#Unity Radio

[bahaibites]

Listen to Unity Radio Live for original Bahaí music and conversation.

[nethulmeow]

Lowpoly Beastie Boy character for Bomb Rush Cyberfunk! had heads of fun pulling them together

[dritbail]

I uploaded my first BRC mod! This will be a complete series with 4 characters based on The Black Eyed Peas. It has a trailer and everything :D

Expect updates soon!

[radiohaanji]

[djlucaknight]

https://rumble.com/v5lt1zb-legendary-times-square-ny-peoples-rally-to-save-america-speech-by-dj-luca-k.html

[roystannard]

The Whole Nine Yards Ep 191 22.9.24 Strike Accord with Roy Stannard & Matt Staples on Mid Sussex Radio 103.8FM

The Whole Nine Yards Episode 191 With Roy Stannard On Mid Sussex Radio 103.8FM Sunday 22nd September 2024 3-5pm http://www.midsussexradio.co.uk/listen Striking Accord Science has shown that performing, singing, playing music in groups releases endorphins that lower pain and increase pleasure – as well as bringing people together. Choirs are a great example. It has also been shown to be…

[failureddemone]

DJ RADIO PLAY - 18 Bitches (Dark Techno) (2023 - 2024)

Full HD

Radio Bitches

[meteorologistaustenlonek]

SHOFET: It's an incredibly, incredibly tough time. First of all, people are very, very scared. There's also this feeling of having to hunt down people who say anything that sympathizes with people in Gaza or strives towards peace. "Israel's Minister of Education just passed a new regulation that universities say will encourage students to snitch on each other for social media posts. And when the left-wing journalist Israel Frey recited the Jewish mourner's prayer for dead civilians in Gaza, he says hundreds of right-wing activists attacked his home and threatened his wife and children."

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (19 - Exile)

Chapter Summary: You were fugitives, that was the word people used. Criminals, outlaws, call it what you wanted. The point was you couldn’t go home. The United States was off-limits, for obvious reasons. And Wanda couldn’t go back to Sokovia because there was no Sokovia to go back to. She was as homeless as you were, as rootless as an old stump yanked out of the earth.

You realized that’s what you both were now: orphans again. You could call it freedom, call it a fresh start, pretend it was anything other than what it was.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.6k+ | Chapter Tags: Slight angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: Whew! Another update in less than a week. Don't get used to it ;) I do have a pleasant surprise at the end of this chapter :P Also, very off topic: I'm so proud of our homegrown talent, tennis player Alex Eala. Doesn't matter if she's unable to beat world #2 later, I'm so damn proud of her! // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The pounding on your door jolted you awake. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow, but the knocking only grew louder. Relentless. Annoyingly insistent.

“Y/N!” Natasha’s voice came from the otherside, impatient, the crowing roosters doing nothing to drown her out. “Open up!”

With a muffled curse, you kicked the blanket off and stumbled to the door, still half-asleep and not caring that you were barely dressed. “What the hell, Nat?” you muttered, reaching for the handle. “It’s too early for this.”

Yanking the door open, you were ready to unleash a tirade—only to find Wanda standing beside Natasha, already dressed and a little red-faced. Whatever you meant to say died in your throat, your hand subconsciously moving to your chest to cover yourself.

“What’s happening?” you asked, blinking between them.

Natasha crossed her arms, smirking at your half-naked state. Wanda’s turned the other way, out of respect, of course, and well—

“Steve finally called. Get dressed.”

It took a moment for the words to register. “Steve called? What did he—”

“Get. Dressed,” Natasha interrupted, emphasizing each word as she turned on her heel and started walking down the hallway.

You glanced at Wanda, who hadn’t said anything yet. “Good morning,” you greeted softly. She shifted slightly under your scrutiny, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket. “You should hurry,” she said softly before following Natasha out. 

You nodded and closed the door, quickly throwing on whatever you could find. Your mind raced as you moved, trying to piece together what could’ve happened. If Steve was calling now, it meant something had changed—and probably not for the better.

When you stepped back out into the hall, Wanda and Natasha were waiting for you. Wanda’s eyes lingered on you briefly before she looked away. Natasha was already heading toward the exit, her pace brisk.

“Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “We don’t have all day.”

—

The burner phone lay in the center of a small, round table, right out in the open of a practically empty café. A few early risers drifted in and out, some grabbing coffee to start their day, others hurrying to catch a bus or a train. Outside, a tram rattled by on its tracks, and the scent of fresh bread drifted out from a bakery down the street. It felt like an ordinary morning in an ordinary city, but you knew better. Everything was balanced on a knife’s edge, and the four of you sat scattered around the table—close enough to show unity, distant enough not to draw too much attention.

For weeks, the four of you had been stuck in this strange holding pattern, drifting from apartment to apartment somewhere in Europe. Nothing here felt like home, and yet you couldn’t say with certainty that it wouldn’t have to be, at least for a while. You’d scrounged for intel, picked up rumors, listened for coded radio transmissions. The lack of progress had gotten under your skin. No one said it, but you all knew it; staying still for too long was dangerous.

Steve had given an exact time to call, and all of you watched the seconds tick closer to the moment he’d promised.

Until, finally, the burner phone buzzed to life.

It was Natasha who snatched the phone up and answered, putting it on speaker but setting the volume so low, only trained ears would be able to hear from it. “Steve.”

“Nat. Everyone there?”

“We’re here,” she said, her eyes darting briefly to the three expectant faces around her. “What’s the situation?”

“I’ll get straight to it,” Steve said. “We’ve regrouped enough people to make a plan, but things are still fragile. Bucky’s safe. He’s in Wakanda, and Shuri’s working on helping him. He’s making progress.”

“Wakanda,” Sam repeated quietly. “Why aren’t we all in Wakanda? It’s got the tech, the resources—hell, it sounds like the safest place for us right now.”

Steve sighed on the other end. “It’s not that simple. T’Challa’s already taken a huge risk harboring Bucky. If we all show up, we’ll draw too much attention to Wakanda. That can’t happen.

“Listen—I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but we need to lay low. The Sokovia Accords are in full effect, and we’re all wanted. We can’t operate the way we used to.”

No one so much as shifted at the news. Deep down, you’d expected this, but hearing it out loud just made it more real.

“Here’s the thing,” Steve continued, “we can’t operate like we used to. And, for an indefinite time, we won’t be able to go home without being arrested. Legally, we can’t do our duty. Maybe it’s time we hang up the cape—for now, at least. Live like normal people. Find some happiness where we can. If something big happens—something we are needed for—we’ll be there. But until then, protect yourselves first. This is your chance to… to live.”

A silence fell. You expected a plan, a rendezvous, something, but not this: a call to stand down and embrace normalcy. After a moment, Steve said his goodbye and the line went quiet with an abrupt finality.

You looked at Natasha. “What exactly are we supposed to do now?”

She set the phone down, her expression resigned. “You heard him. We’re dismissed from duty. We can live anywhere we want. We’re on our own. If there’s something you’ve always wanted—an ordinary job, a hobby, something you never got the chance to pursue—this is it.”

You stared at her, waiting for the punchline. A normal life. After everything that happened, was that even possible?

Sam got up first. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, as if he’d made up his mind the moment Steve stopped talking. “Where are you going?” you asked softly.

He gave you a wry smile. “Wakanda. Steve might be saying all the right things to keep us from following him, but knowing him? He won’t be taking any time off. He’s too stubborn, too damn noble. He’s not dragging us further into this mess because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, but I know him. He’ll need backup for whatever he’s planning.”

He was probably right. Steve had never been one to truly walk away, and deep down, all of you knew it. But the instinct to follow him, to fall in line like before, wasn’t there anymore. You glanced at Wanda from the corner of your eye, hoping for a clue that she might feel the same way as Sam, but she only kept looking down at her lap. 

“Take care, Sam,” you said, unsure what else to say.

He grinned, giving you a playful salute before nodding to Natasha. “See you around, folks.”

It felt like a farewell that went beyond Steve and Sam. Natasha pulled out a few bills and placed them on the table, and something like dread settled in your chest. Without thinking, you put a hand on her arm, as if that could stop her from leaving too.

Natasha offered you a sad, knowing smile. “I’ve got things of my own to take care of, Y/N. But I’ll check in. You know I can’t let you out of my sight for too long—you’re trouble.”

She glanced at Wanda, who sat there like a statue pretending to be a person, hands clasped around a cup of coffee she wasn’t going to drink, her phone glowing with some useless distraction she wasn’t really looking at.

“You good, Maximoff?” Natasha asked.

Wanda forced a smile. “I’ll be fine,” she said, and the lie just sat there between the three of you, stinking up the cafe.

Natasha sighed, pushed her chair back, and gave you a quick tilt of her head toward the door. “Walk with me,” she said, already on her feet.

You followed, leaving Wanda alone at the table. She stopped near the restrooms, and you noticed the faint smell of bleach and coffee grounds. When she turned to face you, she wore that familiar look—the one she always had right before saying something you probably didn’t want to hear.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” Natasha said. She meant Wanda. “She’s fragile. More fragile than she thinks.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice hardened. “She’s the one most affected by all this. Lagos. The Accords. Vision. If she breaks, it won’t be small. It’ll take everything down with her.”

You wanted to tell her you’d take care of it, that you’d keep Wanda in one piece, but the truth was, you weren’t sure where to start. 

“You don’t blame her for Lagos?” you asked instead, your voice cracking just a little.

Natasha’s laugh was cold, humorless. “Blame? No. But you’re not blind to what she can do. She doesn’t need blame. She needs someone to keep her from drowning in it.”

You nodded again. “I’ll watch her. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

Natasha gave you a look, the kind that said, I hope you mean that, because if you don’t, I’m coming back for both of you. She patted your shoulder, almost mockingly. 

“Call me if anything changes,” you said, pushing her hand away. 

“Sure,” she replied, and then she was gone. 

You walked back to the table, the space Natasha left behind feeling like a crater. Wanda looked up at you, her eyes searching yours, but not long enough to find anything. “She’s leaving too, isn’t she?” she asked, her voice flat, drained.

“Yeah,” you said, sinking into your chair.

Wanda nodded, like that explained everything, like people leaving was the only thing she truly understood anymore. She glanced down at her phone, but she wasn’t scrolling this time. She just held it, gripping it and staring at a wallpaper of what looked like a city covered in snow.

“Where’s that?” you asked, nodding toward her phone.

Wanda immediately deposited it facedown on the table. “Sokovia,” she said softly. “At least… what it was before Ultron.”

Sokovia, a place that didn’t exist anymore except on a digital wallpaper and inside her head. You remembered the news footage, the images of destruction on every network, people whispering that it was like the world was falling apart piece by piece. Now it existed only in a snapshot, a memory so distant it might as well have been some dream you both shared and forgot until now.

You were fugitives, that was the word people used. Criminals, outlaws, call it what you wanted. The point was you couldn’t go home. The United States was off-limits, for obvious reasons. And Wanda couldn’t go back to Sokovia because there was no Sokovia to go back to. She was as homeless as you were, as rootless as an old stump yanked out of the earth.

You realized that’s what you both were now: orphans again. You could call it freedom, call it a fresh start, pretend it was anything other than what it was. 

But it sucked.

It sucked like a vacuum hole in the universe, pulling in every last ounce of consolation you tried to salvage.

There were only two of you now. What happens then?

Wanda pushed back her chair suddenly, the sound scraping against the floor. You blinked, startled out of your thoughts as she stood.

“Where are you going?” you asked.

She grabbed her phone and slid it into her pocket without meeting your eyes. “You heard them. We’re free to leave.”

“To leave?” you repeated, your breath coming in gasps as you tried to catch up. 

“Back to the hotel. I’m packing my things.”

A dumb question hovered on your tongue—Pack them and then what?—but you already knew how pathetic it would sound. She stood there, hands at her sides, looking as if she might bolt at any second. You wondered if she was waiting for you to protest, to say something that could change her mind, something that might tether both of you to this flimsy refuge of a café.

But what could you say? For the first time, the weight of being “free” weighed more than any chain. And freedom, in its very core, meant going off in your own directions and pretending it wasn’t terrifying.

“Right,” you said, voice thin. “Of course.”

That was it, then. You could follow her and hope your presence wasn’t another burden, or you could let her walk away and watch the frangible thread between you stretch thinner and thinner until it snapped.

You looked down at the overturned phone on the table, Sokovia trapped inside it, and thought, This is what’s left of us: old ghosts and borrowed time.

—

Following Wanda out of Valencia wasn’t as easy as you’d expected. Keeping your distance meant relying on old-fashioned methods—no GPS, no tracking devices—anything that might risk being intercepted. It made the task slower, harder, and far more nerve-wracking. 

You could’ve just asked to go with her. But you didn’t know how to ask. And honestly, you were more afraid she’d say no.

Wanda didn’t make it easy, either. The first day, you almost lost her twice. She moved like she was on a strict schedule. You followed her on foot at first, blending into the steady trickle of tourists and sleepy locals making their way through narrow lanes. She’d pause at a corner bakery, pretend to study the display of pastries, then slip down a side passage that led to a different part of the city—like she was testing you, daring you to keep up. You hung back at each corner, counting to ten under your breath, imagining the worst: Interpol agents appearing out of every corner of the street, or maybe even Iron Man himself, coming to deliver you to the authorities himself. 

By late afternoon, Wanda boarded a train heading north, and so did you—two cars down, far enough that she wouldn’t see you if she glanced over her shoulder. The train clattered through towns and countryside, the Spanish sun bleeding into a moody gray as you crossed into France. You’d half-expected her to notice you by now, to turn around and say something like, Why are you here? But she didn’t. She kept her eyes on the passing scenery or on her phone.

By the time you reached Paris, the city was dark and alive in a way that felt too blaring for someone on the run. Wanda didn’t stay for long, just long enough to grab a coffee and switch trains. You stayed in her shadow, moving when she moved, stopping when she stopped, and it wasn’t until London that she finally slowed down. 

Wanda drifted through the alleys with a kind of restless purpose, like she didn’t know exactly where she was going but couldn’t bring herself to stop. Eventually, she led you to a small, weathered hotel on a quiet street, its faded sign a relic of better days.

You hung back, leaning against the wall across the street, pretending to check your watch as she checked in. Her suitcase rolled behind her, the door clicking shut as she disappeared inside. For a moment, you thought about letting it end there. She’d made her choice—she was free to leave. You weren’t supposed to follow her, weren’t supposed to hold her back.

But even if Natasha hadn’t told you to keep Wanda in sight, you knew you’d still be here, unable to pull yourself away. And that was the crux of the problem lately: you just couldn’t leave Wanda alone.

An hour passed, maybe more, and you were still there, slouched against the crumbling wall across from the hotel, feeling ridiculous. A one-person stakeout for someone who didn’t even know you were watching. Wanda hadn’t left her room, and for all you knew, she’d fallen asleep—or worse, she was sitting by the window, watching you make a fool of yourself out here.

You sighed, shoving your hands deep into your pockets. This was pitiful, even for you. Standing around like some washed-up private eye with no case to solve. You glanced down the street and spotted the neon glow of a pub sign. 

Finally, with a sigh, you pushed off the wall and headed for the pub. If Wanda wasn’t going anywhere tonight, then neither were you—not far, anyway. And if you were going to keep this vigil up, you might as well kill the time inside with something stronger than boredom.

The pub was appropriately poorly lit. You slid onto a stool at the bar, nodding to the bartender as he came over. “Whiskey,” you said.

The first glass went down easy, smooth and burning in all the right ways. It dulled the hundred thoughts in your head, but it wasn’t enough. So you ordered another. And another. 

Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, you started trying to figure out what the hell you were even doing here. What was the plan? Were you supposed to tail Wanda forever, like some overzealous babysitter? What did living even look like now—for you, for her?

In your haze, Steve’s words floated back to you. This is your chance to live. Great advice, except it didn’t come with instructions for people who didn’t know how to do that anymore. It was such a foreign concept, that he might as well have advised you to live outside the planet. 

And Wanda… God, Wanda. Nothing had gone her way in what felt like forever. Sokovia. Her brother. Being an Avenger. Vision.

You stared into your glass, swirling the meager amount of alcohol you’ve left in there. The truth, the ugly truth, was that you didn’t know how to help her. And that was all you cared about right now—helping Wanda.

So you drank. And with every sip, the world blurred a little more, and the questions you couldn’t answer faded into the haze.

 —

You woke up to a splitting headache and the taste of old whiskey on your tongue. Your eyes struggled to adjust to the thin light bleeding through mismatched curtains, and the first thing you noticed was that this definitely wasn’t your hotel room.

Not that it mattered much—you couldn’t recall booking one in the first place. 

You were lying on a lumpy couch, one cushion half-slid to the floor, and a blanket that unduly smelled like laundry detergent draped over you. By the stiffness in your neck and the fuzz in your brain, you guessed it was morning—unfortunately.

You tried to remember how you got here, but that memory was wrapped in cotton and drenched in whiskey. Something about a pub, something about Wanda…

“You caused quite a scene last night.”

Wanda’s voice.

You looked over to see her standing by a small window, arms crossed. She didn’t smile. If anything, her mouth was a tight line, her eyes narrowed. She didn’t exactly look angry—just disappointed in a way that made you want to crawl under the throw pillows and die. 

Wanda tilted her head, arms crossed. “You remember last night?”

You blinked at her, pushing up to a sitting position and holding your throbbing head. You remembered going into the pub. You cleared your throat, tested the waters: “I… might’ve had a little too much.”

Wanda let out a humorless laugh, so subtle you almost missed it. “You were bragging to everyone that you were an Avenger on the run.”

Your stomach lurched. You’d done what? “I was… what?”

“Don’t worry, everyone was too drunk to take you seriously. Half of them were telling stories about being secret princes or rock stars. I think one old guy claimed he was dating the Queen. But you… you really went for it.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t—”

She held up a hand, stopping you. “It’s fine. We’re safe. You just got lucky this time.” Her gaze darted to the window, checking the street beyond. It was quiet out there, no sirens, no S.W.A.T. teams rappelling down. Just a quiet morning in this nowhere part of town.

You rubbed at your face, feeling shame and headache wrestling for dominance in your head. Last night, after you’d realized Wanda wasn’t going anywhere, you decided to kill time by getting drunk off your ass. And because fate had a sense of humor, she’d found you this way—hungover, pathetic, big mouth running off about being a wanted fugitive.

Wanda peeled herself from the window, turned, and leveled her eyes at you. 

“Why were you following me?”

She looked worn out, rings under her eyes, hair slightly askew, as if she’d barely slept. You wondered if she’d stayed up all night, pacing this tiny room, working up the nerve to confront you.

You exhaled, rubbing at the bridge of your nose. Your hangover pulsed dully, and you tried to think of how to say what you needed to say. “I… don’t want to do this freedom thing alone.” You swallowed. “And I do enjoy your company, Wanda. You’re—well, you’re my friend. At least, I’d like to think so.”

At that, Wanda snorted, a short, derisive sound. “My friend?” she repeated, as if trying the word on for size. “You’re sure it has nothing to do with what Natasha told you? About keeping an eye on me?”

Your blood chilled. You didn’t think Wanda knew about that conversation—Nat had pulled you aside, quiet and careful. But here she was, calling you out. You realized that, of course, Wanda would’ve picked up on it. She wasn’t just anyone; she noticed things, felt things, that most people overlooked.

She could always read people if she wanted to, in quite the literal sense.

“I—” You started, but your throat closed up. What could you say? That yes, Nat had asked you to watch her, but you would’ve done it anyway? That you actually cared?

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she said. “If that’s why you’re here, if that’s the only reason you think I need you around, you’re wrong.”

“Wanda, I—Nat asked me to look after you because she cares. I care. We all know you’re capable of handling yourself, but she—”

“But she’s worried I’ll lose control, right?” Wanda chuckled humorlessly. “I’m giving you until evening. Find somewhere else to go.”

Your heart sank, and you didn’t bother hiding it. “Wanda, please—”

“Don’t.” She straightened from the wall, her posture rigid, her chin lifted. “I’m going. Don’t be here when I get back.”

—

You did what she asked—at least, you disappeared from her immediate vicinity. It was easy to take her warning seriously; you’d seen Wanda upset before and knew the potential fallout. But leaving didn’t mean you abandoned the idea of watching over her. You just got smarter about it. 

But before you left her room, you made sure to plant something more subtle than your honest intentions. That morning, while Wanda was telling you off, you’d slipped the tracker—a thin, wiry filament not much thicker than a hair—into the inner pocket of her jacket. The one draped over the couch where you’d snored away your idiotic hangover. Insurance, you told yourself. For her safety. That’s what you kept saying in your head, anyway.

You spent most of the day drifting through London like you’d never been here before—because, in some ways, you really hadn’t. You’d only been to this city twice before, and both times it was strictly business, in-and-out missions. So, you did the most stereotypically touristy thing possible: you signed up for a walking tour.

A bright-eyed guide waved a little Union Jack flag like a wand, leading a huddle of strangers through winding streets, pointing out statues and centuries-old plaques. You listened with half an ear, feigning interest in the city’s folklore, the grand architecture, the queen’s guards, all of it. You even snapped some pictures and asked a stranger to take your picture next to a red telephone box. The day was, admittedly, a little perfect—eventful in a good way. Not to mention, it felt safer than just pacing around, waiting for Wanda to make her next move. 

You checked the screen as the walking tour disbanded outside a souvenir shop. The little tracker you’d slipped into Wanda’s jacket the other night showed her location edging into an area of the city you knew only by reputation. You pocketed your phone, excused yourself from the group, and headed in that direction.

—

The closer you got, the less the streets looked like London’s postcard image. Trash littered the sidewalks, and everything looked treacherous at best. But you knew better than to take appearances at face value.

You stuck to the main road until you were a few blocks away, then ducked into an alley to pull out your phone again. Wanda’s blip had settled near an abandoned warehouse, two stories of cracked windows and half-torn posters clinging to the brick.

You hovered near a boarded-up doorway, scanning your surroundings. A pair of men smoking behind a dumpster looked up briefly, but they didn’t seem interested in you. You waited, steadying your breath, making sure no one was following you.

Finally, you spotted movement near the far side of the warehouse. A man in a threadbare coat emerged from the shadows, glancing around nervously. You craned your neck for a better view and spotted Wanda already there, arms folded tightly across her chest.

They exchanged a few words you couldn’t quite catch, no matter how hard you strained to listen. But judging by their expressions, it didn’t look friendly. Wanda’s shoulders were squared, her stance assured rather than defensive. Whatever was going on, she clearly wasn’t afraid. You’ve noticed the man’s hand kept drifting toward his pocket, his movements jerky and uneven, like he was building up to something.

It was suspicious, because you’ve seen this behavior countless times, and it didn’t lead to anything pretty. But you held back, telling yourself—She’s fine. She’s Wanda Maximoff. She can handle herself.

Then it happened, and instinct swallowed logic whole. The man lunged forward slightly, his hand diving into his coat pocket. He’s going for a gun, your brain screamed before you even registered why. You weren’t sure if Wanda had clocked it yet, but you couldn’t risk waiting to find out.

You vaulted over a low stack of crates, crossing the distance in seconds. By the time the man caught sight of you, it was too late—your fist connected with his jaw. He stumbled back, cursing, but reached again for his pocket. You grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and drove him down onto the cracked pavement. A cry tore from his throat as you slammed him against the ground.

“Stop!” Wanda shouted. But her cry fell on deaf ears as you swung your arm again. The dull crack of bone against knuckles reverberated in your ears as the man groaned and flailed weakly against you. 

That’s when you felt it—the force wrapping around your torso, securing you in place like invisible chains. Your arms stiffened, your chest froze mid-breath. You couldn’t move even when you tried to with all your strength.

The man stumbled away from you, gasping and clutching his chest. His face was ghostly pale, his knees buckling slightly. With trembling fingers, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out—

Not a gun.

An envelope.

Crumpled and fat with cash. He held it up like a white flag, shaking so badly you thought he might drop it. You got it then—she was working. Contracting. Bodyguarding. Or whatever job paid her that kind of money. You couldn’t exactly blame her. Tony had frozen everyone’s bank accounts—everyone on Steve’s side—in a calculated effort to isolate you and force you out of hiding.

It was only a matter of time before your own funds dried up. And when they did, you’d be in the same boat, doing the same kind of work Wanda was doing. You had underground connections if you needed them, a way to scrape together cash, but you’d rather not. You didn’t want that for yourself—and you sure as hell didn’t want it for Wanda.

Wanda took the envelope, her eyes hard as she examined it. “Is this the full amount?” she demanded. The man nodded like a bobblehead, wiping a trail of blood from his split lip.

“Leave. And don’t say a word to your boss about this.”

The man, still clutching his side where your fist had landed, nodded frantically. “I won’t,” he stammered. “I swear, I won’t.”

“Good,” Wanda snapped. She stepped aside, just enough to give him space to scramble away. 

The moment he was gone, Wanda spun to face you, her expression murderous. 

“What the hell was that?” she hissed, nostrils flaring.

You rubbed at your neck, still feeling the phantom grip of her magic, but mostly the embarrassment of having gotten it wrong. “He looked like he was pulling a gun, Wanda. I wasn’t going to stand there and wait to find out.”

She shoved you. Not hard, just enough to sting and to make you realize how fast things could escalate. “You think I can’t take care of myself without you lurking around?”

“I think you’re hurting. And I think you’re making shitty decisions because you feel cornered. I’m just trying to help,” you said. 

“You call tailing me through the city and grabbing my arm help?” Her voice rose. “I told you to leave. To get lost. I don’t need you.”

Together—well, not so much so, because Wanda made it clear she wanted nothing to do with you—you slipped into a back street, walking fast, silent and angry. She led the way, and you followed. You always followed.

You stayed a few paces behind her as she stomped through back streets, her fists clenched, her spine rigid. She never once looked back to see if you were still there. She didn’t have to; she could feel you trailing her, the same way she always seemed to sense every other presence around her.

A cold drizzle fell, prickling your skin as you followed Wanda back to her hotel—even though she’d warned you off for the hundredth time. By the time you reached the hallway, Wanda was fiddling with her key, body tense, shoulders drawn up near her ears.

“Go away,” she said without turning around. She fit the key into the lock with unnecessary force, and the door gave a tired creak when it swung open. She hurried inside and just when you were about to step in, Wanda tried to slam the door in your face, but you shoved your arm through the gap, wedging your shoulder against the splintering wood frame. The hinge groaned in protest.

“Get out,” she snarled. “Don’t make me hurt you. I don’t need Natasha’s living, breathing surveillance on me. You will leave me alone.”

Her voice shook with anger, but her eyes were something else—hurt, or maybe fear of what she might do. You held the door, straining against her strength, feeling the faint trace of her power sparking off her skin. “Wanda, listen to me,” you said through clenched teeth, “I’m not here because of Nat.”

She pushed harder, and you nearly lost your balance, but you refused to budge. “I said,” Wanda growled, “leave me alone. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you fired back, breath catching in your throat. “Not even if Natasha had never asked me to look after you.”

That gave her pause—just enough for you to force the door fully open. She stumbled backward, eyes blazing with fury. “Then why?”

You hesitated, mouth going dry. You’d pictured this moment, but never with so much hostility, never in a dingy hotel room with the rain pounding against the window outside. Wanda’s chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, her hair a tangle around her face, droplets of water still clinging to her jacket. She looked ready to unleash hell.

And maybe you deserved it.

She opened her mouth again, ready to launch into another tirade, but you don’t let her. This was the moment. If you lied or said the wrong thing, you’d lose her completely—you knew it. 

“Because I regret lying to you,” you said, forcing each word out. “That night… that night when I told you I didn’t like you—”

This was it. “I was only being half-truthful when I said that. I didn’t just like you, Wanda. Because I—”

And she cut you off, just like you’d cut her off in so many fights before. “Because you love me?”

It sounded both like a statement of fact and a challenge. She was testing you to see if you’d deny it again—

“Yes,” you said. It rang loud and true. “Because I love you.”

Then Wanda lunged forward, twisting her hand in your jacket. It could’ve been an attack, but it wasn’t. She grabbed you by the collar and yanked you into the room, letting the door slam behind you. 

“You realize how stupid this is?”

You barely got out a nod before she tugged you again, lips crashing against yours in a desperate, angry kiss. Your mind short-circuited. You tasted her fury, the salt of fear in the corner of your mouths, the hunger neither of you could deny. She shoved you against the door, and your hands found her waist, sliding under her jacket.

“This is insane,” she muttered, lips ghosting against your jaw. “We’re insane.”

“Yeah,” you panted, mouth brushing over her ear. “But right now… I don’t care.”

She didn’t either. Judging by the way she pulled you in, pressed her hips against yours, slid her hands around your neck, she definitely didn’t care. She broke away to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours. “I hate that you followed me,” she murmured. “I hate that I still need you here, after everything.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t have to need me,” you said. “Just want me.”

[theshiftingwitch]

Reality shifting

Demystifying the basics:

In order to have a better grasp of the concept of shifting, we must address the beliefs that brought us here in the first place.

Shifting got really popular on TikTok in 2020 (thank you DracoTok) and with it, misinformation came a plenty. So let's deconstruct the notion, pull it apart, and make it as simple as we can.

What is reality shifting?

To shift is to become aware of a different reality.

That's it. That's all there is to it.

Like changing the channel or flipping through the radio, all of creation is finished and all of the possible realities that you could potentially think of already exist. All you have to do is switch your awareness from one to the other.

But how did we get here? How do we do it? CAN we do it?

Well, let's see:

In order to believe in shifting in the first place, you have to at least be a little bit spiritual. And if that's the case, then ask yourself this:

Do you believe that you are the universe having a human experience? That you are the creator and the creation?

If the answer is yes, then you have a grasp of the basics.

You see, there is no fundamental separation between you and the universe. You are not a separate entity from the Cosmos.

You are the Cosmos.

This idea is not new. It is not some new age spiritual BS that sprouted into existence a few decades ago. It is an ancient philosophical and spiritual belief spanning back decades. Hinduism, Buddhism, and Taoism emphasize the concept of Atman (the soul) being identical to Brahman (the ultimate reality), suggesting a unity of consciousness. Many mystical traditions, from Sufism to Christian mysticism, have explored the idea of divine consciousness within the human being. Contemporary spiritual movements often incorporate this concept, emphasizing personal transformation and connection to a higher power.

In simple terms, you are all that there is, all that there was, and all that there will ever be.

So if you answered no to my previous question, read this again and tell me your thoughts.

Now that we got the basic concept out of the way, let's talk about shifting, other realities, and your moral compass.

If you agreed that shifting is becoming aware of another reality that you already exist in, and if you're on board with the notion that you are the divine, the creator, the universe herself, what is actually stopping you from shifting?

Nothing.

Nothing is standing in your way, nothing is blocking you from shifting. There is no more work to be done, no more attempts to fail, no more research to explore. All you have to do is let go. Release this hold that perfection, stress, and eagerness have on you, breathe in and know that you have already shifted.

It is done.

You are successful.

In the same vein, if you are completely and utterly convinced that you are the universe, you are all there is and all there will be, you are everything and nothing, what makes you so sure that your current form is your true one?

If you believe in reincarnation then you know that you have had many faces, many bodies, many races, many ages, many lives, many experiences...

Same with shifting. This reality is not the metric in which you measure someone's righteousness. It is not the one and only form in which you are stuck within forever. You are the creator, and you, as you experience yourself, already are all of the ages, all of the faces, all of the genders and the races and the ethnicities and the creations around you. You are the rock and the house and the cat and the butterfly. You are the mean neighbor who constantly complains and the little girl skipping rope on your driveway. You are the bus driver who is always grumpy and the old lady at the market who always smiles when she sees you. You are the dictator causing havoc and the victim suffering from oppression. You are both the bad and the good, because that is the essence of your experience. You are me, I am you. We are the one consciousness.

Morality is by no means subjective, but it is also your creation. You made the rules and you enforced them and you rebelled against them. You are the one and only.

So why measure someone's morality by where or who they decide to shift to? Why judge their existence and believe yourself superior for adhering to a set of rules you created? Nothing is set in stone and no two people shift to the same exact reality, so why hinder yourself? Why limit your experience?

Do you have any idea how lucky you are to know about shifting in the first place?

There are currently 8 billion people at this point in time in this reality, and you happen to be among the very few who are aware of such wonderful experience, of such divine knowledge. Are you really going to spend that time judging other people's choice of reality? And on the other hand, are you really going to let other people dictate, police, and limit your experience?

At the end of it all, we all go back to the same origin.

The one great consciousness, where there is no judgement, no superiority or inferiority complex, no finger pointing and virtue signaling. We simply exist.

Have fun on your shifting journey, know that your experience is yours and that you decide how it goes.

Be a good person, live your best lives, and spread love as much as you can ❤️

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

What is this feeling?

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Max one-shot let me know if you want p2. If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

In the world of Formula 1, Red Bull Racing had always been synonymous with innovation and dominance. The team’s latest bold move, however, had set the paddock abuzz—YN, the first woman in decades to race in F1, had been signed as Max Verstappen’s teammate. It was a decision that polarized fans and media alike. Max, a four-time World Champion, was less than thrilled.

“She’s untested at this level,” Max had muttered to Christian Horner during the preseason testing. “And she’s… peculiar.”

YN, on the other hand, had heard every sexist remark and skeptical murmur from the moment she stepped into the paddock. She’d grown a thick skin, but being partnered with Max Verstappen—arrogant, aloof, and undeniably brilliant—was a challenge she hadn’t entirely anticipated. From the moment they were introduced, sparks flew, and not the good kind.

“You missed the apex again,” Max’s voice crackled through the shared radio channel during practice.

YN gritted her teeth, gripping the steering wheel tightly as she took the next corner. “Thanks for the advice, Coach,” she snapped back, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

In the garage later, their tension spilled into the open.

“Maybe if you listened to me, you wouldn’t be three-tenths slower,” Max said, arms crossed and an infuriatingly smug look on his face.

“Maybe if you focused on your own setup instead of micromanaging mine, we’d both be faster,” YN shot back, glaring up at him. She wasn’t intimidated by his height, his trophies, or his reputation. Max was taken aback, momentarily at a loss for words, which only fueled her satisfaction.

Despite their mutual loathing, Christian and Helmut had made it abundantly clear—their success depended on cooperation. Red Bull’s dominance was fragile; they couldn’t afford this. And so, YN and Max found themselves paired for strategy meetings, team-building exercises, and post-race debriefs. The team’s insistence on unity only seemed to intensify their animosity.

Yet, there was something else—a charge in the air whenever they were near each other. It was an unspoken, almost forbidden undercurrent that neither wanted to acknowledge. Every argument crackled with more energy than it should have, and every accidental brush of hands or shoulders lingered just a moment too long.

During a heated argument after qualifying in Monaco, the tension boiled over.

“You can’t keep cutting me off during debriefs, Max,” YN said, her voice low but dangerous. They were standing in a narrow hallway outside the media center, their voices echoing faintly against the walls.

“Maybe if you made a valid point, I wouldn’t have to,” Max retorted, stepping closer.

“You’re such a… an asshole!” YN’s cheeks flushed with anger, her chest heaving as she met his gaze.

Max leaned in slightly, his blue eyes locked onto hers. “And you’re impossible to work with.” His voice was softer now, almost a whisper, but the intensity remained. The space between them felt electric, and for a fleeting second, YN’s breath caught in her throat. She hated how he could disarm her with just a look—hated how her heart betrayed her by skipping a beat.

“Good thing we’re not here to make friends,” she finally managed, stepping back and breaking the spell.

The tension wasn’t confined to the paddock. During a sponsor event in Austria, the two were forced to engage in a game of go-karting against a group of contest winners. Max, of course, took it as seriously as a Grand Prix, while YN approached it with her usual mix of competitiveness and charm.

“Ready to lose again?” Max teased as they lined up on the grid.

“To you? Never,” YN replied with a smirk.

The race was fierce, filled with playful jabs and a few borderline moves that had their team manager raising an eyebrow. By the end, YN managed to edge Max out by half a kart length. She jumped out of her kart, raising her fists triumphantly.

“Enjoy second place, champ!” she called, her laughter ringing out as Max approached her.

He stopped in front of her, shaking his head but unable to hide the small, begrudging smile tugging at his lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re overrated,” she shot back, but there was no venom in her voice this time. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and the world around them seemed to fade. Max’s smile faltered, replaced by something softer, more contemplative. YN quickly looked away, clearing her throat. “Anyway, I’ll be sure to remind everyone of this victory during the next press conference.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Max said, his tone half-joking, half-serious.

She winked at him. “Watch me.”

As the season progressed, their animosity remained, but so did the unspoken tension. It was during a rain-soaked race in Spa that things shifted. YN had been leading when a sudden downpour caused her car to spin out. She managed to recover but dropped to fifth. After the race, drenched and frustrated, she found Max waiting for her in the garage.

“Tough luck out there,” he said, his usual smugness replaced by something almost empathetic.

“Thanks,” she muttered, surprised by his sincerity.

He hesitated before adding, “You drove well. Better than most would have in those conditions.”

She blinked up at him, caught off guard. “Is that… a compliment from Max Verstappen? Should I record this moment for posterity?”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile that crept onto his face. “Don’t get used to it.”

By the time the season finale rolled around, their relationship had evolved. The arguments were still there, but so were the moments of camaraderie and even—dare they admit it—something resembling affection. After a grueling race in Abu Dhabi, where they secured a one-two finish for the team, they found themselves alone in the motorhome, celebrating with a quiet drink.

“Not bad for a peculiar rookie, huh?” YN said, raising her glass in a mock toast.

Max chuckled, clinking his glass against hers. “Not bad at all.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, a rarity between them. Max studied her for a moment before speaking. “You know, you’ve proven a lot of people wrong this year.”

“Including you?” she asked, her tone light but her eyes searching his face.

“Especially me,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his words hung between them, heavy with meaning.

YN’s heart raced, and for once, she didn’t try to hide it. “Maybe you’re not so bad either,” she said softly.

The corners of Max’s mouth twitched upward, and for the first time, there was no animosity in his eyes—only warmth.

Perhaps, YN thought, loathing could evolve into something far more complicated, and far more exhilarating.

Part 2

@justaf1girl

[tubborucho]

Tubbo and Badboyhalo – When someone immortal dies

taglist: @pastelvangelion @smallz-o @salineroses @dynamicworms @cindersnows @deadfishisyeq @snyland @missstrawberry @frubbotoxicyuri @haloberry @thecardboardbutterfly @avianchorus @qtubbo-is-not-fine @an-egghead @codaattheend @mikaikaika @radio-zephyr @routeriver @luminouslotuses @lionheartedmusings

dm me if you want in or out of taglist

credits:

1. https://www.quora.com/Is-it-true-that-angels-are-more-robotic-and-can-t-feel-emotions-rather-than-warm-with-loving-energy

2. https://www.researchgate.net/figure/Concept-of-robot-as-opposed-to-angel-a-and-within-dehumanisation-b-Based-on-Haslams_fig1_332918259

3. https://forum.unity.com/register/genesis?state=iZPbbln2xXCTrPJfeRMDS3ZgCBn4y5e5hG8oyZCJ%3B%2Fthreads%2Fmissing-purpose-string-in-info-plist-file-with-unity-2018-3-11f1.653251%2F&error=login_required

4. “Reborn. Early Diaries” Susan Sontag

5. “The long and short of it” Richard Siken

6. N/A

7. “The Oresteia” Aeschylus

8. https://pin.it/UwaztHCx9

9. “Courtney Love Prays To Oregon” Clementine von Radics

10. “After Frank O’Hara / After Roger Reeves” Ocean Vuong

11. “Anecdote of the Pig” Tory Adkisson

12. N/A

13. N/A

14. https://pin.it/5WwkfBDhb

15. N/A

16. @.cemeterything

17. https://www.quora.com/What-is-the-definition-of-a-father-s-love-Is-it-different-than-a-mother-s-love

18. https://www.infinitheism.com/mahatria-wisdom/love/about-fathers-love1

19. https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/blogs/voices/father-love-is-like-an-unending-trip-of-joy-and-happiness/?frmapp=yes

20. N/A

21. Hozier – Work Song

22. N/A

23. “A Self-Portrait in Letters” Anne Sexton

[nucleiaster]

[WIP] I don't have time to draw, but I wrote a planet shader and I'm making a lot of progress on my school project.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

David Badash at NCRM:

As U.S. Rep. Mike Lawler’s town hall at a local high school unraveled Sunday night—despite strict rules that some critics suggested could risk violating First Amendment protections—President Donald Trump urged Republican lawmakers to “immediately eject” constituents he called “disruptors and troublemakers.” Congressman Lawler, a New York Republican elected during the 2022 midterms that flipped several key Democratic-held seats, presents himself as a moderate—despite voting with his party 99% of the time. Other critics mocked Lawler for having “more rules for a town hall than a strict boarding school,” and a list “longer than the Bill of Rights.”

Some of the rules included:

Attendees must live in Lawler’s district and be prepared to show proof.

Questions, limited to 30 seconds, could only be asked when a moderator called on an attendee.

No taking of photographs or video, a questionable “rule” given the public nature of the event and First Amendment rights.

Also: No shouting, screaming, yelling, standing, bags, signs, or face coverings, and “No outside noisemakers, bullhorns, or megaphones.”

Any violations would subject attendees—Lawler’s own constituents—to removal. Despite the rules, Lawler’s town hall still descended into chaos. ABC7 called it a “heated town hall” that was “drowned out by boos from dissatisfied voters.” The Bloomberg News headline at local New York radio station 1010WINS read: “NYers boo and jeer GOP’s Mike Lawler at circus-like town hall.”

[...] No one, that is, except President Donald Trump, who 42 minutes after Lawler’s town hall start time unleashed an angry missive. “The Radical Left Democrats are paying a fortune to have people infiltrate the Town Halls of Republican Congressmen/women and Senators,” Trump baselessly claimed. “These Great Patriot Politicians should not treat them nicely. Have them immediately ejected from the room – They are disruptors and troublemakers.” Implying only GOP voters are supposed to attend GOP lawmakers’ town halls, Trump appeared to not know that members of Congress represent all voters, regardless of party. “You must allow your audience to know what you are up against, or else they will think they are Republicans, and that there is dissension in the Party. There is not, there is only LOVE and UNITY. Republicans are happy with what is taking place in our Country. We all love America!” Trump claimed.

Despicable anti-American traitor Trump calls on Republican Congresspersons to remove “disruptors” from town halls “immediately.” This nonsense from him is about squelching freedom of speech.

See Also:

Daily Kos: Another GOP lawmaker gets heckled by his handpicked crowd

[gauzeandgestapo]

joseph goebbels and hermann göring photographed catching up ahead of the nsdap nuremberg rally, 1937.

• held annually from 1933 to 1938, the nuremberg rallies were monumental propaganda spectacles, designed to project the power, order, and ideological unity of the third reich. each year was assigned a theme — 1937’s was the “rally of labor” (reichsparteitag der arbeit), emphasising the harmony between the nazi state and the german worker under hitler’s leadership.

• the 1937 rally took place from september 6th –13th, and featured fewer overt military displays than there had been in previous years, instead highlighting civilian strength and national productivity. it came just months after the hitler youth law made membership compulsory, and the event included expansive youth marches, as well as a heavy focus on labor organizations and speeches connecting economic recovery with nazi governance.

• goebbels, as minister of propaganda, was instrumental in the production of these rallies; from the written speeches to the cinematic staging and radio broadcasts. his public image was tightly controlled, but photos like this, showing him engaged in seemingly candid dialogue, contributed to a crafted narrative of accessibility and ideological sincerity.

• göring, in contrast, embodied the regime’s elite power and prestige: heavily decorated, physically imposing, and positioned as a symbol of military-industrial authority. his appearance at the rally reinforced his control over the luftwaffe and the four year plan, both central to hitler’s long-term vision for war readiness.

• goebbels and göring, two of hitler’s closest confidants, had a complicated but long-standing relationship. both were part of the inner circle from the early 1930s and shared in the regime’s rise, but their personal styles and ambitions often clashed. goebbels viewed himself as the ideological engine of the movement, while göring, with his ostentatious lifestyle and military authority, embodied its aristocratic elite. despite frequent political jockeying and occasional rivalry (especially over influence and access to hitler), their public relationship remained one of mutual respect and performative camaraderie.