effort above anything. You decide to give her a moment, choosing instead to move towards the window where you can see the moon just beginning to rise over the mountains.

Shadows sprint into the darkness, quick as lightning and eerily indistinguishable. It will, without a doubt, be a long night of distant screams and unexplained blood splatters that the maids will curse them all for in the morning.

You become sickeningly aware of your own aliveness as you watch them all disperse into the village to prey on the unsuspecting townspeople. Your heart, which had otherwise felt idle in your chest, rises to your throat and begins to pound unusually hard.

A rush of cold blankets the air behind you, “That pretty heart of yours beating that hard just for me?” Her voice comes against the shell of your ear; quiet and soft and playful and all the things that make your spine twitch with excitement.

She lowers her head to your neck, listening closely for the flow of blood through your veins, and presses a kiss to the source of your pulse.

“You know what I think, petal?” It’s not a question - not really. She’s going to tell you no matter what and you’ll be defenseless against your attraction to the tone in her voice, anyway.

She’s towering over your smaller frame when you spin to look at her; face darkened by the shadows of the moon and eyes wild. She’s getting hungrier - and needier by default.

“I think you look absolutely delicious.” You could laugh at her. Though it’s, technically, a compliment, you roll your eyes at the poor attempt to soften you up. You know how badly she wants to feed - to quench that thirst - but she also loves you too much to let you think that it’s all she cares about.

“All helpless and delicate, just flesh and bone. Fuck, I really could just eat you up. That excites you, doesn’t it?”

The beating of your heart gives you away. Her voice is dark, much darker than it had been all day and you know the hunger is mostly to blame but that doesn’t stop the pathetic whimper that unhitches itself from your throat.

Would it be so wrong to agree?

You’re prepared to speak, to argue that you aren’t that sick or twisted - even if you are. But she pressed a faint kiss to your collarbone and pushes her thumb past your parted lips, effectively muffling any response.

Her eyes, glowing in the partial darkness, lock onto your lips as they enclose around the digit. She probes at your tongue, her chin lifting just enough for her to have to look down on you. “That’s it - that’s a good girl.”

The praise does little to quell either of your excitement, and the heat swelling between your legs almost startles you. Still wet and glistening with your spit, her finger makes a distinct pop when she retracts it and traces it over your bottom lip, “Can I kiss you?”

“You don’t have to ask.” You assure her, just as hungry for her attention as she is to give it to you. But a smirk curls across her lips, “I want to hear you say it.”

Something akin to a whine leaves your throat and you can only hope that the ‘kiss me, please just kiss me’ that follows is enough to satisfy her.

To your relief, she surges forward almost immediately; all teeth and tongue when she delves into your mouth to explore anything and everything she can reach. It’s a filthy montage of hungered kisses.

The thoughts in your head are loud to her - the soft ones, the eager ones, the ones that scream for her to do whatever she pleases and she can hear every single one of them.

Her hands are just as curious as her mouth, exploring the same skin she’d spent years worshiping by now. The broken plead for more that leaves your throat and falls between the two of you does not go unnoticed.

You want this equally as bad as her. You want to feel her attach herself to you in the most intimate form of love making that she is physically capable of. But that isn’t going to stop her from enjoying you for as long as she can make it last.

It’s a slow practice of her parting from your mouth; retracting, coming back to give you gentle pecks, then retracting again. When she finally pulls away, she picks you up with the strength of a God and carries you in her hands, like a feather, to your thrones.

Your chest heaves as she sinks onto her knees in front of you and a moment of clarity breaks the arousal-induced enchantment that had fallen over you, “We can’t. Not here, Natasha. What if-”

She isn’t listening, her fingers are already digging under the fabric of your clothes to rip them away. “If what, petal? If someone catches us? If someone sees you all spread out for me and practically begging to be fucked until there’s nothing left in that pretty head of yours?”

You aren’t begging - you want to argue, but then she’d only make you beg to prove a point. Her hand is stroking over the apple of your cheek in a way that makes you just want to melt into her. Maybe you could find it in yourself to save the bratty act for later.

“A slutty little thing like you wouldn’t really mind getting caught here, now would you?”

You expel the air from your lungs but no words follow, just a pathetic blubber of nonsense. She’s not letting you off as easy as you had hoped she would. Her signature smirk flashes across her face, “Say it.”

You know what she wants from you, just as you know she won’t give you what you want until she gets it. “I’ll be good.” You whine, the sound high in your throat and, in one desperate breath, you add, “I’ll be so good, please Natasha.”

“See? How hard was that, baby? Now, be still. I don’t want to hurt you.” Maybe a part of her did want to hurt you, if only to see the excitement flare in your irises. But there are too many ways this could go wrong once her fangs come into play and that scares her too much.

Her tongue presses against your pulse point, feeling it throb from under the skin, and fingers stroke teasingly over the soaked cotton of your underwear but only to distract you long enough to finally sink her fangs into the flesh of your throat.

A hiss escapes your mouth but the pain is long gone before you feel it. It never really hurt, not when Natasha is so gentle the way she always is; taking her time to soften the skin with her tongue.

She is ever so gentle, even as every instinct she has ever harbored is telling her to drink! drink! drink! until she can’t possibly drink any more. One hand cradles the back of your neck, keeping the skin exposed to her as she sucks the warm blood from your veins.

Sparks shoot down the length of your limbs, “Fuck, Nat.” The combination of excited flutter in your heart, whiny undertone of your moan, and the way your fingers curl into her biceps is enough to make her growl.

“Don’t.” You can feel the vibrations of her words as she pulls you closer to her, “I can’t stop myself when you do that.”

You shutter, a sick mixture of fear and excitement. It’s way too dangerous to test her, now, but fuck did you want to. Her hunger is dangerous, the type of dangerous that draws the line between your life and an untimely death but it would take a lot more than a death threat for you to care.

Your longing whisper of her name is relatively soothing to her but the rush of flesh blood that floods her mouth at the same time only makes it impossible to stifle the moan that rises in her throat.

Warmth spreads over you from the inside, creeping up your neck and down your shoulders simultaneously. Her two fingers begin to probe at the sloppy entrance of your cunt and you can only hold on tighter to keep yourself from collapsing. “Fucking slut, so fucking messy.”

Maybe it’s because of the two fingers that sink inside you or the electric feeling of her fangs hooked into your throat but a fog blankets your head as dizziness mingles with overwhelming pleasure.

It only becomes harder to keep track of her movements and time is an illusion when she retracts her fangs to separate from your neck in one swift motion.

You chase after her blindly, giving neither of you time to unwind. Your tongue swipes at the corners of her mouth, cleaning your own blood from where it drips down her chin. A deep, animalistic growl leaves her chest and she curls her fingers inside you to reward the filthy sentiment.

“Fuck, you did so good for me, petal.” She praises, her fangs fully retracted into her teeth but you can feel the ghost of them still lingering in you. She moves to pepper kisses along the unmarked skin at the other side of your neck, “I wanna feel you. Let me make you cum, baby.”

The gentleness has returned to her voice, a reflection of the long-awaited satisfaction she’d been seeking for the better part of the day. You only tighten around her expert fingers, watching a different kind of need flash through the green of her irises.

“Please.” You whine and it’s all the permission she needs before she begins her gentle rhythm; using her fingers to collect your arousal and spread it over your clit, before they disappear inside the twitching walls of your abused cunt - over and over again.

You lose the energy to hold yourself upright and you only hope that your wife gets the memo before your head falls against the back of her throne.

She knows what to do just like the first or millionth time that you’d slept together. She knows how to press at the sensitive skin of your breasts, how to curl and fight against your tightening walls to keep your hips craning in search of more.

Your mouth gargles with mindless pleadings - ‘please, Tasha, oh please make me cum, I want to cum for you so bad, please Nat’.

Who is she to deny herself the pleasure of watching you cum - neck stained with a mixture of her lipstick and your own blood, head thrown back against the maroon fabric of her throne, and muscles shaking with the force of the pleasure she’s giving you?

She knows how to get you there, she’s studied your body for so long that she’s sure she deserves some kind of diploma.

She pushes a third finger into you, “So messy, petal. All from letting me use you like the perfect little servant you are - exactly what you were made to do. You like when I take what I want from you, baby? You’re always just so eager and so fucking good at giving it to me.”

Even if you didn’t shout the desperate strong of ‘yes!’s into the air, the rush of arousal that drips down the palm of her hand gives you away all the same. Her free hand fondles with your hair, tugging and pulling just enough to keep you dizzy.

The sweet pain sends you over the edge.

The orgasm is explosive and sudden, like jumping out of a plane without a parachute and hoping she’ll be there to catch you. Your muscles throb, the puncture wounds left in your throat ache, you twitch and crane and chase after her fingers so recklessly that she has to use much of her strength to hold you still.

“Shh, it’s alright. Good girl. My good girl.” She talks you down gently, speaking into the dip in your chest as she sprays the skin with wet kisses. You heave in desperation and the release of it, body fighting to regain control and stabilize your nerves that buzz with excitement.

Through half-lidded eyes, you can see her looking up at you with pride glistening in her still-glowing eyes. The blood that rushes through your ears burns but you can still hear her whispering firm proclamations of her love for you.

“You and me, we’re gonna live forever, petal.”

#rvn : sydwrites #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff

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allthebrazilianpolitics · 5 months

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Brazil’s leader denounces UN Security Council’s inefficacy in Gaza bombing crisis

Condemning the UN Security Council, the leader of Brazil has stated that the group’s inability to compel "respect" for its decisions is part of the reason for the continuing bombing of the Gaza Strip.

"What we're lacking is sanity and authority on the part of the leadership that are part of the UN Security Council," Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva stated in an interview with a UAE-based news agency on Friday.

"If we had true leaders, if we had a body that makes a decision that would be respected and complied (with) — and that should be the body of UNSC (UN Security Council) — we would not have this war," he emphasized.

Mentioning the thousands of deaths, involving children, as well as the bombarding of hospitals in the Gaza Strip, Lula labelled the condition as "madness."

#brazil #brazilian politics #politics #palestine #israel #united nations #luiz inacio lula da silva #international politics #foreign policy #mod nise da silveira #image description in alt

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onthevirgeofdestruction · 6 months

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The Weight of Being a "Good Friend"

@tss-anxceit-week Day 3: Trust & Betrayal Canonverse 2,535 Words

Logan appeared in Virgil’s room with his arms folded behind his back, looking at Virgil pointedly. Virgil tensed and paused chewing on his nails to look at him, jumping off the top of his couch to greet him. After a shared quizzical expression, Logan cleared his throat.

“Yeah? What is it?” Virgil demanded, not bothering with politeness or disguising the fatigue in his voice.

Logan nodded to the couch and Virgil stepped back to let Logan in, who went to go sit on the couch. Virgil shut the door quietly and went to go lean on the wall near him, swallowing heavily and looking down to the ground.

“Virgil, you know I do not handle emotional aspects, but I have been... concerned about your behaviour lately. You seem to always be tired, and you haven’t been talking to Thomas, either. It’s obvious that something is wrong, but I don’t know what it is.” Logan said quietly, rubbing his thumb over the back of his hand.

"I’m fine, Logan.” Virgil glanced up at Logan through his bangs, who’s face remained apprehensive. “Yeah, you don’t believe that. Well, whatever. I’m not talking about it. Everybody will think I’m blowing things out of proportion.” Virgil shook his head, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“I promise I will not. Virgil, I need to know what’s going on. This does not seem sustainable,” Logan pleaded emphatically, gripping at his knees.

Virgil hesitated, examining Logan’s face for a moment. His brow was furrowed, and he worried his lip with his teeth for a second before noticing and stopping. “I’ll think about it,” Virgil offered instead. Logan watched Virgil a little longer before nodding in agreement. “Get back to your busy schedule. I’m going to bed.” He stood up straight from off the wall, and Logan looked at him in surprise for a second before getting off the couch. It wasn’t that late, but the expanded dark patches under his eyes and unusually pale color of his skin said that he needed the rest. Virgil watched him closely as he moved, his eyes tracking Logan with a weak wave as he lowered out of the room.

Logan hummed curiously and walked down the stairs and to the kitchen table, depositing himself on a chair. Roman and Patton were situated on the couch, watching TV along with Thomas quietly. It seemed like an average evening. Logan summoned his planner and reviewed the schedule, like he often did in the evenings, but he struggled with focusing. He glanced up at the stairs once more and sighed. Anxiety was still clearly very present in Thomas’s life, but Virgil not communicating about his issue was a problem.

The way Patton also worried his lip when he thought no one was looking made the inefficacy more apparent. Logan was frustrated by missing information and left feeling restless when there were unresolved problems. He took a deep breath and put his head down on the table, pushing the schedule aside.

“What’s got ya down, kiddo?” Patton asked, leaning in near Logan. Logan jumped slightly in surprise, not realizing Patton had gotten so close.

“I am simply tired, Patton. I think it would be wise to turn in early tonight,” Logan stated, sitting up at the table and adjusting his tie. “I’d like to set an alarm so that Thomas doesn’t stay up late on his phone again,” he added, projecting slightly louder for Roman to hear.

“What if the next post is the right inspiration he needs for something new?” Roman pipped up, looking more interested in the television than the conversation.

“He can find it tomorrow. He will not have the time or the energy to do anything with the inspiration tonight. He could perhaps even miss the post that might be inspiring in his exhaustion,” Logan pointed out the obvious flaw in his logic.

“Last time we tried that, Thomas just turned off the alarm and kept scrolling.” Patton pulled out a dining chair and joined Logan at the table.

“If we come to an accord and agree to not do that tonight, it should not be an issue again,” Logan asserted, pulling the schedule back up to him to return to examining.

“That sounds fair,” Patton said, nodding sagely and holding his chin. “Roman?” He called out to confirm.

“Fine. I guess.” Roman agreed as well, though clearly very reluctantly. Logan let out a small breath of relief and let Thomas know to set a ‘doom-scroll’ alarm for later. Logan glanced over to Virgil’s door again, wondering if Virgil was already asleep.

“Are you wondering if Virge is gonna join us tonight?” Patton asked, folding one arm on the table and propping up his head with the other.

“No, Virgil stated that he was going to bed earlier.” Logan shook his head and flipped the page on his planner, making sure the things that were missed today were recorded to do tomorrow.

“Oh! Now, that’s surprising from my spooky son. Last month, I caught him sitting under the kitchen table watching conspiracy theories on his phone at two in the morning while I was trying to figure out why Thomas couldn’t fall asleep,” Patton explained with a slight fond chuckle.

“Indeed,” Logan hummed. “I doubt that will be a problem tonight. He appeared to be incredibly exhausted when he told me he was going to bed.” He summoned a pencil to adjust the time on something scheduled for tomorrow that did not seem like it had enough of a time cushion.

“He really hasn’t been around much,” Patton mused, throwing a glance at the stairs and sounding melancholy.

“It has been quite quiet,” Roman stated, shifting on the living room floor as he kept watching television.

“Those are both accurate summations,” Logan validated both their points distractedly.

“Are you worried about Virgil?” Patton asked kindly, looking at Logan with a soft expression.

“I am always concerned with productivity. Thomas is very hard to work with when he keeps falling prey to distractions.” Logan rubbed his face, knocking at his glasses briefly before adjusting them back into position.

“I think he’s easier to work with,” Roman muttered under his breath.

“We have very different jobs, Roman, and I know you are also frustrated by the current state of Thomas’s hair,” Logan reminded him passively.

“Ugh, we better not get any visitors or video calls,” Roman groaned.

“We’re just home alone watching TV, you two, there’s no harm in messy hair,” Patton chided, tapping the table.

“I am aware, Patton, but it is better to be presentable as a form of preparedness rather than letting healthy self-care habits slide. Thomas’s appearance is important to him, and that changing suddenly is an indicator of an issue,” Logan reminded them, adjusting his glasses. Logan looked up from planner and over to Thomas, who wasn’t even watching TV and on his phone again, already doom-scrolling. Logan groaned, closing up the planner and sending it off, standing up from the couch.

“What’s up, teach?” Roman asked, distracted by looking over Thomas’ shoulder to see the phone.

“I don’t believe anything productive is happening tonight,” Logan replied shortly. “Thomas, set an alarm to get ready for bed on your phone,” he told Thomas loudly enough to not be ignored, and Thomas blinked a few times, looking at Logan before switching to the alarm app and setting one for nine PM. “You’ll ignore that one, it is too early. Set an alarm for 11:30 PM and take it seriously when it goes off,” Logan insisted firmly. Roman rolled his eyes, letting out a little huff and Thomas just looked at Logan oddly. “Thomas.”

“Fine, okay, got it,” Thomas replied, setting the alarm where requested. He didn’t seem concerned about not getting enough sleep in the slightest, despite even Virgil valuing that by going to bed early. If Virgil did go to bed, at all. Logan technically couldn’t confirm. The alarm was set, so other than checking in at 11:30, Logan wasn’t needed here for doom-scrolling, so he left to his room to review the memories for the day to make sure the important ones were stored correctly.

———

Virgil paced the room helplessly, long since having given up on trying to sleep. He felt so damn exhausted all the time, but the sleep just wouldn’t come. He was completely on edge, racing thoughts of things that could happen and how terribly things were going plagued every corner of his mind. Checking in on Thomas revealed he was still doom-scrolling, with Patton making quiet awkward stammering noises and looking at the clock. Virgil Let out a heavy sigh and tugged at the zipper on his hoodie sleeve, pulling it up and down while he walked.

“Not that your little failure of a lie earlier wasn’t amusing, Virgil, but if you’re going to go out of your way to fib, shouldn’t you do something more fun than pacing about like a caged animal?” Janus asked in a silky smooth voice, and Virgil jumped, turning to see Janus sitting on the couch with his legs crossed and leaning his chin on an arm resting on his knee.

“Get out of here!” Virgil shot, motioning away.

“Really, you should work on your subterfuge. Dreadful stuff,” Janus teased, grinning at Virgil like a shark would at his dinner.

“I didn’t mean to lie about going to bed, I just couldn’t get to sleep!” Virgil protested, hunching over and glaring at Janus. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” Virgil demanded shortly.

“I was talking about that little squeaky ‘I’m fine’ you tried, but that one was also truly heinous,” Janus replied with the bite of snark.

“Hey, I didn’t squeak!” Virgil clenched his fists as he glowered at Janus.

“Po-tay-to, Po-tot-to,” Janus hummed, drumming his fingers on his chin. “Now, what are you doing trying to lie when it is my thing and clearly not your forté?” He asked with a smug purr in his voice.

Virgil stared at Janus incredulously for a moment, but the expression never faltered, keeping his cool confidence despite the confused stare. “It’s—It’s you, Janus!”

“Yes, lord of the lies, at your service,” Janus said.

“No, I mean, you’re causing this!” Virgil hissed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and returning to pacing.

“If it was me, I would have lied impeccably, thank you very much,” Janus refuted, sitting up and folding his hands on his lap.

“I hate not bringing it up, and I hate trying to be a ‘good friend’,” Virgil muttered, kicking his sneaker as he turned around during his endless march.

“Of course you do. Terrible thing, really. Now, for the spider’s benefit, seeing as I fully understand, can you explain exactly about what?” Janus asked airily, twisting his gloved hand a little in the air.

Virgil rolled his eyes and huffed. “Elliot’s new boyfriend, Mitchell. He’s awful. And I know Elliot asked us to let them figure it out themselves. And I know we agreed. But it’s killing me to think about what’s going on behind closed doors if that’s how he acts in public,” he explained bitterly.

Janus froze and blinked, then facetiously coughed a few times to hide his surprise. “Virgil, you know that has nothing to do with us, along with the rest of these things you’re so positive about? He could be just the same, or better. Why are you assuming it’s terrible? And why are you acting like it’s our job to fix it when Elliot is their own person?”

“They’re our friend, and we don’t want them hurt, doy!” Virgil smacked himself in the temple with his fist and made a face.

“You can’t save people from being hurt. It’s just an unfortunate part of life,” Janus replied flatly, his face setting seriously.

“Well, maybe it freaking sucks! Maybe it’s normal to be worried about your friends. Why don’t you look past yourself for one freaking second and see how bad this situation is,” Virgil said angrily, his speed picking up as he walked back and forth.

“Not like this, you’re blowing things out of proportion,” Janus replied, his voice faltering.

“This is why I didn’t want to tell anyone! You’re always telling me I’m overreacting, but eventually I’m not going to be, and Elliot could be the one suffering for it!” Virgil threw his arms in the air and scuffed his shoe on the carpet.

“Virgil. Stop,” Janus said, and Virgil paused to look at him. Janus patted the spot on the couch next to him, and Virgil stomped over to drop onto the couch, just to make it clear he wasn’t fighting for the sake of fighting. “Sometimes, in life, we have to watch our friends and loved ones suffer. Even though we knew there was a better way. Or a compromise. Because they want to be the ones to make their own mistakes. Elliot asked us to drop it, so we did. We can bring it up again if—”

“When,” Virgil insisted.

“If we see it again. And suggest healthier boundaries, because we don’t want to see them hurt. But I’m afraid it’s Elliot’s life and ultimately Elliot’s choice. And no amount of panic or anger will change that. We simply can’t spend all of our time and energy on trying to change something we have no say in. Thomas is sitting out there doom-scrolling because he’s burnt out, even though he already knows that no amount of Twitter will quiet the duke’s suggestions. You know what to do in these situations already. Now look at me and tell me what we’re going to do,” Janus insisted firmly.

“It’s called ‘X’ now,” Virgil said in annoyance, but Janus only glared at him with thinly pressed lips. “Take a deep breath. Tell myself that this is something I can’t change. Try to adapt. Focus on moving forward,” Virgil recited in defeat.

“Right. And we don’t have to keep silent. Nor do we have to stay friends with Elliot, either, if this keeps hurting us. But we should still respect Elliot’s wishes and assume they can handle themselves. They have done so for all the years before we met them. But it’s still their job to speak up in their relationship if they’re unhappy. If we butt in and try to fix things for them, the odds are good it’ll do nothing but breed resentment. We have to live our life and Elliot has to live theirs,” Janus said reassuringly, melting the bitterness from Virgil’s face. Virgil took a deep breath and nodded, letting out the air as a tired sigh. “Is there anything else I need to intelligently and humbly point out before you kick me out of your room?” Janus teased.

Virgil looked up at him, reaching for the capelet with a small tug. “Stay?” Janus wrapped an arm around Virgil’s shoulder, and he leaned in, still holding on to the fabric. They sat there in comfortable silence as Virgil’s breathing evened out and the light in the living room went out when Thomas switched it off. “Tell anyone this happened, and I’ll kill you,” Virgil whispered silently.

“I’ll alert the presses,” Janus scoffed, rubbing Virgil’s shoulder.

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