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mypoisonedvine · 3 years

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𝖙𝖜𝖎𝖈𝖊 I || professor!helmut zemo x reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 : history is so much more interesting when he’s teaching it. you’d better be careful before the two of you end up with a history of your own.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙 : 6k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 : smut (incl. semi-public sex in an office and oral f receiving), significant age gap (reader is 20, zemo is 39; it isn’t actually mentioned though but it comes up in the next part), the slightest bit of angst?, nearly pwp at this point lol

You wouldn’t know it by the way you were enraptured with his lecture, but you weren’t even a history major.

Quite far from it, really, well outside of the college of liberal arts, and yet here you were in the front row, watching him gesture over a large map of Western Europe while he explained the sociocultural impacts of the Treaty of Versailles.

It was probably pretty obvious why you took such interest in all this, though. After all, you were the only one who dressed as well as he did, your blazers and skirts and loafers standing out amongst a sea of hoodies and sweats and flip-flops; and, you were the only one who paid close attention and yet never seemed to be taking any notes…

Why would you, after all? Looking away to write in your notebook would mean missing out on all the fun, and unfortunately you had found that when you copied down the words he spoke, his accent was not retained in writing.

Some kid in the back of the class had asked about his accent the first day; you thought it was kind of a rude question, if you were being honest, but he didn’t seem to mind too much (if perhaps a bit surprised that anyone cared). He explained he was from a small country called Sokovia, but that his accent was a bit unique since he spoke Russian, German, Spanish, and Italian as well.

Because of course he did. Like he was specifically designed to target all your weaknesses.

“Well, I could talk about that for the rest of the evening but I’ll spare you all and let you out a bit early today, how does that sound?” Professor Zemo offered. The other students weakly cheered, a few claps here and there as you heard binders shutting and backpacks being zipped, but you were disappointed. You didn’t want to go back to your dorm, all you were going to do there was think about him anyways.

Damn, I’ve really got it bad, you thought to yourself, shaking your head as you stood up and gathering your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You glanced up at the podium where another student was chatting with Professor Zemo, and either he said something really funny or she was trying way too hard to flirt with him. You rolled your eyes, irritated by the display and yet envious of her audacity to just go up there and talk to him. Imagine having a crush and actually being able to look them in the eye and hold a conversation; you could barely do that with people you didn’t happen to find attractive.

Just as you were about to make it out the door, you heard your name and spun around. You were shocked to realize it was the Professor trying to get your attention. If only you’d thought to pretend you hadn’t heard him.

“Could I speak with you for a moment?” he requested, motioning you over with two curled fingers. With a swallow and a nod, you stepped out of the flow of students exiting into the hallway and approached the desk at the front of the room.

“What is it?” you asked.

“I just wanted to discuss your most recent paper, if you have some time,” he explained, and your heart sunk. Of course it was garbage, you’d written the whole thing last minute during a near-all-nighter. “I still have the copy you turned in here in my bag.”

“Right, of course— sure,” you nodded. By now the classroom was empty spare for the two of you, your words echoing slightly; presumably that was intentional, since these places were built for acoustics, but it made you worry you’d have to hear whatever criticism he had for you multiple times.

He pulled out the slightly-wrinkled paper and took his glasses off of his vest to wear (fuck, did he have to wear the glasses, just to personally attack you?) as he glanced over the top page before folding it over the staple.

“This essay,” he continued, “it’s—”

Ridiculous. Idiotic. A blight on humanity and a waste of printer ink.

“Fascinating,” he finished, surprising you. “After I read it, I searched your student profile on my office computer—”

You gulped, trying not to take that as a compliment.

“I’m looking at your information and I’m seeing you aren’t even a history major— is this a mistake, when it says your major is computer science?”

“No, that’s my major,” you nodded.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he decided, “because you have some really interesting ideas in here, clearly you must have studied history before.”

“I mean, not really,” you shrugged. “I didn’t even care that much about history until, you know, you...r class,” you finished quickly, realizing it sounded too odd otherwise.

And that smile, the way he looked down at the floor suddenly, was he blushing? “Thank you. I’m always… glad to inspire.”

If only you knew everything you’d inspired in me, Professor.

“If you didn’t care about history, what would motivate you to register for an honors history seminar?” he asked suddenly.

“Well…” you trailed off, reaching up to scratch the back of your neck as you dodged his gaze.

“It couldn’t possibly be because I’m teaching it,” he realized.

“I came to your talk last year, the one you did about the Sokovian civil war,” you finally admitted, letting out a lungful of air as you said it and looking up at him sheepishly.

“Ah,” he nodded, “yes, that might make a bit more sense. But we still haven’t found the real reason, have we?” His eyebrow raised slightly and you felt like he was toying with you— but you liked it, the shiver that ran up your spine made that obvious. “Because the question remains of what would possess a computer science student to take time out of her busy schedule on a Friday night— if I recall the night correctly— to listen to some stuffy visiting scholar talk about a bloody war in a country she may not have even heard of before.”

“My friend brought me,” you defended.

“Under what guise?” he pressed.

“She… may have mentioned something about… a cute professor with a sexy accent…” you stammered, cringing slightly as you spared a glance back up at him. He was staring back at you with the most bewildering expression. His eyes said ‘you thought I was cute?’, and yet his smile said ‘I knew it.’

“You must’ve been horribly disappointed when I took the stage,” he finally replied, voice a bit lower, softer, not echoing around the room anymore.

“Not at all,” you returned, almost below your breath now, and suddenly you became very aware that you were standing too close to him, but you couldn’t move away, you couldn’t even look away anymore. “I’m here, aren’t I? Taking your class?”

“And you make it nearly impossible to focus, did you know that? I swear your eyes never leave me, I can feel them on me. It’s quite unfair, because I can’t stare back at you no matter how much I want to.”

Just as you looked down at his lips and back up to his eyes, which seemed to be following a similar pattern on your own face, just when you thought this might be it and you were about to do something you really shouldn’t (but really wanted to), you heard the door open behind you and you spun around so fast you nearly hurt your neck.

“Oh,” the man in the doorway mumbled, apparently surprised to see you enough to nearly drop the papers tucked under his arm. “I’m teaching the next class in here— Honors History of Islam?”

“Professor Waters, yes, my apologies,” Zemo nodded, “we were just… our discussion ran a bit long, we’ll get out of your way.”

You and Zemo awkwardly gathered your things and made a dash for the door as the older professor took his place at the podium. Once the two of you were out in the hall, you let out a sigh and gave each other a glance, like you were each waiting for the other to either acknowledge or ignore what had just (almost) happened.

“I have my next class across campus in a half hour,” he remembered suddenly, lifting his arm and pulling back the brown sleeve of his coat to look at his watch.

“Right, you should… get to that,” you nodded.

“Walk with me?” he proposed, and you hoped your smile wasn’t as beaming as it felt.

“I’d love to.”

So maybe you ended up skipping your evening class to sit in the back of his History of England course. And, perhaps, he ended that one early, too, this time to buy you coffee at the student center; and your discussion ended up going on so long that the coffee shop closed and you had to go to his office to finish the conversation.

But, in a certain sense, it could be argued that you never really got a chance to finish that conversation after all… because a few moments after he shut the door to his office, you, for lack of a better term, jumped his bones.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your lips as you pulled him closer by his jacket, “we can’t do this.”

You nodded, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. “Mhm, yeah, you’re right,” you agreed breathlessly.

His hands took their place at your waist as you both stepped back, the back of your legs bumping into his desk which you jumped up slightly to sit on.

“I mean, we really can’t do this,” he continued, kissing your neck instead now while your legs wrapped around his hips, your skirt riding up slightly, your fingers fumbling with the buttons on his collar. “I want to, overwhelmingly so, but we can’t.”

“I know,” you sighed; your head fell back when his teeth grazed over your pulse, and his hand was right there to catch it and hold it up, gripping the back of your neck.

“This absolutely cannot happen,” he groaned when your legs pulled him closer, something hard and hot pressing up against your thigh through his trousers and you were really hoping it wasn’t just his cell phone.

Then he rocked his hips, just barely, and you felt the outline of the ridge of his head and it was definitely not his phone unless he had the most suggestively-shaped phone case of all time. You gasped and grabbed his face to kiss him again, shamelessly desperate now, weaving your fingers into the hair just above the back of his neck.

By now you had managed to get a few of his buttons open so when you slid your fingers down from time to time, they ran over his chest and the patch of dark blonde hair there. Funny enough, you couldn’t remember having any strong opinions on chest hair before this afternoon, but now you felt your walls fluttering around nothing.

He helped you shed your blazer just before tossing his own coat aside, never breaking the kiss, holding your face gently while he pushed you down to lay on his desk— he reached behind you to clear a few stray papers out of the way first.

Your back hit the glossy wood and his weight pinned you down, rough hands sliding up your legs and under your skirt as you tried to push your hips up for more friction where you needed him most.

He pushed your hips back down, not too roughly but definitely enough to get your attention, before sliding his hands up your skirt again where he toyed with the hem of your panties.

You wanted to say something, more specifically you wanted to beg him to touch you, but you had this fear that if you spoke now it would all become real and he would stop because, as he had so poignantly noted, this can’t happen. And both of you knew that… so maybe it would be easier to let it happen if neither of you really acknowledged it.

Luckily, he didn’t tease you too long, reaching under the fabric and swiping the rough pads of his fingers over your slickened folds. You choked on your gasp, accidentally digging your nails into his shoulders when he drew delicate circles around your clit. All at once, he suddenly pushed those fingers right inside you and your back arched; you needed so much more than just his fingers but the way they twisted and curled against your walls was nearly perfect as well.

They didn’t stay long, quickly pulling back as you watched him quickly open his trousers just before you felt the head of him pushing up to your entrance.

His eyes met yours, dark with need, yet somehow clearly asking you for permission, making sure this was what you wanted: and fuck, you wanted it more than anything. The moment that you nodded, he began to push forward— slow and deliberate, but unyielding.

Perhaps as a perfect healthy college student in a male-dominated major, you had no real excuse for it to have been so long since you’d had sex. As you liked to put it: dating as a woman in computer science means the odds are good but the goods are odd. Truth be told, you weren’t sure at this point if having had sex any time in the past year would’ve prepared you for him anyway. It felt like he was forging a new path inside you— certainly a wider one than anyone else ever had since he was so thick.

With his hips fully seated against yours, the tip of his cock just reached the end of you, just barely brushed over those sensitive spots you didn’t even know you had before.

It stung a bit to be filled this thoroughly, so it was no wonder you were biting down on your lip hard enough to bruise it, your fingers clutching at his shirt tightly.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered, finally breaking the silence, voice strained like he was struggling just as much as you were (though in an entirely different way).

“A little,” you admitted. “Please don’t stop.”

He groaned a few curses as he started to move back, and forth, and so slow you could hardly stand it.

“Fuck,” you breathed, “oh my god, harder, please…”

A little smile crossed his face, a sharp exhale almost like a laugh, and it made your cheeks burn even hotter than they already were. But, he obeyed, regardless, more aggressive in his movements yet not any faster as he held your hips to keep you from sliding across the desk’s glossy wood surface.

Your moans were starting to echo around the office’s beige walls at this point, and he snarled as he bit down on your neck. “You need to stay quiet,” he hissed in your ear. “Can you do that for me? Can you stay quiet even when I’m making you feel so good?”

“I-I’m trying,” you whimpered, “your cock is… so deep…”

“Oh, I know,” he cooed, voice heavy with faux pity, “poor thing, you can’t take it?”

“No!” you yelped. “I can take it! Please, please don’t stop.”

“I won’t have to if you stay quiet, darling, we can’t have somebody hearing you now can we?” he chuckled, licking and sucking at your pulse point as your eyes rolled back in your head. “We can’t have somebody hearing you cry for me, and coming in here, and seeing you laying on my desk getting fucked by your professor, right?”

What the hell was wrong with you that that idea actually turned you on? Why did it actually make you want to moan louder until everyone could hear you?

And when his cock speared right against that spongy spot inside you, you did exactly that and he had to suddenly clamp his hand down over your mouth.

“Fuck,” he growled, “you’re going to get us both in trouble.”

Your attempts at apologies were totally incomprehensible with his hand over your mouth, not that they were likely to have made much sense either way.

Blinking your eyes shut, your legs began to quiver slightly as he rutted into you, your toes curling inside your loafers. You felt so full you could hardly stand it, stretched so wide that you were forced to feel every detail of his cock as it filled you. Already your walls were bearing down on him; you couldn’t help it, it was like your body was just his instrument now and instinct had taken control of your movements.

His accent was definitely stronger now as he whispered in your ear, praising you gruffly. You knew from the beginning that you loved high marks and encouragement from your teachers, but this… this was different, and you hadn't known how much it would affect you.

"Good girl," he breathed, "you're taking me so well, draga, you feel so perfect around me."

You whined from behind his hand and he chuckled at your obvious neediness.

"You like making me feel good, darling?" he presumed, his smile pressing against your neck between nipping kisses to your pulse point. "You like knowing that I can barely take this tight cunt gripping me so well, that I'm already addicted to your precious body and want to fill it with my seed?"

With your eyes rolling back in your head you nodded feverishly, heavy in your state of total delirium as he pumped his cock deep into you over and over.

You reached up to try to pull his hand away from your mouth, and he met your gaze with fire in his eyes.

“If I take my hand away, will you be good?” he challenged, and you nodded feverishly. He was a bit hesitant but slowly moved his hand down, and though you did have to keep biting your lip, you managed to restrain yourself.

Every drag of the ridge of his head inside you was somehow more intense than the last, somehow hitting right at your spot and it was like each rough thrust knocked his name out of your mind and onto your lips until you were chanting it like a prayer, or a plea.

And each time you said it, he fucked you harder, snarling and whispering your name back to you a few times, in between little praises; "Beautiful," he mumbled, "such a sweet little girl… such a perfect cunt."

“I— fuck, I’m gonna—” you stammered your warning.

“Will you come for me?” he finished for you, and you nodded quickly.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” you hissed.

It was obvious just by the build-up that you were going to come hard, pleasure tightening in your core until you were sure that it would spill over but it just kept going, making you wonder if it would ever reach the breaking point.

And oh boy did it, it slammed into you in fact, and your legs quivered as you struggled for air. He growled in your ear, fucking you harder through it all, stroking every place that had only become even more sensitive. The moment you could form words again, you were wasting the ability on a string of swears and promises you couldn’t keep.

“Yours, fuck, it’s yours,” you sobbed. He chuckled a little, pulling back to examine your face which must have given away how fucked-out and cockdrunk you were already.

“Say it again,” he demanded darkly, holding you tighter, fucking you a bit more deliberately though not any less aggressively.

“Yours,” you gasped, cut off by a rough and dominating kiss. Your moans were lost to his tongue but he didn’t need them to know you were coming, the way your body gripped him tighter than ever was sign enough.

“So good,” he whispered against your lips, “you’re doing so good for me…”

His words washed over your skin and soothed you like a salve, bringing some relief from the overwhelming feelings his body was assaulting yours with.

All things considered, he was still moving rather slowly, each of his thrusts measured and patient, and never really changing speed even as you were coming around him. Weak little cries fell from your throat each time his hips met yours and the tip of his cock kissed the deepest parts of you.

Your body went limp in his arms and you hadn't noticed before how good it felt for him to hold you, for his strong hands to support you like it was nothing. His thumb gently stroked your back through your shirt and you mewled weakly into his shoulder.

"So good, draga, so fucking good," he mumbled, holding you closer.

"Please… faster," you whimpered, "I want you to come."

"Is that what you want?" he taunted, ignoring the way you nodded immediately. "You want to make me come, darling?"

"Yes, please, want it so much," you gasped.

He finally sped up, though it was still nothing like the lightning-speed jackhammering you were used to from guys your age: it was better, certainly, especially when he lifted your leg onto his shoulder and pushed so deep you saw stars.

The second one seemed to hit you all at once, almost out of nowhere, and you heard yourself mumble, “Professor, I’m coming.” It sounded a bit pitiful, the way you said it, but he apparently didn’t mind as you felt him nod encouragingly in the crook of your neck.

You felt totally drained by now, exhausted even though all you’d been doing was lying there and taking it, but you knew he wasn’t done with you yet. But, if the way his thrusts were becoming more desperate and erratic were anything to go by, he might be done with you soon.

"I'm going to come inside you," he groaned against your ear. You were, like, 99.9% sure that if you told him not to, he would pull out, but the way that he phrased it, like a demand, like you didn't have a choice and he would do it either way… it had an effect on you, one he noticed when your channel tightened around him instantly. "Oh, you like that idea, hm? You want to be full of my come? Your sweet little cunt is already trying to milk every drop from me."

"Yes," you breathed, "fuck, I want your come in me, please!"

He sped up quite a bit then, each slam of his hips into yours making you choke on a whine, your arms weakly clinging onto him for dear life.

You could feel his cock swelling, flexing, pushing your body to its limits as he moaned lowly through his teeth, streams of come making you feel warm and full.

He didn't stop until every drop was in you, thrusting in time with each pump of his release until he slowed to a stop.

Strands of hair fell into his face as he hung his head, panting hard and fast. You melted back onto the desk, realizing this might be the first time in a solid half hour your back wasn’t arched.

It was a bit of a struggle to keep your eyes open against the heavy fog of afterglow that filled your mind; you couldn’t remember the last time you felt so… satiated. As a college student, you were always thinking about the next assignment, mentally re-evaluating your calendar, or preparing for something— and usually all on less than six hours of sleep.

But now your mind was as close to a blank slate as it had been in at least a decade. Even though you probably should’ve been, you weren’t even thinking about the potential consequences of this, the implications, the risks. No, you were just staring up at him, thinking about kissing him again.

He would have to lean down for that, though; there was no way you were going to sit up now.

You hadn't even noticed that you had closed your eyes, almost falling asleep right there on his desk, until you felt his hand cradle your face softly, a calloused thumb rubbing over your cheek.

In unison, the both of you sighed deeply.

As much as it felt like a real effort, you blinked open your eyes and looked up at him, watching him comb his fingers through his hair. It only messed up the style even further yet he looked better than ever.

He slowly moved his hips back, leaving you annoyingly empty, and readjusted himself until he almost looked put together again… but his collar was still uneven and his lips still looked bitten and there was still that precious pinkish hue on his cheeks. If anyone else saw him in this state, they’d either know what happened between you two or think he’d just run across campus or something.

If anyone else saw him in this state, you’d be a little jealous, to be totally honest.

You got back to work trying to right your appearance as well, though you knew the best you could hope for was only mildly presentable; he looked at you like you’d never looked better, though.

“Well, this was fun,” you chuckled breathlessly, “but it’s getting pretty late and I have an eight a.m. tomorrow…”

“Yeah, so do I,” he nodded, glancing away.

You picked up your bag from where you’d dropped it by the door, lifting the strap over your shoulder and starting to turn to leave.

"I… I should walk you back to your dorm," he announced, making you smile.

"That's sweet, but save your chivalry. I can take care of myself just fine."

"But—"

"I think it's safer if we're not seen together walking together by my dorm," you interjected, "especially when I'm walking a little funny…"

"I hope I didn't hurt you," he winced sympathetically.

"No, trust me, that was… exactly what I needed," you breathed. He smiled a little, looking down at the floor.

"Then I'll see you in class," he nodded, watching you closely as you stepped back and picked up your bag, starting to leave his office with one last small wave goodbye. “Wait, wait!” he whispered harshly just before you could let go of his door, and you giggled as he leaned out into the hall and glanced around to make sure no one was nearby.

When he confirmed the coast was clear, he smiled and grabbed your face with one hand, pulling you into a sudden kiss. And you smiled too— you couldn’t help it— as you kissed him back, almost ready for him to drag you back into that office and start this all over again. He did let you go, though, with one more whispered ‘goodnight’ and a look that made your heart do little somersaults.

As you finally did make your way back to your dorm, you tried to figure out if that was a goodbye kiss or a ‘see you soon’ kiss. Or maybe a ‘thanks for the one-time office quickie’ kiss? But you didn’t know enough about this sort of thing to know if that was even an option.

All you did know was that you really hoped it wasn’t the last kiss you’d have with him.

Can I speak to you in my office today after class? Thank you.

-Z

You may ask yourself: can one simple email, in only thirteen words, strike fear into the hearts of those who read it? And the answer is yes, assuming that email is from Professor Helmut Zemo and read by the lovestruck student who slept with him two days ago and hasn't stopped thinking about it since.

Only one of a few things could happen in his office after class, and there was a massive gap between the best and worst case scenarios. You dressed for the best but prepared yourself psychologically for the worst.

You caught him staring as you walked past the teaching podium to your seat in the front; you just hoped nobody else caught him. And if you'd thought paying attention in class was tough before, boy oh boy was it a challenge now. The nerves of what he wanted to discuss with you were bad enough alone, but that combined with memories from two days earlier randomly assaulting your psyche was just overwhelming.

When he pointed at the map with two fingers, you could remember exactly how those fingers had felt inside you, twisting and curling and getting you ready for his cock.

When he spoke, you could hear the difference in his voice compared to how he groaned out his praises while he was fucking you within a damn inch of your life.

And every once in a while, when he couldn’t help but glance at you for a moment, his gaze burned right through you; you were helpless to those brown eyes, completely paralyzed by them, and it must’ve been hours of that before class finally ended.

For the first time, you were the first person out the door when he released the class. As much as it was going to be a little bit weird to beat him to his office, it was certainly better than any of your other options. There was a chair in the hall beside the door, and you took a seat and pretended to read a book just to look busy (there was no way you could actually turn symbols on a page into readable language right now, not when you knew he’d be here any minute to talk about… something).

Your peripheral caught him coming down the hall, but you pretended to be deeply immersed in your book until he was right beside you, unlocking his door and opening it for you and himself. Tucking your book away and following him inside, you found him already staring at you, expression completely unreadable. Your gut sank in anticipation of whatever conversation this was going to become, and a moment passed in heavy silence.

"Hi," you greeted plainly, letting out a quick breath.

"Hi," he returned. "Close the door behind you."

You nodded and did as you were told, quietly pushing the wood back until the door latched before approaching where he had come to stand beside his desk. Though you didn't originally intend to, you found yourself standing a bit too close.

"I'm not quite sure where to start," he admitted, chuckling breathlessly as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. He looked cute flustered, which was a shame because his tone seemed to imply you needed to not be thinking about how cute he was. “Listen, you should know that what happened before… it was a mistake,” he sighed. “It can’t happen again.”

“Do you regret it?” you asked point-blank.

“It can’t happen again,” he repeated in lieu of a real answer, and you looked closely at his face; you didn’t find as much confidence there as you were looking for, it wasn’t the face of a man who knew he was making the right choice. You certainly didn’t think he was making the right choice.

“Why did you want to have this conversation alone in your office, then?” you challenged.

He cleared his throat slightly. “So no one would hear us.”

“Hear us talk?” you pressed. “Is that all?”

“That’s… definitely the plan,” he nodded, swallowing dryly. "Like I said, it was a mistake— my fault, not yours. And I just hope we can put it behind us respectfully."

“All the best mistakes are made at least twice,” you whispered, reaching up to trail your finger down his lapel. “Don’t you think?”

“Don’t do that,” he requested tensely.

"Do what?"

"That," he hissed. "Stop being… irresistible," he clarified, eyes darting from your lips to your finger to your eyes and back again. "A man can only take so much. I'm trying to do right by you."

"You already did when you fucked me that good," you smirked. "Nothing else could be as right as that."

Your fingers were just barely brushing over his belt when he grabbed you by the wrist. Jaw tight and eyes solemn, he shook his head.

You wrenched out of his grasp with a nod. It was worth a shot, but you didn't want to be that person who couldn't take no for an answer— so, you gave him a little smile and readjusted the strap of your bag. “Well, if it was just the once, then you should know that I’m still glad it happened. Even if it shouldn’t have.”

He nodded, strategically not speaking— but you knew he would agree, if he could.

“And if it’s any consolation to you now, you were the best I ever had.”

You reached for the doorknob, just starting to turn it and open your way out when he suddenly slammed it shut with a hand right above your head, making you gasp and spin around to look up at his dark gaze.

“Professor…” you whispered.

“The best you ever had?” he repeated, grinning proudly when you nodded. “Oh, sweetheart, I wasn’t even trying.” He leaned down to brush his lips against your ear as he whispered to you: “You don’t even know yet how good I can make you feel.”

A shiver ran up your spine; your tongue darted out to lick your lips. “Are you going to get on with it and show me?”

He didn’t even let you step away from the door, dropping to his knees right there and pushing up your skirt to kiss and bite your thighs. “Only if you ask very nicely,” he taunted with a brow raised in challenge.

“Please,” you breathed, “fuck, please, want you to taste me.”

His hands slid up your legs, grabbing the hem of your panties before sliding back down.

It wasn’t like you’d never been eaten out before, but this still felt like a first considering your skirt was pushed up to your waist, your panties were pulled down to your ankles, and even just one slow lick over your folds made it obvious he knew exactly what he was doing.

“F-fuck,” you choked, reaching down to weave your fingers into his hair. He grinned against your skin and kept going, exploring you carefully before finally sucking on your swollen clit. Your knees threatened to buckle, your head fell back against the door so hard it almost hurt, but all you could really feel was his mouth on you, moving like he knew your body better than you did.

So it was no wonder, then, that you already began to spiral towards your release, legs shaking around his head as he devoured you mercilessly.

"Oh my god, I—" you tried to warn him, but he already knew, and he pulled back to wipe his mouth with his sleeve and stand up. He grabbed your jaw and kissed you roughly, stopping to whisper to you so close that his lips brushed against yours.

"I'm sorry, draga, but you've spoiled me… now that I've felt you come around my cock, I can't imagine making you come any other way. I need to feel your cunt grip me so fucking tight… it's all I've been thinking about since I last saw you," he admitted.

"I thought about it, too," you sighed. "I was up all night trying to make myself come as good as you did but I couldn't… your come was still leaking out of me."

He growled and leaned in to nip at your ear. "Oh, poor thing… I can imagine it so easily, you laying in your bed with your legs spread, fingers getting exhausted from playing with your little pussy too much, these perfect lips whining for me because you need me to take care of you."

"H-Helmut, please," you whimpered.

"Yeah, something like that," he smirked.

"I can't wait any more, just fuck me. Need you inside me," you breathed.

"Then bend over my desk."

{part 2}

#baron zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #helmut zemo smut

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tiaragqueen · 5 years

Text

Yandere One Punch Man Headcanons Pt. 2

99-nct asked: “If it’s not too much to ask, could you do a couple more for characters like Garou and Amai mask (with maybe some s-class heroes)?”

Anon asked: “Hello!! Can I please please get a yandere garou headcanons, tyy :)”

As per requests, I’ve decided to write the second part of Yandere OPM headcanons. I admit, Garou was a little hard for me to imagine but he certainly has a yandere potential. So, I apologize if it’s not up to your liking. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it!

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

Amai Mask

Pretty boy... I honestly love his short hair more than the long one

Probably the busiest yandere out of the others

Vain

You might catch his interest due to your strong power and beauty

Though I can see him liking a celebrity as well

But you know, cameras are on them all the time

So it decreases his chance of ‘owning’ you

Amai Mask is very generous, you see

There’s nothing he won’t buy for you

Clothes? Just take them

Cars? Pick any brand you want

Vacations? Where do you have in mind, darling?

Tries to organize his time evenly, but fails miserably

I mean, he's still human and juggles tons of jobs

Hero, model, actor, singer

Each needs his attention just as much

It’s hard to be organized when you always have something to do

But it’s a hidden blessing, you know

You can escape anytime he goes to work

Which is almost all the time, to be honest

But you gotta know that he’s famous and therefore, has many connections

You can escape to other countries and he'll be there to bring you back

Or one of his lackeys

Or even his GODDAMN fans

Whoever and whichever works the best

He’s not delusional per se

More like he doesn’t understand why do you want to leave after he provides you with literally everything you need

Though, not exactly self-aware either

Harsh in punishing

Bondage, starvation, isolation you name it

Prefer sexual punishment than physical one

Merciless in killing anyone who even injures you in the slightest

Especially monsters

Has a burning hatred in everything he deems evil and ugly

And anyone who taints your beauty shall not live long on his hands

Definitely obsessed and possessive with you

Likes to mark you

He’s not too forceful in showing you off

Because he knows that you’re his

The world knows, all heroes know, his fans know

You literally have no chance in escaping

So you might as well give up and start enjoying the luxury he happily bestow upon you

Before he takes them away

Garou

The first time I saw him I thought he was Bang's younger self

Surprisingly nice to kids

Therefore, he might be more attracted to younger partners

Won’t tolerate being looked down upon

A mere scolding is enough to set him off into an enraged state

So you have to tread carefully with him

Very carefully it’s ridiculous

It’s like walking on an extremely thin rope or a brittle ice with bubbling fire underneath

Which is his temper, by the way

Unless you’re feeling suicidal enough to get a taste of his anger

Doesn’t mind hurting you to prove his point

You might be one of those wallflowers as he hates popular ones

Despite that, he's always protecting you from any bullies

A good shoulder to cry on

He knows what it feels like to be bullied so he easily sympathizes with you

Yet, he often belittles your low self-esteem to disguise his good intentions

After all, he doesn’t want you to think that he’s gone soft on you

In a way, he’s like Tatsumaki but meaner

Sometimes you have to hold him back from fighting any heroes who have the misfortune on crossing paths with you

Absolutely wants to start a family with you at some point

It doesn’t matter if you’re not ready

He likes children and he wants one

So either he forces you to make love with him or adopt a child

Stalks you at all times

If anyone has the audacity to harm you, he’ll kill them right in front of you

Won’t lie and instead boast when you ask him if he’s stalking you

Not clingy, has too much pride for that

Possessive

But he doesn’t mind if people talk to you

As long as they keep the boundaries in mind, he stays chill

Like Saitama, Garou won’t kill humans

Unless provoked

Then again, who wants to provoke such a dangerous man?

He doesn’t get a nickname ‘Human Monster’ for nothing, you know?

Metal Bat

If his sister doesn’t like you, then he won’t

Depending on how you see it, it can be an advantageous situation for you

You just have to make yourself as unpleasant as possible

Then Bad would certainly release you

But he's not all temperamental and cockiness

He’s smarter than he looks

So he'll catch on your attempt rather quickly

Let’s just say that you’ll be traumatized so much you won’t be able to look at Zenko in the eye again

Hard on the outside, soft on the inside

Loves spoiling you

But he’s a little tsundere

Secretly clingy it’s almost endearing

Overprotective like hell

Sometimes stalk you from the shadows

He just wants to make sure that you’re okay all the time

Blushes heavily whenever you show any sign of affection to him

Not above threatening you, either

Quite terrible in lying, so subtle manipulation doesn’t come as easy for him

So he uses fear instead

Won’t force you to start a family with him

But wishes for it anyway

Sometimes comes to your apartment/house unannounced

Loves cooking for you

Especially when you’re the type who eats snacks all the time

He can easily excuse it as ‘you need to more healthy food’

If Zenko likes you, you’ll probably spend the majority of your time in their apartment

Thus giving him more chance to get close with you

Or if you’re a hero, then Bad will find a way to work together

It doesn’t matter if you refuse

Bad’s stubborn

Therefore you need to suck it up

Unless you want to suffer again

Zombieman

Serious and strict

Doesn’t really care about your feelings

Won’t hesitate to kidnap you

Secretive about his past

Very jealous

You can stab him all the time you want and he’ll still alive

He’s immortal, you see

Hence his name

So if you want to leave, you need to step up your game

And you can’t give any hint that you’re scheming something either

Intelligent with a detective-like thinking

If you even show the slightest odd behavior, then he'll immediately be suspicious

However, he’s fairly forgiving

As long as you apologize sincerely and promise that you wouldn’t repeat that mistake

Openly shows his annoyance at your habits that he finds irritating

Such as eating greedily or with mouth open

Prefers modest partner than loud-mouthed ones

Thinks that they’re easier to be ‘taught’

Not at all bothered with death or gore

Doesn’t mind killing in your sight

Because you should get used to it now or force yourself to do it

A lone wolf

If someone is bothering you

Rest assured he’ll come home with their head as the ‘souvenir’

Suppose you’re a powerful hero

Might develop an inferiority complex to you

But he won’t show it, of course

Don’t be surprised if he asks you to be his sparring partner someday

Knows his limit very well

However, it doesn’t mean he’s giving up either

He'll create a plan

And when the time comes

Your enemies/anyone who harms you will disappear

King

Looks intimidating at first glance

A HUGE otaku

Don’t get me wrong, tho

He can bluff his way out of everything

Too much of a coward to actually kill a person or monster

But can be pretty possessive

Peacemaker

Doesn’t like to argue with you

Willing to throw away his stashes of otome games in exchange for your affection

Or if you show any sign of jealousy

Obsessive, secretly collects your photos or posters

Especially if you’re famous

Gaming together as a date

Always win

Unless you’re an expert like him too

Then be prepared for lots of rematches

Not that you complain

Dominant in public, submissive in bedroom

I feel like he’s suitable for a quietly assertive partner that seems submissive on the outside

Needs guidance because he’s pretty clueless in real relationship

That’s why you can easily escape from him

If you’re famous

Then he would be one of those obsessive fans

Always sending you love letters and tells you to stay healthy

Might stalk you too

But he always excuse it as ‘passing by’

And you’ll believe him of course

Because why would a hero like him stalk you?

You feel honored to have the strongest man on earth as your fan

Whenever he meets you by chance, he’d get tongue-tied

But it’s endearing

You’d never know that he’s a yandere

Mumen Rider

I know he’s not an S-class hero but I have a soft spot for him, okay? I mean, do you see how precious he is in this gif?

The subbiest yandere out of any yanderes

Like, he wants to do everything to ensure you’re comfortable with him

You want food at three in the morning? Okay, let me put on my helmet first

You’re feeling ill? What kind of medicine do you need?

Your feet hurt? Here, let me massage them for you

You’ll feel like you’re a royalty when dating him

Which is his intention by the way

He wants to make sure that your needs are met

Feels sad if you talk to other men or purposefully making him jealous

Because he’s done so much for you

He’ll take it that he needs to improve more

Extremely hardworking to the point of being a perfectionist

If you show the slightest displeasure towards something, especially if it’s his action, then he'll blame himself

Tends to ask or send you messages with ‘are you okay?’, ‘how are you feeling?’, or ‘do you need anything?’

Puts your feelings above his

Loyal

If someone bullying you, then he'll step in like a brave hero he is

He's weak compare to other heroes

But his determination is admirable

Dominant in bed

Only because he wants to make you feel good

However, he doesn’t mind giving the reins to you if you’re the dominant type

Loves to appreciate every inch of your body

Very supportive in any hobby you do, even if he doesn’t particularly like it

Won’t hesitate sacrificing himself should a danger ever arises

You often lecture him on the importance of self-preservation

If you ever save him, be it accidental or intentional

Then he'd be your BIGGEST fan

Like King, he'd send you love letters

Considerate and sympathetic

He'll charm you with his pure heart and sincere kindness

You don’t want to leave him

Because such a man is very rare amidst insincere heroes

Or maybe it’s just me but oh well

#Yandere opm #yandere opm headcanons #yandere opm x reader #yandere one punch man x reader #yandere one punch man au #yandere one punch man #Yandere zombieman #Yandere garou #Yandere amai mask #Yandere sweet mask #Yandere king #Yandere mumen rider #Yandere licenseless rider #Yandere metal bat #Yandere bad

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thegreenfairy13 · 5 years

Text

Bird Catcher - Part 1 - The Long Night

Written for an amazing writer and wonderful person @justsimplymeagain in the spirit of the Gobblepot Valentines event. This 2 to 3 part fic will eventually (tomorrow to be precise) end up on my Ao3-account. It’s just some fluff. Not an ounce of angst (hooray!)

This is going to be a very long night, Jim thinks, looking around the empty precinct. It’s already past midnight and with the snow-storm raging outside, only a few dim lights burning, and the ancient radio croaking out a Johnny Cash song, the detective feels like he could very well be on another planet.

The other cops are all at home. Even Harvey decided to spend a night like this rather in the safety of his own home than at the GCPD. Besides, nobody in their right would commit a crime tonight anyway. Which doesn’t mean Jim is alone at the department.

Heaving a sigh, Jim tentatively places another file on top of his never decreasing pile of workload. Rubbing his red-rimmed eyes, he looks over to the holding cells. He’s got a flightless, limping bird trapped in there.

The Penguin, infamous mob-boss, scowls viciously at the detective. His hands are clasped around the bars as he bares his teeth with a spiteful snarl. Oswald Cobblepot rather reminds Jim of a ghoul or a leprechaun than of those cute, waddling birds.

“Release me at once!” he hisses furiously when the detective ignores him.

Turning his attention back to his files and Johnny Cash, Jim tries getting some actual work done.

“I’ve got rights!” the slim mobster growls, rattling at the bars to no avail.

Humming in agreement, Jim turns a page. He’s not going to rise to the bait or letting himself get dragged into an argument with the mobster. He’s got hardly any chance to win it anyway.

“This is frankly ridiculous!” Oswald carries on, working himself up to what will soon certainly be an impressive fit of rage. “You can’t lock me up just for carrying my cane around with me. I need it to walk.”

“Really?” Jim drawls, finally snapping. “You need a sword hidden in a cane to walk properly? In a weapon-free zone? Opposite a kindergarten? I shouldn’t think so,” he finishes, hiding behind the folders again.

“Who in their right mind would walk the streets of Gotham unarmed let alone establish a weapon-free zone?! Besides I wasn’t using the blade, I was just passing by!”

“Oswald, considering your record I could have carted you off to Blackgate. Show some gratitude,” Jim growls. “Even your lawyer said 6 hours in the GCPD holding-cell are a goddamn present.”

“Six hours in your presence are anything but,” the mobster bites back, collapsing on the thin mattress. “Arresting me for such a bagatelle should be considered despotism.”

“Four hours and twenty-five minutes left, Penguin,” Jim answers sardonically. “Get some sleep. You look like you need a rest,” he adds mischievously.

“On top of your audacity, you expect me to get bitten by bedbugs! I am almost certain this sub third world country standard of the GCPD cells is a direct violation of the human rights convention.”

“Apologies.” Jim doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.

“Jim Gordon release me at once! I have places to be,” he shrieks, now completely losing his patience but the detective still won’t budge.

“No,” the other man retorts decidedly.

Clenching his fist, the criminal hits the wall. “James Gordon, I’m going to turn these four hours into the longest of your life!”

Giving the raging criminal a bored shrug, Jim dives back into his papers. “Challenge accepted,” he mutters disinterestedly and the man in the cell slumps against the wall.

As expected, Oswald’s defeat is a short-lived one. It doesn’t take long before the kingpin starts pacing his cell, dragging his bad leg behind for show, and eliciting small, high-pitched, and entirely false noises of pain.

In return, Jim simply turns up the volume on the radio forcing Oswald to change tactics. When the captured bird throws a glance over his shoulder at the detective, eyes blazing in three different shades of violet from fury, the detective can hardly suppress the amused chuckle about to escape his throat.

Jim might be reluctant to admit it, yet over the years he has become quite fond of the smart criminal. And despite everything he has done, the gangster’s skewed moral compass is not so very far off from his own anymore. Besides, Oswald has saved their city one or two times.

The Penguin is a contradiction. On the one hand, he’s the compassionate, adorable son of Gertrude Kapelput, on the other hand, one of Gotham’s most unpredictable and bloodthirsty kingpins. When Jim arrested him tonight, he had been on his way to take down another possible opponent.

It’s a sign of Gordon’s own crumbling integrity he hasn’t waited until he’d catch the Penguin red-handed.

So when the gangster opens his mouth again, Jim expects the worst. Bracing himself for a tirade, he ducks his head. Yet, Oswald does nothing Jim would have expected. Ever. Instead of going into some lecture, he simply starts singing along to the song on the radio. Very loudly.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, Jim continues working. It’s not like Oswald would be bothering him. Quite the contrary - the criminal has an astonishingly beautiful voice. And so the entertainment programme carries on for some time until Oswald suddenly stops.

Jim blinks. Oswald glares.

The detective waits another five seconds before addressing the gangster. “Why did you stop?”

“Why didn’t you make me?” Oswald asks, raising his chin defiantly.

“I’m sorry. Was I supposed to?”

The mobster sucks in an outraged breath. “Well, you weren’t supposed to enjoy it.”

“Well, I did,” Jim retorts cheerfully. “You have quite a lovely voice,” he adds, throwing the gangster off guard. “You should rather go by oscine,” he adds, turning his back on him.

“You can’t just sit there and ignore me,” Oswald snaps back once he found his composure again.

“Can. Will. Doing.”

“I’m cold,” the criminal whines then and Jim seriously wonders if he caught a criminal tonight or some three-year-old.

“Then continue pacing. Do some yoga or one-legged knee bends. I frankly don’t care,” Jim hisses, starting to chew his pencil venomously.

“You can’t just lock me up and leave me to rot again! It’s freezing in here, I don’t have water and there’s neither a toilet. Once upon a time, you did believe criminals had rights, too!” Oswald screeches, gesturing for Jim to notice the miserable state of the cell.

It’s useless, Jim then decides. Getting up and walking towards the kitchen he heaves another sigh. It seems this night consists of a solid headache and heavy breathing. If he wants to get through this, he needs another cup of coffee. Or a well-aimed hit to the head.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

It’s not guilt, absolutely not, nor his bad conscience about Arkham. No, sir. Jim is just trying to be decent when walking into the locker room, searching for an old blanket he keeps around in case the never properly working GCPD heating system fails completely. It’s just an especially cold night, and if it helps Oswald to shut up for at least five minutes, it’s worth it.

“Here,” he says gruffly once he’s back, shoving the attrited grey thing through the bars.

Oswald takes the blanket from his hands with an expression of disgust written all over his face, careful not to touch an ounce of the detective’s skin.

“When was the last time this germ-infested piece of fabric saw the inside of a washing machine?” he demands to know, picking it up with disdain.

“Probably October,” Jim retorts. “Haven’t used it since.”

“You use the inmates' blankets?” Oswald asks skeptically, cocking his head slightly. And doesn’t that small gesture truly make him look like a bird?

The detective snorts. “No. That’s my own. I keep it here in case the heating is broken,” he elaborates, walking back to his desk again.

Jim’s plan had been working as the gangster is truly speechless for the following minutes. It suits him - just standing there and looking nice in his three-piece suits, gaping like the songbird he is. But eventually, the petulant criminal expresses another wish.

When the detective rises from him his seat to finally get that cup of coffee, Oswald cranes his scrawny neck.

“Jim?” the little tyrant starts tentatively.

“Yes, Oswald?” the detective answers, inwardly slowly counting to ten.

“I’m thirsty.”

Of course, he is.

“There’s water in the cell.”

“The tap isn’t working.”

Cursing under his breath, Jim storms off into the kitchen. Oh yes, this night is going to be a long one.

#Gobblepot #fanfiction

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extasiswings · 6 years

Note

The SCOTUS rulings, Kennedy's retirement, etc. are SO painful. :( I know you're exhausted and sad and angry, and that is understandable. I just want to tell you I think what you're trying to do is worthwhile and amazing, and YOU are an amazing, lovely, hardworking, and articulate soul. I admire you so much.

I just…fuck it, you know? Fuck absolutely all of it. I spent 3 hours outside SCOTUS yesterday and because it happened to be the anniversary of both Obergefell and DC v. Heller, we had to deal with not only a loud, anti-LGBT rally, but also a pro-gun rally when we were there trying to protest this shameful decision on the Muslim Ban. And I…what sticks in my head the most was this old white woman with a walker who was just wandering by, and she was offended by how we were acting (shouting down the anti-LGBT rally because it happened before the one we planned for the Muslim Ban) and trotted out this whole lecture about how she didn’t understand why we couldn’t be civil/nice even if we “disagree” with people. And I didn’t say anything to her, because there were other people who were able to be more articulate, but I just stood there like…nice? We should be nice? When these people are literally saying things that kill people? When they are advocating for policies and practices that kill people? When they are trotting out “ex-gay” speakers to prove some bullshit point about how we can all stop being “sinners” if we just try hard enough?

Three hours. Three hours we spent there, and yes, there were senators and congresspeople and incredible, incredible activists coming together and speaking out against the Muslim Ban decision, but…the decision was still…what it was. And I got back to my office and I started crying. I didn’t even mean to, but I started crying and I didn’t stop for over an hour. Because I don’t understand. I don’t understand how this is reality, how a majority of the Court had the AUDACITY to say they were finally, explicitly overruling Korematsu while issuing a decision that is exactly the same. I don’t understand how a majority of the Court could have decided that states can’t pass laws requiring UNLICENSED clinics to just SAY that they’re not licensed to provide medical services. I don’t understand how Alito fucking CITED a brief that my organization signed onto today in the Janus decision to support his point that union activity is inherently “political” because our brief talked about how unions are essential for LGBTQ folks because they are able to collectively bargain for nondiscrimination protections that don’t exist in most states for us. I don’t understand how Kennedy could be so goddamn fucking cowardly as to announce his resignation now, knowing the impact it’s going to have on civil rights in this country, because even if he’s always been a conservative, even if he voted terribly in every case this term, he was also the ONLY conservative voice willing to uphold Roe, to rule in favor of queer people, to at least OCCASIONALLY be a decent human being.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY IT’S SO HARD FOR PEOPLE TO CARE ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE!

I don’t understand what the First Amendment means now. I don’t understand how to apply it. I don’t understand how anyone is supposed to determine what they are or aren’t allowed to do in any given situation, because apparently at this point, states can’t even protect their own citizens from harm, so like…I don’t know. I went to law school so I could help people and I’m looking into the future and it is…bleak. It is bleak. And I am already tired. So tired.

I totally feel what you’re saying. Yes, sometimes fighting the good fight means getting your ass kicked. But fuck, right now we aren’t winning ANYTHING. And as I see it, we’re looking at…decades of that. Decades of having everything we fought so hard for stripped away with no hope of getting it back, not through the justice system, and not through legislation (because apparently everything even slightly controversial is a First Amendment issue now). And I…am struggling. I’m struggling and I’m tired.

So, yeah. That’s where I’m at. I’m trying to take care of myself and thankfully the place I’m working cares a lot about mental health/self care/emotional support, but it’s…yeah. It’s Wednesday.

(*hugs you back*)

#onlymorelove #ask #chapel for ts

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quantumrpg · 6 years

Photo

NAME: Ariadne “Ari” Lefebvre AGE: 25 SPECIES: Time Traveler - The Creator OCCUPATION: Owner of Tempus YEAR OF ARRIVAL: 1973 RESIDENT FOR… fort-five years. FACECLAIM: Marine Vacth

t i m e i s a n i l l u s i o n, b u t n o t o u r s t o r i e s…

The beginning, as most beginnings could often be described, was exceedingly ordinary. Ariadne was born in a small village in France, an unanticipated but welcomed birth to a pair of young, wayward couple who were by all means perfectly ordinary and decent, with ambitions that matched their humbleness, vigour that commanded their hearts. The memory of early childhood to her was sweet and hazy, one of those that when recollected, seemed to be composed of a picturesque likeness with soaring landscapes and a country girl passing flowers for diadems, bathing in the turquoise haze of the many afternoon days she’d spent sauntering about with a book in hand and a whole cosmos contained in her shimmering eyes of sage-green satin. She was a musical girl, a capricious girl. A girl with a smile that never faded yet rarely bursted into laughter—was brilliantly inquisitive and held a determination fuelled by whimsy yet steadfast in the way only a child could be. She was a girl fortunate enough (or perhaps not) that, despite the turbulent time in which she would eventually attempt to write and later learn to read(in that specific order), she had never really known much suffering. For she always remained one step behind corruption while gradually gliding past innocence, even when she was made to flee the post bombing shambles and fields that she had once left her mark all over barefoot, when she was shown death and more—through cold grey gazes of familiar corpses, the fabric that threaded her reality never showed signs of wrinkling. For she thought of all of it as such ordinary things, because how could it not be?

So then she moved from city to city, ruins to ruins, a toddler still, with a mother that shielded her from pain and a father that protected her from secrets a child needn’t know and beyond. And that’s when the real story began—with a shroud of darkness left behind by the war that many possessed but few dared acknowledge; and it started with an overly zealous child, too proud, too smart for her own good, as it often does. Within the carnage of the proceeding eleven months before she found the land of freedom the girl had met two new family members and lost three more, and it was this fragment of memory that would serve as an enduring reminder to her on how eleven months of time could ever have felt remotely significant. Finally, at the tail end of the war when all the chaos and despair had finally half-sunk into her tender consciousness, Ariadne grew increasingly restless. Not because of how she had sensed the waning thrum of her mother’s life or of how hungry she had been as the surviving pair of mother and daughter barely managed to scrap by with food and supplies; but because of how little control she saw over the forces in their lives and the mercilessness of time’s arrow, stripping away humanity and what sustains it in the way a seven year old saw it as it was. Though a last ray of silver lining and a soldier’s patronage would secure a future for the young girl, within a mere seven days after they have arrived at their destination, her mother too, loosened her grip on life while still tightly holding onto hers. It was the winter of 1945, and they were in Michigan.

The man they met then and took them in was supposedly a close friend of her late father’s, whom the girl had never heard anything about until they’ve landed on the shore of the United States. Ariadne, for all that she was eager to learn and see in this brand new land of strangers and apparent safety, still clutched onto in her mind too fervent the desire and ambition to wrestle control over from existence itself. While dainty she poised herself and timidly she spoke with a hint of honest purity that would devastate anyone with half a heart, her eyes had already become accustomed to the certain darkness of understanding things much too soon in a way that is just twisted enough to reflect reality. In this new life she was now given, though, she was quite fortunately granted the opportunity to satiate her thirst for knowing, and knowing more. That friend of her father’s, a lecturer at the University of Michigan, became known as her surrogate father and provided her with all the unconditional care that ought to be the birth right of every child born. While in a disappointing sense, there remained a rift between them until Ari had aged well into adolescence, they formed a considerable bond nonetheless over a mutual respect for higher learning and solidarity over the loss they have both endured.

While life was by no means simple growing up in Michigan post war, the girl who was once nearly extinguished by smoke and debris quickly found some semblance of a child’s attitude to life with meaning upon enrolling in public school. They called her a genius then, the girl with a confident gaze that conveyed too much for her age and a tongue so wickedly precise and more bitter than arsenic. People either furiously disliked her or felt endlessly fascinated by the girl who proclaimed that she wanted to solve the theory (or theories) that governed existence itself—space, time, the human mind and all. She felt empowered by the knowledge she absorbed perpetually through books and papers and quickly she became addicted to that power she felt. She had not ceased to be that storm of lyrical mystery that once flourished on foreign soil; her existence, now forged metallic and carved deeply into the fabric of time conducts rapidly her desire over knowledge and control. And if her human brain isn’t enough, she will build another, and another, and another until she has in her command an entity with such capacity that will allow her to master reality in its entirety.

Her enrolment in MIT was a monumental achievement in such grand ambition but it was still no where close to where she needs to be. That is, until she met the five other individuals with ambitions perhaps not as colossal as hers but were perchance her equal in audacity and will. December of 1963 marked the moment where the history of reality itself will permanently change, for better or for worse—and Ariadne, having never forgotten what it meant to be the one with her strings pulled and moments stolen away, quickly mined through and embraced the shockwave of revolution. She took matters into her own hands to explore the scope of her new abilities: and found out that not only could she now master time, she could also create them. She saw new possibilities, creating liminal spaces where realities are in a sense, under her control, while branches of time and infinite realities are made accessible at her fingertips.

She knew what that meant instantly, and in the span of ten years she had lived through ten thousand, and in the ever increasing amount of liminal spaces she has conceived, people were able to live better lives, left contented and each to their own devices. She was careful, indeed, careful never to bite off more than she could chew or to create irreparable tears in the any of the higher dimensions. But nevertheless she saw the consequences, though more notably the ones caused by the others. She decided then, whatever she would do could not be done while the others are present, while they - including herself - each went their own way. And in 1973 she created a version of New York, originally a pet project that she grew increasingly fond of for reasons ranging from nostalgia to excuses of cultural relevance, but mainly because that was where she had first landed on the American soil, and where millions of others have found a place for themselves too. She met up with the other travellers, her old friends, put on her mask of sincere goodwill and concerns for the greater forces at play—none of which are fake, in truth, and once more united their abilities, intellectual or otherwise, to share the burden of such knowledge including ones regarding those forces beyond any logic and scientific explanation made for human comprehension.

A leader emerged among them, and she followed. While continuing to play her cards close to her chest as she always have, she may be a team player just yet. Or maybe she will wait, wait patiently biding her time, while realising greater forms of intelligence or maybe become one herself. There’s all the time in the world, she had thought, the realisation that reality may collapse was not one she had ever feared she may cause, but was what she had always thought was the reason she stands here today instead. And if not, life then, might have never meant to last and exist in the way it has. The universe’s swan song, and she will be there to watch, she will be there and she will be smiling.

This is what it must feel like to be a god.

t e l l m e, a r e w e a p r o d u c t o f w h o w e u s e d t o b e?

She is a young girl’s pure hearted curiosity and the shadow of injustice that beckons forth a lamentation of mercy in the way which a child may perceive. The scent of stale roses atop of overheating laptops flashing through midnight over the weighty tune of an orchestral symphony. She is well mannered speech and carefully edited writing of chaos made orderly, an amused and sincere smirk responding to deep philosophical inquiries. She is daring, optimistic in the ways only those with matching confidence would understand. A wayward soul by every means, but capable and erudite with weaponised beauty, as captivating as an era-defining genius and a tragic hero drunk on insanity. She is a child of time made into a catalyst, unorthodox in the manners she pursues meaning and ruthless in execution. Some braces themselves for inevitable catastrophe, whilst others watch in awe as she dances with graceful obsession, meticulous and decisive, her each determined step in a universe of infinite spotlights but no cheers as she rises and falls to an adagio of evanescent sorrow again yet again, without end. Though just another clog that would one day be lost to history, she is determined to be the epicentre of madness made reality—is she virtue buried deep, or hubris’ reckoning? Perhaps in time, we will see.

#taken #time traveler #ariadne lefebvre #marine vatch

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lexiemybestfriend · 6 years

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An incident or two

Our normal walking route consisted of about 40-60 minutes, much of which was along a paved bicycle route that split through a wooded area. As someone who knew nothing, I remember forcing Lexie, as a very little puppy, to walk in the grass next to the path, or street. In my brain cell, I thought this might be easier on her joints. This included when we began walking off-lead. With my remembrance that I should develop a trust between myself and my dog, I would start un-clicking Lexie during our walks down this path. Especially in the mornings, the path was pretty un-populated and, without Lexie running completely away, there was not a lot of danger nearby - just some woods and trees. She even learned to stay on the side of the trail. When she didn’t, she went back on the lead. Well, there was this one time.

We were both off to the side of the trail. I had heard a person on roller blades coming up behind us. As a habit, when anyone approached, I would tell Lexie to stop and sit. Mostly, she obeyed, to the disbelief of many of the people we met. As with any dog, or person, everyone has their quirks. One of those quirks for Lex was people who moved strangely. Now she grew up around bicycles and even wheelchairs/walkers, so those were fine. But skateboards, roller blades, (cross-country skiers, we learned a few years later), those made her nervous or excited, I couldn’t tell which. As I knelt down next to my dog, I placed my hand on her chest, to wait for the roller-blading lady to slide past. It seemed like an easy deal. But, as the lady got close, I looked up to make eye contact, then Lexie bolted forward and I missed my grab at her collar. Everything went into slow motion. My sweet dog clipped the lady’s trail leg, which spun her around backwards to land, quite ungracefully, on her butt and her hand. It appeared to be a pretty hard hit. Fortunately, the lady was unhurt, though I’m sure she ended up with a number of colorful bruises. Shockingly, she wasn’t as angry as I expected. I grabbed Lexie, who now simply wanted to play with the horizontal new friend. She continued on her way, with a grumble. Likely, she tells people, to this day, about the big, black dog that nearly killed her. That’s how I would tell it, if it were me.

One other time, however, I decided to walk a back way, through some neighborhoods and link up with our bike path at a later point. As we descended a hill, which crossed the bike path, we walked past the last house on that particular hill. The backyard, for this house, paralled the road we were walking. As we passed, a very big golden retriever jumped off the back porch and sprinted toward Lexie and I. I didn’t know what was about to happen, if this was an attack or a greeting, so I placed Lexie behind me. The streets of Springfield have few sidewalks, especially in older residential neighborhoods. So, the golden ran full speed down the hill, around me, and into Lexie’s side - knocking her into the two-foot ditch. He didn’t appear to be trying to bite Lexie but simply cross-checked her onto her side. Lexie landed with a yelp. Lex was never a vocal dog and rarely even barked. I had never heard her yelp. She was struggling to get to her feet, the golden was still pushing toward her, and I was trying to stay between them while trying to help Lexie get up. It was obvious, since neither myself or Lexie had been bit, the golden wasn’t attacking. But, he was still a very big problem. Lexie couldn’t put any weight on her right, rear leg and the golden was still pushing and trying to get around me. At the sight of my dog being injured and the persistence of the golden retriever, I punched him squarely across the muzzle, hard. Looking back, I regret it and wish I had a more rational thought process. But, seeing Lexie get hurt was a physical pain inside my chest. The golden was surprised enough to back up a step. I grabbed a fistful of fur on his neck, with one hand, and Lexie’s collar, with the other, so I could maintain a distance between 150 pounds of dog. A car stopped and yelled, “Are you okay!?” As an idiot who never wants to intrude on anyone, “Yeah, I think we’re alright now,” I panted.

The golden retriever had finally calmed down a little, so that he was no longer pressing forward. Lexie was half standing/half sitting against the slope of the ditch. I got to my feet and pushed the golden away from us. I fought the urge to try and hurt the dog that hurt my dog. The golden simply paced around with a big grin on his face, which only increased my anger since Lexie was in pain. I didn’t know what to look for, but her leg didn’t appear broken or dislocated. Never the less, she was barely using it and we had about a 1/2 mile to get back home. I tried to carry her, but, from the time that she became an adolescent dog, she hated being picked up. She wriggled until I put her back down. Lexie was a tough, stoic dog and simply limped beside me as we headed down the bike path, toward home, slowly.

Unrelated side-note: Looking back, I smile at the similarity between Lexie and I. Regardless of what happens, we seem to keep walking. Often, it is with a limp, or a scar, or sadness, or without direction. Often, it is with a smile, or hope, or joy, or purpose. But, almost always, it is without a lot of display and the vast majority of people couldn’t tell the difference. When it came to Lexie, I was always stunned when people would avoid her or think she was mean, simply because she was big, black, had a constant expression, and aloof disposition. It made me sad that they never took a second to learn that she was super sweet and possessed no mean bone in her body. Anyone who took a moment to know Lexie, was better for having met my best friend. I suppose that it why I write all of this. I wish people to know about this amazing dog with a kind heart. Back to where I was.

The troublesome golden retriever had the audacity to start following us. I tried to shoo him away, yelling at him, angry. But, he just backed up and followed from about twenty feet. He kept following, all the way home. When we got home, I placed Lexie in the car, so we could go to the vet. I went inside to call her doctor and explain what happened. He said to bring Lexie right over. I walked outside to find that freaking golden retriever still there. So, I put him in the backyard and headed to the vet clinic.

The vet brought Lexie back with her knee wrapped up, all the way to her paw. He said she had a luxated patella, which wasn’t a severe injury. Whew. He had put the patella back in place. Then, he broke into a long lecture about how the patella will continue to displace out of the groove in Lexie’s knee unless we do surgery to deepen that groove and yada yada yada, I had stopped listening. As a new dog owner, I rushed Lexie to the vet every time she had a runny nose, or I thought she swallowed a twig, or she just seemed to be acting strangely. Along those visits, I determined this particular vet was a frustrated surgeon who performed “normal” vet duties, simply for the income. Too often, he recommended a surgical solution. Each time, I said I wanted to wait a day or two and see how Lexie responded. Each time, I was stressed out and wondering if I was putting my dog at risk. Each time, Lexie was fine in a couple of days, from what ever ailment initiated the visit. In this specific instance, his recommendation felt very extreme, for a six month old, otherwise healthy, dog, who was still growing. The thought of my dog going into a significant surgery (his words), after only recently healing from her spay procedure, made me ill.

We never went back to that vet. She had stopped limping by the time we left the clinic and acted completely normal. I would diligently wrap up Lexie’s knee, try to limit her spastic outbursts, and watch her closely for a while. My thought was this: as Lexie got bigger and stronger, if we could give her some time for the soft tissue connecting her patella to recover, she would heal naturally. The vet had shown me how to re-align her patella, if it displaced again. There were times when I doubted my decision, during the subsequent weeks and months. When Lexie would sprint and then come to a quick stop, she would often pull up holding her leg. Supporting her hips, I would hold her knee, and slowly extend her leg straight back. Each time, I felt her patella slip back into place. Then, she would bolt forward like nothing ever happened. This happened often enough to make me worry that I messed up. But, the frequency happened less often. Then it stopped completely as she reached about 18 months. Fortunately, I had guessed correctly and our adventures were never affected by the overly exuberant golden retriever that blasted into her, on a casual morning walk.

Upon getting home, I still had to do something with the big-ass dog in the backyard, who, by now, had cleaned out Lexie’s food and water bowls. I took Lexie outside to see what would happen, which would determine if I was going to just dump him at the Humane Society or put in some effort to getting him back home. Having calmed down, I found, although completely ill-mannered, an excessively sweet dog who simply wanted someone to play with him. He still wanted Lexie to play but, almost seeming to know she was hurt, he was much more gentle and considerate when he approached her. In keeping true to her nature, Lexie just ignored him. Considering how fat the boy was, I decided to call him Cartman. He didn’t care, as long as I was paying attention to him.

So, I drove to Cartman’s house and knocked on the door. No answer. I found some paper, left my number and explained that I had their dog. No call that day, so I fed Cartman and left him in the back yard, while keeping Lexie inside. He wasn’t mean but he could easily cause more damage, by accident. The next day, there was a message that Cartman didn’t live at that house and had simply shown up there, the day prior, and decided to hang out. They didn’t have any desire to have a dog. Crap. So, the next day, I found a no-kill, golden retriever rescue in a little town about 2-3 hours away. I told them the story and sent them pictures. They agreed to take him in but couldn’t pick him up for two days. A couple of days later, an old, mini pickup pulled into the driveway. A little old woman who had to be 70 years old, rang the door bell. I don’t even remember the name of the rescue or her name. But, this friendly old woman placed a slip-lead around a dog she had never met, who probably out-weighed her by twenty pounds, piled him into the cab of her little truck and began her long return drive. I was speechless at, quite frankly, her courage but also the unprovoked generosity she displayed. It was my first encounter with a dog rescuer. I am still incredibly impressed by her. What I didn’t tell her: if I had kept Cartman for one more day...I would have kept him. Our introduction couldn’t have been much worse but he was a true golden retriever, sweet, funny, and impossible to not fall in love with. In just the few days that I cared for him, I was able to teach him a few ground rules. He adapted quickly and I was able to trust he and Lexie sharing the backyard together, without supervision. Often, I have wondered where he ended up. I have no doubt that he found a home, he was a good boy. After many years where Lexie and I walked alone, I, often, ached that she was alone so much while I worked. In perfect hindsight, I would have kept one of her West Virginia siblings so she would have had some company while I was away. But, I have no doubt that Cartman would have been a great companion for my best friend, if I had the ability and foresight to make it happen. Ironic, this.

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debbstepps · 5 years

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Haha haha

Oh, I find it funny. Canada, in all its disappointing glory, thought it could get away with shipping more than 100 containers of garbage to the Philippines.

Lol. And guess what? They did this in 2014, six years ago, and they’ve been trying, trying to convince the Philippine president to get rid of it there. There.

They want some other country to get rid of their garbage.

So now we have prime minister Justin Trudeau talking with the president to resolve this issue.

And you know what the Philippines said?

- “The president of the Philippines says that if Canada doesn't take back tonnes of trash within the next week, he will "declare war" and ship the containers back himself.”

- “Filipino media outlets are reporting that Rodrigo Duterte made threats Tuesday about dozens of shipping containers filled with Canadian household and electronic garbage that has been rotting in a port near Manila for nearly six years.”

Canada’s about to get itself into a war because of their own negligence.

And this isn’t the first time Canada actes all high mighty and thought they could get away with anything.

But I’m not about to start something.

And the worst but hilarious part about this is, Justin Trudeau had the audacity to lecture Duterte on his anti-drug and crime campaign and human rights violations.

Sources:

Anyways, just wanted to rant.

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ghostmartyr · 7 years

Text

SnK 93 Thoughts

So.

So, so, so.

Ahem.

Some will win Some will lose Some were born to sing the blues

Oh, the movie never ends It goes on and on, and on, and on

Isayama has always had a way of indulging monstrosities. When it comes to people being terrible, he’s pretty negligent with restraint. During the coup arc, he makes the similarities between the chaotic hunger of titans and humans so blatantly clear that it’s easy to feel like you’re being bashed over the head with a hammer. When he wants to make a point, he makes a point.

Since Marley’s been part of the show, it’s existed almost entirely as a How To guide on how not to be a person. Their entire military force is based in bigotry of one sort or another, their entire reason for attacking Paradis is feeling entitled to their resources, and most everything we’ve seen of how Eldians are treated in general makes the thought of a meteor eliminating the whole nation a lot less sad than that usually might be.

In this chapter, the scale is dialed back, and we’re given a chance to see the Marleyans as more than caricatures of evil.

We see humans who are worried about what their decreased military power means for their nation. We see them discussing their options in quiet offices and rooftops.

In its own way, that’s as disturbing as everything else Marley has done. They are still the people who view Eldian lives as exploitable trash. They still have no issues throwing people out of planes to be their mindless, helpless weapons. The morality of attacking a nation that has done absolutely nothing to provoke them never enters into play.

Every appalling act of inhumanity performed by their country has been backed by human beings. They aren’t actively setting out to be as evil as possible; they just take in their options, and when the only thing standing in their way is moral decency, decline to let that be a factor.

After Reiner and Bertolt break down Wall Maria, thousands of people are killed. What’s easy to forget so many years later is that thousands of those people die because their government decides that it’s easier for everyone if they write off their lives.

Marley has gotten away with adopting that decision as a lifestyle. Largely because they don’t have to deal with the pesky consideration that Eldians are people.

Essentially, minus the flagrant bigotry, they’re everything that Paradis escapes becoming. On Paradis, after a hundred years of being cowed into complacence and letting some of their worst human vices take over, people start to wake up. They’re given a glimpse of hope, and a future, and enough people are willing to believe in that to change the cruelty that’s been smothering them.

The Marleyan Eldians, the only people who have serious personal stakes in maybe not doing things this way anymore, don’t have much hope. The greatest option for a better life is training as hard as possible to be selected to die in thirteen years.

That’s a cycle that’s been going on for a hundred years. It hasn’t broken. The system’s just found a way to make Eldians compliant in their tragedy.

I don’t know how the chapter title works out in Japanese, or what references Isayama may or may not include, but in English, the title, “Midnight Train,” makes it hard to think of anything but Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’.

There’s a literal train a the end of the chapter, of course, and. it is arguably around midnight at the time it’s running, but that’s less fun.

I could probably go to more effort weaving in and out of how the two can relate, but for the purposes of this second, I’m just going to quote fast and get out.

Payin' anything to roll the dice Just one more time

On its own, those lines easily call to both the Warriors and the Survey Corps. Countless Scouts have given up their lives for the barest hint of a chance that something might go right someday.

Warriors see how they’re treated by their country constantly, and know that this didn’t start yesterday, and they each still approach it with the thought that they’ll be the ones to make everything okay for their people.

Some will win, and some will lose.

For Marleyan Eldians, Marley is the house, and they’re handing the players loaded dice.

Some were clearly born to sing the blues.

Anyway, that’s a lot of nothing saying that I appreciate the less blatant evil going on in this chapter. It makes the worst of it all hit harder. Things aren’t always train tracks and mustache-twirling. These are real human beings, choosing to enact real horrors.

Though. All the same.

There is no part of this sentiment that is not fucked up, and I’d really like to stop reading about Marley now.

What else, what else...

Well, confirmation that no one on Marley’s side knows about Zeke’s royal blood; except for maybe Zeke. We also get explicit verbage about Shifters inheriting their predecessors’ memories.

Along with the implication that Zeke went around stabbing every single person in Connie’s village with needles full of his spinal fluid.

...I. Do not know which implication is worse, there. Does... Zeke keep a stock of his spinal fluid? I mean, Marley would be more likely in that case, but that’s pretty thoroughly worse.

Getting spinal fluid out is considered pretty painful, to my knowledge. ...Does he stab himself when he’s all alone on random islands?

...Was there ever a reason given besides, “for funsies,” that he transformed Connie’s village anyway?

I think I’m just not going to think about that one too hard unless the manga starts shining a giant spotlight on it. Not caring is usually a pretty good ally in lore things.

In other news, Reiner continues to be a horrible person, adding threatening small children to his list of faults. At least he only scares the one who doesn’t like him much half to death.

It continues to amaze me that you can develop a character who is unfailingly loyal to the point that it psychologically breaks him to be a traitor, and still make him such an asshole. When he isn’t jumping in front of things for people, he’s making them feel like crap.

Unless your name’s Connie.

Then he’ll just loudly suggest that you’re a moron for hearing weird things around your mother’s titanized body.

...

Reiner should not be allowed to people.

He also has a weird obsession with turning boys into white knights.

Krista?

I shall save you, girl whose name I have yet to get right!

Bertolt has a thing for Annie?

You must rescue her as is becoming of the princely way!

Falco has a thing for Gabi?

You shall save her, valiant young steed!

He gives this poor kid a traumatizing lecture on the honor Warriors are bestowed with, and then drags him into a grueling grind of training to surpass Gabi so that he’ll be chosen (things to be included: comfort with standing in front of enemy lines in your underwear with not but a bunch of bombs for company), and then terms it as saving the damsel in distress from the horror that is being a Marley Warrior.

Reiner doesn’t just want to be a fairy tale knight.

He wants everyone around him to be one too.

If Galliard didn’t hate him, he’d be spending all of his time telling him to protect the fair maiden Pieck.

That’s Reiner’s real character arc: He’s just this poor guy trying to get an RP group going. No one ever plays the scene out right, so he’s condemned to misery for the rest of his lonely two years.

Alternatively, he has no clue how to deal with his own emotions, so he’s constantly shoving them off on other people who are just barely well-adjusted enough to maybe get something done.

“I’m a lost cause so I’m going to yell at children” is a staple of the genre.

I don’t know if Reiner’s still doing his Soldier/Warrior split (I’m guessing not, since he’s so definitively in Warrior territory, and has been for several years now), but his psychological health has somehow succeeded in getting worse.

Maybe try killing less people.

So far, I like Pieck and Galliard. Pieck obviously garners immediate sympathy because the Cartman train apparently isn’t allowed to stop during a war, and having Galliard obviously care for her is cool. These two haven’t betrayed anyone yet, or been spotted attacking people they aren’t actively at war with, so it’s easier to see them as people.

Galliard’s dislike of Reiner is just a bonus.

It’s also kind of sad. “Kind of” meaning very. No one but Reiner understands the weight of everything that happens on Paradis, but Galliard is the one whose squad left him behind. Reiner, Bertolt, Annie, and his brother are all chosen ahead of him, and he has to watch them head off to save their people while he just stays put.

Then the only person who comes back is the one whose spot he was in direct competition for. His brother and the friends he could like are gone, and Reiner has the audacity to stay standing.

Unfortunately, I think that brings us to the only reason any of you are probably reading this post.

Jaws is the Dancing Titan.

Galliard is the successor of Ymir’s power, by proof of his abilities and new memories.

That would indicate that Ymir is dead.

Every single thing we know about canon says that Ymir is dead.

Deceased. Nommed. Gone.

We have flashback panels to before she’s eaten. Galliard remembers her by name. He has memories of Reiner’s time as a soldier.

Short of a body, which, um. Let’s just say would not be around, given the circumstances, that is pretty damn conclusive.

So.

I have a problem.

My problem is a pretty simple one.

This is really fucking stupid.

And I really, really, really wish that in a capslock rage kind of way, because I feel like I would have an easier time defending that. Sadly, I don’t mean it in that way.

What I mean is that the story has failed so spectacularly to establish logic in this chain of events that I’m not convinced that this is the end.

Which means that I’m probably going to continue getting asks about why I think Ymir’s alive (though that isn’t... precisely true).

Despite being handed a chapter that pretty much shouts, “SHE’S DEAD,” as loudly as possible.

Yeah.

Assuming that there’s at least one person who’s interested in why in between laughing at me or unfollowing in disgust or any number of other things that make me think that being in mourning would actually be easier, I guess I’ll keep typing and try to explain why.

Ymir’s fate has happened to come up a number of times here, but I think the best explanation for my belief in her continued longevity is the one I went with most recently.

I’m no stranger to looking askance at Isayama’s writing choices. However, one thing he has always stayed true to, with a consistency that any writer would find admirable, is the characters. You see signs of who all of these people are far before the traits become relevant. He has a talent for breathing life into his creations, and however long they live for, they are distinct individuals without any notes to them that ring untrue.

With the facts currently at hand, for the first time, we have a jarring development that feels more like an instrument of the plot than something that a character would actually do.

Galliard and Reiner both say that Ymir volunteers to die.

Putting aside the fact that Reiner is a complete jackass for letting Ymir do that for him and Bertolt (what the hell is wrong with you that you present the woman who saved your life to be eaten alive), I do not know how to begin with this.

Because I know that this is one of those positions that means I basically can’t ever have a civil conversation with anyone again in this fandom, I’m going to try to be as direct as possible about my reasoning.

The issues start with... wow, I really don’t like doing this.

At the simplest level, nothing we have seen of Ymir since her time on the wall with Reiner and Bertolt suggests that this is a decision she’s happy about. She looks like death (ha) in this chapter, and she doesn’t look much happier writing out her love letter.

This isn’t the scared-but-willing face she puts on during Utgard or the kidnapping arc. It isn’t the smile when she talks about being a goddess. It’s desolation.

There are parts to the end of volume twelve that could point to this as a legit ending. I think one of the things I brought up in regards to Bertolt’s death was that the second his development landed on the idea that everything is inevitable, his death joined the list, because this is a series where if you don’t fight, you most assuredly do not win.

If you wanted to go there, making the case that Isayama can be lax with the amount of evidence his character decisions have, but they are always available, then Ymir’s line, “I’m tired out. I’ve just had enough. ...I’m done,” is perfectly prophetic, the end.

My problem with that is it happens post-Utgard and kidnapping arc. I don’t think any other set of chapters is as committed to sleep deprivation as those ones, and basically all of the decisions Ymir makes during the kidnapping arc are shortsighted and corrected by someone having half a second to think about them.

I’m using “problem” like it’s singular a lot. I do that. It’s annoying, and I’m going to continue doing it.

The more pressing issue here is that if this is how Ymir’s story ends, she has absolutely zero value as an individual.

She lives and dies only for other people.

She does it in her first life, then again in her second.

She has an active desire to avoid that.

Oh well.

I don’t think I know how to put into words how thoroughly this end would turn Ymir into a satellite character.

Every life lesson she ever learns for herself has zero effect on her life. As far as character development goes, if this is how things play out, she doesn’t really have any. She begins her life living only for the happiness of others, and ends her life dying only for the happiness of others.

In a lot of stories, that wouldn’t be such a problem. There is definite tragedy in someone’s own nature betraying their desires. That’s practically what tragedy is.

But with Ymir--first off, as mentioned in the above link, we’ve already done this at Utgard. This is exactly the problem she faces at Utgard, finding that she has too much love in her heart to save her own skin at all costs. Saving Reiner and Bertolt is a dull repetition of that revelation already.

And that’s before saving them involves moving forward to be eaten alive.

This is actually painful: She has a life on Marley, dies because she’s a tryhard. She has a life on Paradis, then Utgard happens and oh no, she cares about people. Then kidnapping happens, and oh no, she still cares about Historia. THEN THE CONCLUSION OF THE KIDNAPPING HAPPENS, AND OH NO, SHE CARES ABOUT REINER AND BERTOLT.

Following all of that: OH NO, DESPITE WONDERING WHY THE HELL THIS IS A DECISION SHE’S MADE, YEP, STILL GONNA DIE FOR THEM!

(you know, those people she threatened with death an hour ago for a chance to see Historia one more time)

You can make the argument that she’s consistent, but there’s a huge difference in automatically shielding people from immediate danger, and walking up to the gallows and tying the knot yourself. For that final save, that’s what the story is asking us to believe happened.

Additionally, all of the above only benefits other people. If this is the end, Ymir’s basic function in the story is being Historia’s love interest and keeping plot-essential characters breathing. On her own, she has a personality, but you might as well stamp tool to her forehead and be done with it.

Seriously, playing along with exactly what the text says, with dead Ymir: Remove Historia from the story and then examine how much worth Ymir’s story has to any of this. If she’s dead, she’s more plot device than person, which Isayama has always been good about avoiding.

...Okay, I don’t think I can say that without someone at least thinking of Floch, to which I say that if Ymir and Floch are at all comparable in value, you know something’s gone sideways.

There is no solid logic for Ymir to hand herself over to Marley. By dying, she spares Bertolt for what, two months? Reiner would have died as well if not for being Reiner. She also gives Marley a shiny new toy, with no guarantees on this new person caring at all about Historia.

Oh yeah, and she’d be dead.

She kind of spends several pages during 47 having a meltdown over imminent death.

And in that case, she’s facing it for Historia.

That girl she loves or something.

Who she’s still willing to put at risk just to see her one more time because she’s a selfish teenager who has things to live for.

But, you know, things happen. Characters aren’t always as important as you think they are, that’s the way it goes, and so on and so forth.

Except it does matter that Ymir’s arc is concluding this way. With no other character besides Historia (who has an extensive arc dealing with the emotional threat this represents) could you have an ending that flies so directly in the face of everything they stand for. And for crying out loud, Historia’s arc is pretty much learning to use everything Ymir teaches her.

You can’t have Ymir fail her own beliefs this badly without any elaboration.

Like.

You’re going to kill yourself, the ultimate act of submission. Is that how much you want to please the people who treated you like a nuisance?! Why are you trying to hurt yourself?! If your will is that strong… then shouldn’t you be able to change your fate?!

We get a whole character arc that starts with Ymir deriding her for abusing her suicidal desires. Willingly walking into death without fighting like hell to stay alive is not something Ymir does.

If this is really the end, it’s appallingly disrespectful to everything Ymir is as a character, using her only to keep the key players alive and sane--and maybe as a reason for a queen of some island to have a serious grudge.

None of which involves treating Ymir as a person who matters as an individual.

And that’s the crux of the thing for me.

Which is sad, since I don’t really want more people telling me how very wrong about life, the universe, and everything I am.

Here it is, though:

Despite all evidence pointing to Ymir’s death, and despite everything we know about canon only supporting that she must be dead, Isayama has such a long track record of respecting his characters that I do not believe that this is her end.

There is no grounding in canon for thinking that Ymir is alive (I’m not even sure she is alive in the traditional way, if there’s more to this). There is only suspicion built on the author’s history. That isn’t much. By the standards I prefer, it’s absolutely nothing.

Shifters aren’t great about remembering that first nom, and we know nothing about the ninth titan yet, but there’s also no reason to believe either of those things might be relevant.

I don’t like being the person who looks at mountains of evidence and shrugs it off. I really don’t like it when character deaths are involved. I hate it, actually, but I’m guessing that until the manga ends, even when the inevitable volume release finally has an X through Ymir’s picture, I’ll be holding out for something amazing happening with her.

Because I’m a moron.

Well.

And it enables me to end the post in this fashion.

DON’T STOP BELIEVING

HOLD ON TO THAT FEEEEEEEELING

#Shingeki no Kyojin #SnK 93 #Ymir #shingeki no spoilers #SnK spoilers #spoilers #tl;dr #chapter post #so ends anyone ever taking me seriously ever again #maybe that's a good thing #but I don't like being alone

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d-a-l-3-k-s · 7 years

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Receipts

Over the last month I’ve accepted we’ll never talk again, I’ve come to terms with it, but I feel as though there’s one last thing I need to do and that’s get the venom out. I’ve held my tongue and tried to be the better person, but let’s face it…. you know me…. I remember everything…. store all the negatives up and let them fester.

•I offered you a free place to stay after you recovered from surgery to start a new life. •You had zero intention of creating a normal existence, even taking things slowly because you had the time, you had a perfect opportunity and you decided to throw it all away just to become a dominatrix. •Do you know how many people from non middle class spoon fed backgrounds would kill for an opportunity like that, for a friend to take them in and say “don’t worry about bills or food I’ve got you”? so they can take their time to find a job and become independent. •Your work clearly affected you leading you to smoke and drink more. •The money you earned that you kept promising me you’d save so we can move in together you spunked on over priced sex toys, getting drunk and touring the country leading you to have zero money for us to move out together. •I only realised this once we started house hunting and seeing the reality of your financiers written across your face. The constant bragging of how much money you earned didn’t matter because in reality you had non due to the above. •Constantly held it against me that you had to look after me while I recovered from surgery. I never asked you, I agreed with you that moving out would be for the best and yet you never did. You just stayed because it was convenient and free nothing more, but you made it out that you were martyring yourself for me. •Yes I am thankful for the help you did give me, but on reflection it was wholly for selfish reasons. •When i decided to be selfish and put myself first by moving out of my then current living situation and move into a place that felt like a home… a fresh start you turned into a utter dick. It was clear the only reason you were pissed off was because your 5+ month free ride was over and you had to find a place to live. •You wrote everywhere about how you were now homeless, essentially saying to the people that new you were living with me that I kicked you out. Only giving them half truths and sensationalised sound bites to feed your social media persona. •The above really fucking hurt because that wasn’t the case. •You had 3 people wanting to live with you and were willing to bend over backwards to help you financially, but you didn’t want to help yourself. Instead of getting a second part time job that fit around your one day of working at a dungeon you refused like a spoilt child. You weren’t willing to fight for it so why should I factor you in. •You gave me of all people… someone who comes from a benefit class background whose family had zero money, who had always worked shitty 0 hour contracts or part time and even had 3 jobs to cover their bills…. a lecture about how I’ve never had to live of x amount of money a week/month despite me telling you numerous times how bad my life up until my current job was. •You constantly blamed my “middle class” lifestyle as to why you never had any money because you never wanted to face up to your own life choices and reason as to why all that money you earned isn’t there anymore. •You constantly used the fact that within the last 2ish years I landed a dream job, working 9-5 Monday to Friday with decent salary. Deeming me entitled and middle class regardless of my history. I fucking earned the life I have, I worked fucking hard for it and I only landed that job at the age of 30…… how fucking dare you speak to me like that. •After you moved out in your petulantly way you decided to bad mouth me to everyone who’d listen to you behind my back. Obviously twisting and distorting it to make you out the victim to add to your drama machine. •You didn’t talk to me for a month. I was fine with this and gave you space, honestly I needed it too. Then when we met you had the audacity to say you forgive me and said how two people gave you the best advice “if you still miss them after a month then you know you still want them in your life”. •Realistically you’ve never apologised for your behaviour and when you’ve tried to make it right any promises you’ve made you haven’t fulfilled. •For example, you promised to give both me and my housemate money towards gas, electricity and water, which you used in abundance and without any care for the bill payers. All those long baths you had during the week because your life was to difficult and stressful due to the work you chosen to do. You even acknowledged I might need financial help while being off work for 3 months and suggested giving both me and my housemate money towards rent as a way to give back and help me during a time of need. When I carefully brought this up with you you acted like a selfish child, which meant I never felt comfortable talking to you about money let alone asking you for it. You used a lot of my stuff, some of it even relating to post surgery recovery and promised like you always do that you'd replace it.... you never did or when you did it was a drop in the ocean. Same goes for a handful of other stuff, you'd use it, replace it with your own and then moan when I or someone else used it because it's yours. You'd always pretend that you don't remember using it or that much and make me feel guilty for bringing it up even though money was tight for me back then. •The constant digs against me as a human despite me always being accepting of you. Putting me down because I’m the wrong type of trans (attracted to women) in your mind and my choice of partners after splitting up from my ex. You know what I never judged your lifestyle despite how cliched it was… you think you’re a better trans than me because you’re attracted to men and transitioned at a younger age…. well look at yourself, you’re far more AGP than I ever have been, your constant taking of nude selfies to get attention, being part of the kink scene and not to mention how much you enjoy being desired by wearing heavily sexualised clothing. Yeah I’m the bad one for being into video games and anime, fuck off. The only reason you constantly chipped away at my self esteem was because you saw my existence at conflict with not only your own shining a light on all your flaws, but also reinforcing that you aren’t the one true trans.

I now watch you as you freeload off others essentially being a leach and now I see it as that I understand why you were my friend for the most part, I gave you freedom when nobody else would and once you found better options, people who reflect your latest persona you left me in the dust.

I’ve given you way more chances than I’ve ever given anyone else in my life, I was happy to give you anything because I was happy and willing to help a friend. I thought we had something special, I thought we were true best friends where other people would come and go but we’d always have each other, but I’ve outgrown you and you’ve outgrown me. I’m over mourning it. Go enjoy the new persona you’ve created, keeping chipping away at the whole impoverished sex worker angle you’ve got going for you because let’s face it we all now the truth…. you’re just a sex worker tourist, doing it to be controversial, to get attention. You’re not doing it because you have no other choice, you have no drug habit to feed, no child to financially support and only yourself to fall back on…. you always have mommy and daddy in their big old house with their middle class jobs and holiday home to fall back on if times get hard or you get bored.

Thank you for the 2ish years of friendship. You were who and what I needed at that time, but now we’re nothing but strangers.

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newsnigeria · 5 years

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Check out New Post published on Ọmọ Oòduà

New Post has been published on http://ooduarere.com/news-from-nigeria/world-news/venezuela-another-failed-coup-attempt-whats-next/

Venezuela – Another Failed Coup Attempt – What’s Next?

by Peter Koenig for The Saker Blog

In the early morning hours of 30 April, 2019, the self-declare “Interim President”, Juan Guaidó, launched what at first sight appeared to be a military coup – Guaidó calls it “Operation Freedom” (sounds very much like a Washington-invented title) – against the democratically elected, legitimate government of Nicolas Maduro. With two dozen of defected armed military from the Carlota military base east of Caracas (not hundreds, or even thousands, as reported by the mainstream media), Guaidó went to free Leopoldo Lopez, the opposition leader, who was under house arrest, after his 13-year prison sentence for his role in the deadly 2014 anti-government protests, was commuted. They first called for a full military insurrection – which failed bitterly, as the vast majority of the armed forces are backing President Maduro and his government.

As reported straight from Caracas by geopolitical analyst, Dario Azzelli, Guaidó and López rallied from the Plaza Altamira, for the people of Venezuela to rise up and take to the streets to oust President Maduro. According to them, this was the ‘last phase’ of a peaceful coup to bring freedom and democracy back to Venezuela. The nefarious pair issued a video of their “battle cry” which they broadcast over the social media.

They mobilized a few hundred – again not thousands as pers SMS – right-wing middle to upper class protestors and marched towards the Presidential Palace. On the way, they were confronted by the Venezuelan Civil Guard with tear gas – not even the military had to intervene – and only few protestors reached Miraflores which was protectively surrounded by thousands of Chavistas. And that was basically the end of yet another failed coup.

Leopoldo López was seeking asylum in the Chilean Embassy which rejected him, and now, it looks like he found his refuge in the Spanish Embassy. This is a huge embarrassment and outright shame for Spain, especially after the Socialist Party, PSOE, just won the elections with 29%, though not enough to form a government by its own, but largely sufficient to call the shots as to whom should be granted asylum on their territory. Looks like fascism is still alive in Spain, if Pedro Sanchez is not able to reject a right-wing fascist opposition and illegal coup leader of Venezuela to gain refuge on Spain’s territory.

As to Guaidó, rumors have it that he found refuge in the Brazilian Embassy, though some reports say he is being protected by his Colombian friends. Both is possible, Bolsonaro and Duque are of same fascist kind, certainly ready to grant criminals – what Guaidó is – asylum. ——

What is important to know, though, is that throughout the day of the attempted coup, 30 April, the US State Department, in the person of the pompous Pompeo, accompanied by the National Security Advisor, John Bolton, kept threatening President Maduro in a press round. Pompeo directly menaced President Maduro, saying – “If they ask me if the US is prepared to consider military action [in Venezuela], if this is what is necessary to restore democracy in Venezuela, the President [Donald Trump] has been coherent and clear: The military option is available, if this is what we have to do.” – These threats are repeated throughout May 1 – day after the Venezuelan attempted coup defeat by both Pompeo and warrior Bolton.

Pompeo’s audacity didn’t stop there. He went as far as suggesting to President Maduro to flee to Cuba and leave his country to those that will bring back (sic) freedom and democracy.

Let’s be clear. Although this has been said before – it cannot be repeated enough for the world to understand. These outright war criminals in Washington are in flagrant violation of the UN Charter to which the US is – for good or for bad – a signatory.

UN Charter – Chapter I, Article 2 (4), says: All Members shall refrain in their international relations from the threat or use of force against the territorial integrity or political independence of any state, or in any other manner inconsistent with the Purposes of the United Nations.

We know that the White House, Pentagon and State Department have zero respect for the UN, and, in fact, use the international body for their purposes, manipulating and blackmailing its members into doing the bidding for the US. That is all known and has been documented. What is perhaps newer is that this is now happening, especially in the cases of Venezuela and Iran, openly, in unveiled flagrant disrespect of any international law, against bodies and sovereign countries that do not bend to the whims and will of the United States.

As a result of this open violation of the UN Charter by the world’s only rogue state, some 60 UN member nations, including Russia and China, have formed a solid shield against Washington’s aggressions. The group was created especially in defense of Venezuela, but is also there for Iran and other countries being aggressed and threatened by the US. Hence, the blatant blackmailing and manipulation of weaker UN member countries becomes more difficult.

To be sure, the Russian Foreign Ministry has immediately condemned the coup as illegal and warned the US of any military intervention. This is of course not the first time, but just to be sure – Russia is there, standing by her partner and friend, Venezuela.

——

This Guaidó–Lopez attempted coup was most certainly following instructions from Washington. Super-puppet Guaidó, US-groomed and trained, then self-declared “presidente interino”, would not dare doing anything on his own initiative which might raise the wrath of his masters. But would the US – with all her secret services capacity – seriously launch a coup so ill-prepared that it is defeated in just a few hours with minimal intervention of Venezuelan forces? – I doubt it.

What is it then, other than a planned failure? – A new propaganda instrument, for the corporate MSM to run amok and tell all kinds of lies, convincing its complacent western public of the atrocities produced by the Maduro regime, the misery Venezuelan people must live, famine, disease without medication, oppression by dictatorship, torture, murder – whatever they can come up with. You meet any mainstream-groomed people in Europe and elsewhere, even well-educated people, people who call themselves ‘socialists’ and are leading figures in European socialist parties, they would tell you these same lies about misery caused by the Maduro regime.

How could that be – if the Maduro Government doesn’t even arrest Juan Guaidó for his multiple crimes committed since January, when he self-proclaimed being the ‘interim president’ of Venezuela. Arresting him, for the coup attempts he initiated or was party to since his auto coronation to president. That’s what a dictator would do. That’s what the United States of America, would have done a long time ago. Washington and its internal security apparatus would certainly not tolerate such illegal acts – and to top it off – foreign manipulated political illegality.

Why for example, would the media not point out the real crimes of the US vassals of South America, like Colombia, where over 6 million people are internal and external refugees, where at least 240,000 peasants and human rights activists were massacred and many were burned by US-funded paramilitary groups, atrocities that are ongoing as of this day, despite the November 2016 signed “Peace Agreement” between the then Santos Government and the FARC – for which President Manuel Santos received the Nobel Peace Prize. – Can you imagine!

What world are we living in? A world of everyday deceit and lies and highly paid lie-propaganda, paid with fake money – fake as in indiscriminately printed US-dollars – of which every new dollar is debt that will never be paid back (as openly admitted by former FEDs Chairman, Alan Greenspan); dollars that can be indiscriminately spent to produce the deadliest weapons, as well as for corporate media-propaganda lies – also a deadly weapon – to indoctrinate people around the globe into believing that evil is good, and that war is peace.

I have lost many friends by telling them off, by telling them the truth, the truth about Venezuela, Cuba, Iran, Syria – mostly to no avail. It’s actually no loss; it’s merely a repeated confirmation of how far the western society has been veered off the path of conscience into a comfort zone, where believing the propaganda lies of reputed media like The Guardian, NYT, WashPost, BBC, FAZ, Spiegel, Le Monde, Figaro, el País, ABC — and so on, is edifying. They are so convincing. They are so well-reputed and well-known. How could they lie? – No loss, indeed.

Let’s stay on track, comrades. Venceremos!

Peter Koenig is an economist and geopolitical analyst. He is also a water resources and environmental specialist. He worked for over 30 years with the World Bank and the World Health Organization around the world in the fields of environment and water. He lectures at universities in the US, Europe and South America. He writes regularly for Global Research; ICH; RT; Sputnik; PressTV; The 21st Century; TeleSUR; The Saker Blog, the New Eastern Outlook (NEO); and other internet sites. He is the author of Implosion – An Economic Thriller about War, Environmental Destruction and Corporate Greed – fiction based on facts and on 30 years of World Bank experience around the globe. He is also a co-author of The World Order and Revolution! – Essays from the Resistance. Peter Koenig is a Research Associate of the Centre for Research on Globalization.

#Venezuela

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blackresearchcentral · 6 years

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Malcolm X on the Power of Black Collectivism

The following is an excerpt from Malcolm X's speech "The Ballot and The Bullet" delivered on April 12, 1964 at King Solomon Baptist Church in Detroit, Michigan.

In this speech, the minister and human rights activist submits a charge to the 'Black' people of the United States of America with his blueprint on their future political and economic survival. While his lecture on Black Nationalism is most relevant to the time he spoke these words, much of his theory on how to achieve and maintain a successful community remains applicable in a 21st Century world that is still not conducive to 'Black' collective progress.

youtube

He starts with a discussion on the necessity of Black political representation in communities where ‘Black’ people represent a majority of the population.

The political philosophy of Black Nationalism only means that the Black man should control the politics and the politicians in his own community. The -- The time -- The time when White people can come in our community and get us to vote for them so that they can be our political leaders and tell us what to do and what not to do is long gone. By the same token, the time when that same White man, knowing that your eyes are too far open, can send another Negro into the community and get you and me to support him so he can use him to lead us astray -- those days are long gone too.

The political philosophy of Black Nationalism only means that if you and I are going to live in a Black community -- and that’s where we’re going to live, 'cause as soon as you move into one of their -- soon as you move out of the Black community into their community, it’s mixed for a period of time, but they’re gone and you’re right there all by yourself again. We must -- We must understand the politics of our community and we must know what politics is supposed to produce. We must know what part politics play in our lives. And until we become politically mature we will always be mislead, lead astray, or deceived or maneuvered into supporting someone politically who doesn’t have the good of our community at heart.

So the political philosophy of Black Nationalism only means that we will have to carry on a program, a political program, of re-education to open our people's eyes, make us become more politically conscious, politically mature, and then we will -- whenever we get ready to cast our ballot, that ballot will be -- will be cast for a man of the community who has the good of the community at heart.

Malcolm goes on to discuss how ‘Black’ people should also understand financial literacy and apply it to empower themselves to support each other in their communities.

The economic philosophy of Black Nationalism only means that we should own and operate and control the economy of our community. You would never -- You can’t open up a Black store in a White community. White men won’t even patronize you. And he’s not wrong. He’s got sense enough to look out for himself. You the one who don’t have sense enough to look out for yourself.

The White man -- The White man is too intelligent to let someone else come and gain control of the economy of his community. But you will let anybody come in and take control of the economy of your community, control the housing, control the education, control the jobs, control the businesses, under the pretext that you want to integrate. No, you're out of your mind.

The political -- The economic philosophy of Black Nationalism only means that we have to become involved in a program of re-education to educate our people into the importance of knowing that when you spend your dollar out of the community in which you live, the community in which you spend your money becomes richer and richer; the community out which you take your money becomes poorer and poorer.

And because these Negroes, who have been mislead, misguided, are breaking their necks to take their money and spend it with The Man, The Man is becoming richer and richer, and you’re becoming poorer and poorer.

And then what happens? The community in which you live becomes a slum. It becomes a ghetto. The conditions become run down. And then you have the audacity to -- to complain about poor housing in a run-down community. Why you run it down yourself when you take your dollar out.

And you and I are in a double-trap, because not only do we lose by taking our money someplace else and spending it, when we try and spend it in our own community we’re trapped because we haven’t had sense enough to set up stores and control the businesses of our community.

The man who’s controlling the stores in our community is a man who doesn’t look like we do. He’s a man who doesn’t even live in the community. So you and I, even when we try and spend our money in the block where we live or the area where we live, we’re spending it with a man who, when the sun goes down, takes that basket full of money in another part of the town.

So we’re trapped, trapped, double-trapped, triple-trapped. Anywhere we go we find that we’re trapped. And every kind of solution that someone comes up with is just another trap. But the political and economic philosophy of Black Nationalism -- the economic philosophy of Black Nationalism shows our people the importance of setting up these little stores and developing them and expanding them into larger operations.

Woolworth [a retail company that ceased operations in 1997] didn’t start out big like they are today. They started out with a dime store and expanded and expanded and then expanded until today, they’re are all over the country and all over the world, and they’re getting some of everybody’s money.

Now this is what you and I -- General Motors [is] the same way. They didn’t start out like it is. It started out just a little rat race type operation. And it expanded and it expanded until today it's where it is right now. And you and I have to make a start and the best place to start is right in the community where we live.

So our people not only have to be re-educated to the importance of supporting Black business, but the Black man himself has to be made aware of the importance of going into business. And once you and I go into business, we own and operate at least the businesses in our community. What we will be doing is developing a situation wherein we will actually be able to create employment for the people in the community.

And once you can create some -- some employment in the community where you live it will eliminate the necessity of you and me having to act ignorantly and disgracefully, boycotting and picketing some [White person and their business] some place else trying to beg him for a job."

A transcript of this speech is available here.

Malcolm X presented another version of this speech at Cory Methodist Church in Cleveland, Ohio on April 3, 1964.

Again, Malcolm touches on the way that politics and economics in a successful community go hand in hand.

The Black Nationalists, those whose philosophy is Black Nationalism, in bringing about this new interpretation of the entire meaning of Civil Rights, look upon it as meaning, as Brother Lomax has pointed out, equality of opportunity. Well, we're justified in seeking Civil Rights, if it means equality of opportunity, because all we're doing there is trying to collect for our investment. Our mothers and fathers invested sweat and blood. Three hundred and ten years we worked in this country without a dime in return -- I mean without a dime in return. You let the White man walk around here talking about how rich this country is, but you never stop to think how it got rich so quick. It got rich because you made it rich.

You take the people who are in this audience right now. They're poor. We're all poor as individuals. Our weekly salary individually amounts to hardly anything. But if you take the salary of everyone in here collectively, it'll fill up a whole lot of baskets. It's a lot of wealth. If you can collect the wages of just these people right here for a year, you'll be rich -- richer than rich. When you look at it like that, think how rich Uncle Sam had to become, not with this handful, but millions of Black people. Your and my mother and father, who didn't work an eight-hour shift, but worked from "can't see" in the morning until "can't see" at night, and worked for nothing, making the white man rich, making Uncle Sam rich. This is our investment. This is our contribution, our blood.

...

The political philosophy of Black Nationalism means that the Black man should control the politics and the politicians in his own community; no more. The Black man in the Black community has to be re-educated into the science of politics so he will know what politics is supposed to bring him in return.

Don't be throwing out any ballots. A ballot is like a bullet. You don't throw your ballots until you see a target, and if that target is not within your reach, keep your ballot in your pocket.

...

The political philosophy of Black Nationalism is...being taught everywhere. Black people are fed up with the dillydallying, pussyfooting, compromising approach that we've been using toward getting our freedom.

We want freedom now, but we're not going to get it saying "We Shall Overcome." We've got to fight until we overcome.

The economic philosophy of Black Nationalism is pure and simple. It only means that we should control the economy of our community.

Why should White people be running all the stores in our community?

Why should White people be running the banks of our community?

Why should the economy of our community be in the hands of the White man? Why?

If a Black man can't move his store into a White community, you tell me why a White man should move his store into a Black community.

The philosophy of Black Nationalism involves a re-education program in the Black community in regards to economics. Our people have to be made to see that any time you take your dollar out of your community and spend it in a community where you don't live, the community where you live will get poorer and poorer, and the community where you spend your money will get richer and richer.

Then you wonder why where you live is always a ghetto or a slum area. And where you and I are concerned, not only do we lose it when we spend it out of the community, but the White man has got all our stores in the community tied up; so that though we spend it in the community, at sundown the man who runs the store takes it over across town somewhere. He's got us in a vise.

So the economic philosophy of Black Nationalism means in every church, in every civic organization, in every fraternal order, it's time now for our people to become conscious of the importance of controlling the economy of our community.

If we own the stores, if we operate the businesses, if we try and establish some industry in our own community, then we're developing to the position where we are creating employment for our own kind. Once you gain control of the economy of your own community, then you don't have to picket and boycott and beg some [White person and their business] downtown for a job in his business.

,,.

A segregated district or community is a community in which people live, but outsiders control the politics and the economy of that community. They never refer to the White section as a segregated community. It's the all-Negro section that's a segregated community. Why?

The White man controls his own school, his own bank, his own economy, his own politics, his own everything, his own community; but he also controls yours. When you're under someone else's control, you're segregated. They'll always give you the lowest or the worst that there is to offer, but it doesn't mean you're segregated just because you have your own.

You've got to control your own. Just like the White man has control of his, you need to control yours.

A complete audio recording of the first speech and a transcript of the second one is available here.

Image:

Malcolm X holds up money collected at a “Freedom Rally” June 25, 1961 sponsored by the Nation of Islam at Washington, D.C.’s Uline Arena at the 1100 block of 3rd Street NE

Photo by Richard Saunders/Getty Images

#black #black history #black nationalism #malcolm x #african americans #negroes #black wealth #boycott #we buy black #blackness #black community #black church #civil rights #civil rights movement

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fughtopia · 7 years

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September 26, 2017

by Paul Street

excerpt

The dutiful “good Black” who knows his place and avoids revolutionary politics while helping whites get by and feel better about themselves is a disturbing Hollywood staple. Examples include movies like The Green Mile (where Michael Clarke Duncan played John Coffey, a massive Black Death Row inmate who miraculously restored the physical and spiritual health of a white prison warden played by Tom Hanks); the “racist fantasy buddy flick” (in the words of Kirsten West-Savali) Driving Miss Daisy ( Morgan Freeman played a dutiful white driver who sassily befriended and boosted the ego of his white lady employer in the Jim Crow South); An Unfinished Life (where Freeman served as the one-man Black life-adjunct to a bitter white rancher played by Robert Redford); The Shawshank Redemption (where Freeman was prison pal, escape partner, and psychological support for a wrongfully convicted white banker played by Tim Robbins); Million Dollar Baby (good old Morgan Freeman as trainer of a white female boxer played by Hillary Swank; and (sharing the same white director as Driving Miss Daisy) Mr. Church (Eddie Murphy is hired by a single white women dying of cancer to raise her little girl and ends up giving the rest of his life to being the narcissistic daughter’s de facto father). As the Black commentator Kirsten West-Savali wrote in a properly biting review of Mr. Church on The Root last year:

“White Hollywood is nothing if not a microcosm of white America, a place where shucking and jiving, bucking and jumping, ‘Yes, suh; no, ma’am’ Negroes are more readily accepted than their revolutionary counterparts. This country has a fetish with subservient black men that translates into adoration on-screen…This is about liberal white fantasies of saving black people from themselves even as white people are served and saved by those very same black people. It is also in keeping with the constant barrage of imagery that reinforces the power dynamic that black people are a perpetual servant class with conditional access to society. Rule No. 1: Appear as nonthreatening as possible. This is what springs from the minds of white creatives far too often—the idea of black men as invisible men used for protection, under no assumptions or expectations of equity.”

Notice the repeated reference to Morgan Freeman in the above filmography. In Lean On Me (1989), Freeman played Joe Clarke, the Black New Jersey high school principal who won white praise by using a baseball bat to whip inner-city Black students into personally responsible shape with the “only language they understand – brute force.” That’s the other side of the coin of obediently serving white masters in the formula for Black success: punching down on lesser and improperly socialized members of your own race. That’s Reverend Jackson ripping on Black inmates while running interference for the mass-incarceration-ist Clintons.

Now Freeman has doubled down on his service to white power by appearing in a short video put out by the preposterous white “liberal,” NeoCon, and neo-McCartrhyite “Committee to Investigate Russia.” In this ridiculous message, Freeman plays along with the Clinton Democrats’ blaming of the racist “Goldwater Girl” Hillary Clinton’s defeat by Donald Trump on “Russian interference,” not her depressing and demobilizing racial, socioeconomic, and imperial conservativism.

Barack Obama and his handlers understood white America’s “good Black, bad Black” distinction very well. They made sure to sell Obama as “Black but not like Jesse.” Obama played by the white-supremacist rules. He callously threw his classically “bad Black” preacher – the angry anti-racist and anti-imperialist pulpit master Rev, Jeremiah Wright – under the bus on his path to power. As president, Obama was careful not to push sensitive white racial buttons. He knew those buttons were already depressed and activated by the simple fact of his technically Black identity. President Obama steered respectfully clear of specifically Black issues and spoke in consistently color-blind words – this while protecting the power and wealth of white Wall Street overlords and advancing the white imperial project around the world, with a special new level of expansion into Black Africa.

Along the way, Obama kept alive the longstanding Black-bourgeois and white-pleasing, neo-Urban League habit of lecturing poor and working-class Blacks (“cousin Pookie” and the rest) on how to be more respectable and white. He hectored Black Americans on their need to think and act in personally responsible and culturally appropriate, Caucasian-comforting ways so that they could avail themselves of all the great “opportunity” supposedly afforded by America’s purportedly color-blind capitalist system – a system that candidate Obama absurdly described in his deeply conservative 2006 campaign book The Audacity of Hope (its title crassly stolen from the forsaken Reverend Wright) as the source of “a prosperity that’s unmatched in human history.”

Back to sports. Behold the hot white ugliness of the openly racist U.S President Donald Trump’s recent statements on the National Football League (NFL). Speaking to the heart of his racist white base in Alabama last week, Trump went off against Black professional football players who have been kneeling during the U.S. National Anthem to protest the nation’s murderous racist police state. Trump also railed against some of the NFL’s mild efforts to curb deadly concussions – this despite the overwhelming evidence that the sport is producing a generation of men with CTE and other brain illnesses:

“Wouldn’t you love to see one of these NFL owners, when somebody disrespects our flag, to say, ‘Get that son of a bitch off the field right now. He is fired. He’s fired! [Applause]. You know, some owner is going to do that. He’s gonna say ‘that guy disrespects our flag, he’s fired.’ …They’ll be the most popular person in this country….”

“The NFL ratings are down, massively…Because, if you hit too hard: Fifteen yards [penalty]! Throw him out of the game! They are ruining the game. Look, that’s what they want to do. They want to hit. They want to hit. It is hurting the game!”

“But you know what’s hurting the game more than that? When people like yourselves turn on television and you see those people taking the knee when they are playing our great national anthem…If you see it, even if it’s just one player, leave the stadium…Just pick up and leave. Pick up and leave. Not the same game anymore, anyway.”

F: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! Amerikkkkans are idiots

This was quite a remarkable little racist tirade. What’s it all about? Here’s my basic breakdown of Trump’s football comments on social media yesterday:

Black males are like 6% of the U.S. and 70% of the NFL rosters.

The big plantation Boss and open racist and white-nationalist Donald Trump wants them to STFU and the league to drop any concerns it might have been forced to have about the brain damage that all too naturally and obviously results from repeated high-speed collisions on the nation’s holy gridirons.

Much of the white-nationalist NFL’s disproportionately affluent and very disproportionately white (I’m guessing 85% plus in the stands) and Trumpian (pre-fascist) fan base froths along. Basically they want their good Black athletes to just blood-sport each-other to death without complaint.

“Entertain us and shut up. This is your role. Hike! Oooh, did you see that hit? Wow. Hit him again harder, harder… Here come the stretchers…okay get that son of a bitch [Trump’s actual term for Black players who kneel to protest the murderous U.S. racist police state] off the field and a new one in. Let’s go.”

Basically they want racist dog and cock-fighting. How badly Trump wanted to insert the word “Black” before “son of a bitch” into his Alabama football rant! If anything, the applause he got would have been amplified if he had.

The militantly and viciously white president and his fellow white nationalist Amerikaner football fans want the players to be “good Blacks,” the types who just obediently damage themselves while dutifully serving the white majority and their direct white masters.

Colin Kaepernick, a highly skilled quarterback who has been Black-listed by the white nationalist NFL’s owners, is another in a long line of public Black personalities who crossed the line from “good” and entertaining Black to “bad Black” when he dared to make a modest public statement against racism – in his case against the murder of Black people by white police officers across the U.S.

Personally, I say screw the orange-tinted beast and the NFL’s racist white fans. Let them suit up and go bash each-other’s white nationalist brains out in the stadium parking lots.

These privileged Caucasian Coliseum crowds belong in giant Re-Education camps with posters of Frantz Fanon, W.E.B DuBois, Martin Luther King, and Malcolm X staring down on them while they manufacture wind turbines and solar panels from sunup to sundown. Their big planet-cooking and mind-numbing SUVs and flat screen televisions should be seized from coliseum parking lots and suburban McMansions to be melted down and recycled into water, wind, and solar technology.

The task of guarding them and directing their efforts on behalf of livable ecology could be a big “ex-offender re-entry jobs program” for millions of Black Americans previously marked for life with newly expunged felony records by the New Jim Crow.

That would be some change I could really believe in.

Full story: Counterpunch

#amerikkka #nation of lawless nazi psychopaths #donald trump #colin kaepernick #nfl #white supremacy #war propaganda

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seabeechick-blog1 · 7 years

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Story of a “Bee”

I have never been so far from home, as I was when I set foot onto the scorched, arid, sands of Kuwait. When I stepped off the C-17, the heat engulfed me; the domineering wind pelted my face with stinging pellets of dust particles, threatening my eyes. I was corralled with the rest of my battalion in a holding place just outside of camp. Hurry up and wait. A phrase learned early in one’s military career. We were surrounded by camo-covered bunkers; the cobalt sky peeked through tattered overhangs, and the sound of large aircraft engines screamed in the background. This was the rest stop on our way to where we would spend the next six months of our lives, Afghanistan.

I am a Seabee. Not many know what that word means, but I am very proud to be associated with this group. The Bees are the construction force of the Navy. We are called on for a myriad of duties, humanitarian relief, rebuilding nations after natural catastrophes, and assisting on and off the battle field. We are trained in combat, and our motto is “We build. We fight.” On this deployment, our battalion had many missions to accomplish, but I was assigned to the water-well team. My crew was tasked with drilling for water in a land known for desiccation. We knew it would not be a cakewalk, but we were eager to undertake the tasks apportioned to us.

“Line it up!” our company commander ordered. It was time to issue weapons. As I awaited my turn, I felt a sting of nausea in the depths of my abdomen. I took my clammy hand and swept cold sweat off my brow. The realization of where I was and what I was doing was setting in. I had been suppressing my anxiety about deploying to a war zone for the past four months. I felt there was no use in worrying about it, but at that moment all the fear of uncertainty engulfed me. The feeling lasted a moment. One of my best abilities, which I am very grateful for, is to be able to adapt to any circumstance as it presents itself. There are many different levels of fear; we as humans are perceptive of this emotion to assess life and death situations, and fear can be useful. I have had a great many “sphincter-puckering” moments, and it seemed that during those times, I performed my best. I took my M16 in my hands; it would become a part of me, another extremity. After attaching and adjusting my sling, I moved on to explore the camp we were occupying.

Kuwait, at the time I was there, was not an immediate danger zone. It was a bit more relaxed. There was not much to look at, surrounded in the middle of no-where, just sand and dust as far as you could see. The facilities were somewhat built up, and there were running toilets and working showers, always a plus. Since we were in transition, we had a bit of down time. I used this time to sleep, because it was too hot to do much of anything else, and once we laid boots on the ground in Kandahar, we would be lucky if we got a full five or six hours of uninterrupted slumber. We stayed in Kuwait for a couple of days, and before we knew it, we were shuffling onto a C-130, an in-country aircraft definitely not made for human comfort.

We piled into the military’s airborne workhorse and sat decked out in full gear. Our bullet-proof vests weighed about fifty pounds and left little room in between us. We looked as if we were no more than cargo, neatly stacked together between the meshwork. These plane rides always felt the longest: no way of stretching out, no way to rest our heads, and definitely no in-flight movies. We flew into Kandahar, Afghanistan, at night. The flight was dark, and after a bumpy 2 ½ hours, we were wheels-down. As I stepped off the aircraft, the cool night air surprised me. I realized how little I knew about this country. I assumed we would be constantly sweating from the heat of a tenacious dessert land. The reality of our surroundings was that of a mountainous range. The valleys, encumbered with infertile rock and soil, allowed the dust to haze and form thick clouds around the base. Once we all departed the plane, we were herded into a small building; this is where we would hear the in-country brief, a lecture of what would be expected of us, and all the rules we needed to know before we could set up camp. This made for a very long night. It was somewhere around 2 a.m., when we finished the brief and set out for our accommodations.

We entered the area where our battalion would be housed; at least, we were in somewhat hardened buildings and not tents. Each small room contained a unit for heat/air and a couple beds with real mattresses, not just canvas cots. For my team, we would only get to have these luxuries for a few weeks. I located my room, and even though a female in the military does have perks, there are so few of us that we are able to spread out. I almost always had my own room, where the men would have to share with two or three others. Tiny lodgings piled high with all their gear, makes for an incredibly uncomfortable stay. I did not envy them. Finally, we settled down for a few hours of sleep, and too tired to grasp the realization of where I was, I instantly passed out.

“DDDDDDDDDDDD……d d d d d d,” The sound flung me from my coma. I never heard anything so disturbing. It was as if a fifty caliber machine gun had been fired outside my door. A steady stream of bullets hailed, followed by the bang of the shots piercing into a hillside. Panicked, I crouched on the floor and waited for sirens to go off, indicating we were being attacked. My mind flourished, and then my senses came to me. I was certain that the sound had come from the sky, and I knew the enemy was not equipped with that kind of weaponry. I concluded that it was a test fire from an AC-130, pissed at the fact that anyone would have the audacity to run a test at 3 a.m. I covered my head with pillows and tried to sleep. The next day, I found out that I was exactly right, a test fire. A warning would have been nice, and they could have added that to the briefing when we arrived! As the weeks passed, I would like to say that I got use to these insufferable echoes rattling in my head night after night, but I never did, not even a little.

Although we were trained on what to do during rocket and mortar attacks, the first experience of an actual occurrence of one can be confusing and alarming. I thought that when I would hear the sirens in the country for the first time, I would hear the typical shrill sound of loud obnoxious horns. Instead a very polite, British accented, female voice broadcast over the intercom system. Along with sirens, “Rocket Attack…..Rocket Attack…..Rocket Attack.” It was eerie. All I could think about was playing the video game Resident Evil, a similarly creepy voice is used to guide you through a slew of flesh eating zombies. In the moment of time I was in, everything felt a bit apocalyptic.

The drill is to, at first sound of the alarm and no matter where you are, lie face down on the ground and cover your head with your hands. After two minutes pass, run to the nearest bunker. The bunkers were slabs of concrete squared together to make small tunnel-like encasements. Everyone piled into them. Sometimes, we were sandwiched in. After the, now all too familiar, mysterious woman called “All Clear,” we would have to find our leaders and be accounted for. At times, we would be hit two or three times a night. The base was so big that most of the time we did not know where the attack occurred. It was easy to quickly become complacent. After a week on the base, a rocket attack was more of just an annoyance than a scare. This complacency would follow me to other bases I traveled to in Afghanistan. However, I would learn how that thinking can get us hurt or worse.

Our first mission was to drill a well on a remote Romanian camp, nearly 100 miles from Kandahar. This distance seems meager when I think of traveling on U.S. roads, but when faced with driving down narrow, unimproved highways with the challenge of keeping a long convoy of trucks, trailers, and equipment together, and not knowing if we would run over an improvised explosive device (IED) that 100 miles can take hours. I was tasked to drive a seven-ton flatbed truck, over loaded with twenty-tons of steel pipe, and hauling a huge air compressor trailer. With all that weight, I could only accelerate up to sixty mph at best.

We left our home base, before any respectfully sane person would be awake, and slowly shoved off into the murky, dark morning. Our route took us through a few small villages. As we passed, children would run along the road after us, waving and giving a thumbs up signal. It was not a gesture of welcome. I soon realized they were motioning us to throw water to them. It made me think of the parades enjoyed by thousands in America, where loads of trinkets and candy are tossed into the crowd of happy onlookers. We were no parade, and there was no denying the desperation on the dusty, emaciated faces of those kids.

Once the sun ascended to its perch unleashing the unrelenting heat of the day, the road quickly became animated with small rusty cars and mopeds that death-defiantly dodged in and out of traffic. There were donkeys, sluggishly trotting along the highway, and what are known as “jingle trucks,” vibrantly decorated, piled to the sky, and brimming over with any material imaginable. It was a comical sight and seemed to violate the laws of physics. When we were not avoiding collisions with the assortment of traffic, we were trying to focus on what we trained for. We knew of the possibility that any part of that broken, depleted highway could explode. Keeping our minds focused on the possible threats interring beneath the surface, especially after hours in a stifling, uncomfortable truck, can be the greatest challenge.

Our final stint of the journey ended at the top of a large plateau, after making it up a steep, treacherous incline, and all of our vehicles and equipment made it to our destination. We parked and off-loaded the immediate necessities and found our way to the barracks. The relatively small base had plenty of unused accommodations, but the catch was the water trucked in once a week was scarce. We had plenty of bottled water for drinking, but showers and running toilets were a luxury. It just so happened that the nearest port-a-potty was a five minute walk away. I remember the first time I woke up in the middle of the night, with an urgency to go, as if I were holding back Niagara Falls. I opened the door ready to “Forest Gump it” to the latrine. I was so enamored with discomfort, I hardly noticed the three inches of snow blanketing the ground.

About fifteen feet from the door, I had to assess the situation and came to the conclusion that the only solution was to hunker down in the closest bunker and handle nature. Come to find out the guys were doing the same thing all the time. I took note that if an imminent attack were to happen, I would steer clear of that bunker. For the next few weeks, we worked around the clock in shifts. The weather turned cold, then frigid, and we endured thunder-snow, and half of the time our equipment froze over. When drilling water wells, mud is used to keep the bits cool and flush out the debris from the hole. It is made from water and chemicals and looks like mud. We were covered in it, head to toe every night. It was difficult to stay dry, and when the temperature drops to a -2 degrees F., we had no choice but to continue the mission at hand. We called this “embracing the suck.” The best we could do was to keep the coffee flowing and our little burn barrel near the worksite blazing.

There were many unpleasant discomforts on top of that hill, but I will never forget the peace and solitude I felt on some nights. I never felt so close to the universe, as I did on that tranquil, discreet minute base. The night sky shrouded me with twinkly little treasures. It reminded me of how insignificant we are in the big picture of life. It reminded me that mankind and all of his accomplishments could be wiped out in moments, and no one out there would be the wiser, of all the knowledge we acquired, all the wars we fought, the lives lost out of ignorance and hate, all the great writings, art, leaders, and heroes, just gone. It was in that humbling moment that I questioned humanity. “Are we really a superior species? Is this the best we can do?” The undeniable truth is that the world is full of suffering, violence, greed, and ignorance. We have a long way to go until we can truly be superior; it would take humans maximizing their individual potential, and then collaborating together, in order to discover what we are truly capable of.

We completed our mission in about a month, and by this time, the brief winter season was giving way to the sweltering desert heat. We had effectively drilled through some of the worst conditions imaginable, and our well was very successful. Finding water in a place known for desiccation brings a sense of accomplishment and pride. I feel grateful to have been a part of that mission. Maybe, this was only one well, but it would bring life sustaining water to hundreds of people. We packed our trucks and waited for our security team to escort our convoy back to Kandahar. Our next mission would not be as simple.

Our convoy arrived safely at our home base; we were welcomed by the unmistaken aroma of a radiating cesspool, commonly known to base locals as, The Poo Pond. On warmer days, its stench could reach well outside the base. Passers by the pond can take a photo on the make-shift beach where a fake life guard post sits along with a few plastic pink flamingos. I ran a couple of 5k races that seemed to be close to the pond, and when the wind hit just right, my eyes would burn, and I would have to bend over in dramatic dry heaves.

It was several weeks before we heard of another well that we would be tasked with. This time it was considered high priority and turned into a critical operation. We had less than a couple of days to ready all of our equipment and supplies. The location would be a small Army post deep in the mountains. Our crew would not be driving on the convoy, as we did the prior mission; this time we were to fly out on a C-130, land at a remote camp, and await a Chinook helicopter to take us to another location where a smaller chopper would drop us at our destination. We base hopped. Our crew was split up, and we were stuck at one base for a few days at a time. The excitement of the journey was wearing thin, as we were told to be ready to fly and drag all of our gear to the loading dock, wait for hours, only to be told that the flight was postponed for a day.

One of the bases we were stranded on was a hotspot. My roommate and I just found our hooch where we would be set up, and we had yet to check our surroundings, find showers, and the latrines. Exhausted from the trip, we decided to lie down first. It was then that a colossal force threw me off of my cot, and I landed awkwardly on the floor, but my vest and helmet were right beside me. I put them on and grabbed my rifle. The sirens were now coming into focus, but I did not notice that my hearing temporarily was disabled. The rocket hit about fifty meters from us. Our next move was to find the nearest bunker, which would not have been an issue, had we gotten our bearings when we first arrived. Instead, we were too worried about resting. We had no clue where the protective bunker was. As the only females on our crew, we were separated from the men’s barracks. They did not know where we were and vice versa.

We finally found a bunker, and one of our guys happened to be there, too. He had been searching for us. After the all clear, our leaders decided it would be safer if we stayed together. That particular base was known for assaults, a danger for any woman where ever she goes in the military, but here, there were reports of attacks even on men. This is difficult to imagine when everyone is carrying a loaded weapon. When joint operations with several other countries are involved, no one can be too careful. Our crew had become a family, so sticking together was the safest plan. We spent the next couple of months in close vicinity.

After a week, we finally made it to the tiny base. We were there, but all of our equipment and supplies were still en-route. We did not know when they would arrive; unfortunately, it would not arrive for a couple more weeks. Everything up until this point had been moving so fast, the work was steady and tiring, and there was not much down time. Now that everything was on hold, homesickness was consuming me. As a mother of two children, being away from my babies never gets easier. I was free to let myself dwell on everything I was missing out on at home. What holidays would pass? What school performances would I miss? Would I get to hear their voices on Mother’s Day? The outpost we were on did not have much for communicating back home. It was very difficult to receive mail; anything sent to us would be held at home base until we got back. I could not wait to start drilling.

The convoy arrived mid-morning, and it was more than relieving. We set up our drill site in record time; we did not waste a moment getting started. Everything was back on track. The weather was cooperating with us as well. The sun shined most days, and the nights were clear; we did not need a flashlight to get around. A few of us would hang out in the trucks at night and watch movies on our laptops. One night, we were interrupted by a firefight. The entrance was attacked. It was safer to stay in the armored trucks, so we sat there and watched as fifty-caliber rounds flew above us. It was terrifyingly beautiful. I put my headphones on to drown out the sounds of the machine gun blasts and watched in dismay and wonderment. When the fight was over, we were told that while the base was under fire, an IED hit an Army convoy not far from us. They did not give details, but we knew someone was mortally wounded; it is base policy to turn off all communications until the family is contacted. Again, we were reminded of our surroundings; that could have been any of us out there. The next day, we were back at work, with even more of a drive to complete this mission.

After another month of slimy mud, grit in my mouth, eye-stinging sweat, along with perseverance and commitment to duty, we finished the job. Another success. We wrapped up and awaited the chain of helicopter rides back to Kandahar. The deployment would soon come to a close, and our entire battalion, around five hundred people would all make it home safely. We were fortunate to be unscathed; however, we were changed. Soldiers who serve their country, in whatever form that may be, have their own stories. I would go back and do it all again, if that was needed of me. Going into a war zone, not knowing what will happen at any given moment, made me grow as a human. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to volunteer with my fellow Seabees, to do our part for our country. War is never a good thing. It breeds hatred, lies, conspiracy, and death. Some frown upon the military and what they do. I am thankful to be able to tell this story; it is only a small example of the many challenging, rewarding things the military does. I am proud to have served with the men and women who signed their lives away, so others would not have to.

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realitycrazy2017-blog · 7 years

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Russia and the Hazard to World News Order

New Post has been published on https://realitycrazy.com/russia-world-news/

Russia and the Hazard to World News Order

The retrogression of the previous day displays on ultra-modern inefficiencies even as ultra-modern uprightness shows how progressive the next day can be. The judgment of days before now supply a sense of path for cutting-edge huge social and political calculations.

This piece is to mirror on several problems around the sector of these days which yesterday become not able to address, right here we check World innovative governance and retrogression due to diplomatic inefficiencies which bring about World security project and management failure that makes people prone to the entire sport of worldwide politics.

the day prior to this has not been forgotten, the cold struggle experience serves as a lesson for us the young humans of nowadays to analyze from. It is obvious that today have not repented from the error and have an effect on of the past negligence and failures which make the destiny difficult to be predicted and vindicated from International political aggression due to occasions that unfold each day.

As a young guy of Nineteen Thirties and an innovative democrat, I have not seen non-violent resolutions to the sector most distorted aggression which has besieged our World of inequalities right into a conclusive metamorphosis, this is because of grievances harbored by person, race, ethnic, tribe, nations and governments, a trade of government always end result to a change of tactics, guidelines, and disaster.

The Chance from the Japanese Europe to the northern part of Asia, restiveness inside the Center East to the North Africa, leadership failure and negligence in Africa that has bedeviled that location for so long which now have extreme social, economic and political consequences in Africa these days. I’ve no longer seen a change the world deserves to make certain peace and security without Hazard to lives and belongings irrespective of the region, race or faith. We constantly cry for alternate, combat for trade in spite of our blood and resources, but trade is genuinely deceit because human minds are very risky and may in no way reflect the so-referred to as trade principles, Arab Springs are accurate examples, trade by no means works the manner we assume. Now motives…

battle from beyond reflects on the latter a part of human exigencies which preserve to make the susceptible greater susceptible and determined to contend at the same time as the strong tends to be greater powerful and domineering. Now, what’s the hassle of the world? This missive is to reiterate at the speech delivered with the aid of former U.K High Minister Overdue Mrs. Margaret Thatcher at John Findley Basis Lecture on 9th March 1996 at West Minster College, Fulton M.O. This re-awakening speech caught my interest even as I used to be analyzing speeches made with the aid of top political and government officers.

The speech titled “New Chance for Antique” emphasized the phenomenal of the arena political and protection demanding situations and the role performed by way of Western World to ensure peace and protection. The audacity and prowess of this gallant political chief had been second to none, that’s why her function culminated the nerves of the Western power play inside the International political stability.

what’s the problem of the arena? Is it our social variations? our political make-ups?, our faith and ideals?, or our color and race?. Is it as a result of stubborn leaders that makes themselves monarchs on the humans, ruling by means of concord and by humiliation? Or domineering energy of the West that wants to put into effect democracy on the relaxation of the arena? There ought to be motives to the sector hassle, however, the manner out might not be a ways-fetched.

The energy encrypted speech of Madam Thatcher targeted on tackling international aggression. She made emphasis on the speech of Winston Churchill at equal Fulton where the former U.Ok, High Minister solely spoke approximately Global’s balance not lengthy after 2nd World war. The speech changed into introduced as a result of the effects of those wars and the world maximum adversaries.

Closer to the quit of that amazing struggle, The wartime allies had solid new international institutions for put up-struggle co-operation. There was in those days fantastic optimism, now not least in the United Country, approximately a Global without battle presided over benevolently through bodies just like the United countries, the IMF, the arena Bank, and the GATT. however, the high hopes reposed in them have been increasingly more upset as Stalin Lowered the Iron Curtain over eastern Europe made no mystery of his global targets and became an antagonist in preference to an ally.

Churchill’s speech here changed into the first critical caution of what changed into afoot, and it helped to wake up the whole West. The Churchill speech bore wealthy fruit inside the new establishments forged to bolster the West towards Stalin’s assault. The Marshall Plan laid the rules for Europe’s submit-struggle economic recovery. The Truman Doctrine made undeniable that we would withstand communist subversion of democracy.

The North Atlantic Treaty Employer mobilized The USA’s allies for mutual protection against the Soviet Steamroller. Stalin had overplayed his hand by means of trying to destroy worldwide co-operation, he succeeded in stimulating it along with extra realistic lines and not simply via Western “bloodless battle” establishments like NATO.

As the West recovered and united, growing in prosperity and self-assurance, so it also breathed new life into some of the primary set of putting up-battle institutions just like the GATT and the IMF. without the Russian to obstruct them, these bodies helped to usher in what the Marxist historian, Eric Hobsbawm, has ruefully christened the Golden Age of Capitalism.

today, we’re at what will be much like previous struggles, the long twilight conflict of the cold war ended about four many years ago with a whole victory for the West and for challenge humans of the communist empire. It ended amidst excessive hopes of “A new World Order”. but those hopes were grievously upset through preceding activities taken region internationally. Bosnia, Somalia, Sudan, Mali and the upward thrust of Islamic militancy all point to instability and conflict rather than co-operation and harmony.

Thatcher explained more on the reasons and have an impact on of these wars on International political balance. She frankly said that the different between “the West and the relaxation is primitive political ideologies, that have been extinct in Western Europe and The USA for 2 generations”, this truly approach the political mentality and belief of the West is certainly specific from the rest of the arena that is a chief player in Global social and political instability.

The West are extra organized while others grasp behind, the West are of strengthening political empirical even as others are simply monarchical. The West with high moral challenges characterized by lack of moral field that is, in reality, bizarre in other regions. Once a person from the opposite part of the arena receives familiar with Western madness, he’ll think that his subculture is primitive and of no values, this is why Putin stood towards identical-intercourse marriage madness.

Furthermore, we examine in tremendous methods which can have a positive effect on our lives and society as leaders, no longer to be stimulated by way of the incorrect practices. maximum Western gestures are deceptive in nature and are of enslavement in spite of a lot-emphasized profits. While you stand at the alternative aspect, you come to be an enemy of the West; It’s a truth that the entirety is in two ways. We’ve high quality and bad which makes lifestyles to works, Once the effective is lively, the negative turns into supportive to make the positive effective. In case that poor refused to co-operate, the fantastic will overrule the poor either via cohesion or via submission. in the case of nowadays, the tremendous appears to be the West at the same time as the poor are looking to scramble upon the robust of the tremendous with their aggression.

The speech of Mrs. Thatcher indicated the fact that if the West didn’t police the arena, the situation will get out of hand, the upward push of global extremist and Islamic militants are symptoms. The worldwide bodies, in which our hopes were reposed anew after 1989 and 1991, have given us neither prosperity nor protection. There is a pervasive anxiety approximately the glide of activities. It stays to be seen whether or not this technology will respond to those pervasive threats because U.N negotiations and peace deals are becoming ineffective.

Based on the relative occasions of the beyond and happenings of nowadays, trust is one significant element missing in the Global political and monetary affairs. United states of American foreign regulations are constantly beneath the question of considering at the same time as no one can predict the location of Russia in International politics. A revival of Russian strength will create new problems, much like the sector turned into struggling to cope with issues which the soviet crumble has itself created outdoor the Vintage borders of the United states of America.

While the Soviet electricity broke down, so did the control it exercised, but fitfully and irresponsibly, over rogue states like Syria, Iraq and Gaddafi’s Libya. They have in impact been launched to commit anything mischief they desire without bothering to check with their palms supplier and Bank supervisor however nowadays the game has modified with the impact of the West.

The Soviet collapse has continually irritated the single most awesome Risk of current instances of the proliferation of guns of mass destruction. those guns obtained by Middle-earnings countries with modest populations which include Iraq, Iran, Libya, Syria. China and North Korea also do sell out those guns too, but most ominously from Soviet arsenals, or unemployed scientists, or from organized criminal earrings, all through a way of a growing international black marketplace.

Consistent with Stephen Hadley, former President Bush’s assistant secretary for worldwide security policy he said “by way of the stop of the last decade, we ought to see from international locations with ballistic missiles, nine with nuclear guns, 10 with biological weapons and as much as 30 with chemical weapons, which is now being used by rogue nations.

Now, whether Syria of today surrenders her chemical weapon to the U.N as being proposed with the aid of her defense u. S . Russia, the aggression still keeps because neither Russia, Syria nor other rogue States can be relied on. these new threats to the arena security are even greater severe that different extremist nations might be piling up strategies to use their weapons whenever, both against their personal human beings, friends or the relaxation of the sector. The West has to address numbers of possible adversaries, every with exclusive traits. In some cases, their mentality differs from the West even more than those of Old cold conflict enemy. So the capacity for the false impression is notable and there must be clear thoughts about strategic intentions, and just as clear in signaling these ability aggressors.

The warfare for the sector superpower maintains between the slight and extremist, an act of policing the world via the West guarantees peace and safety. As Mrs. Thatcher bluntly recalled that the dissolution of the former America will birth the emergence of worldwide’s aggression via an extreme brotherly love of foreign coverage and alignment of the Islamic militants wherein terrorism and abuse of energy are at its top. Russia has always been a competition to the West, the previous bombardment of Georgia, diplomatic rift with U.K and recent guide for Assad amidst International’s condemnation of Syrian chemical attack on her people and invasion of Crimea in Ukraine were clean indications.

United states have always been trying to coddle Russian competition and aggression and feature had numerous romances with Russia on treaties which consist of Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaties which become signed through each country. this is to stress down the diplomatic tensions which could end result to the Global safety problem. The accusation of who is spying who has always been traded between both international locations in the past which each international locations had been looking to manage their diplomatic exigencies however in no way relent at the cost of their foreign regulations.

at the same time as Putin admitted that he had an optimistic and meaningful dialogue with Obama over Syria however in no way had a conclusive settlement, this become an indication that talks can’t be ruled out in the International political sport but won’t be absolute technique to Global disputes for each the moderates and extremist to include. Obama reiterated his coverage of finishing wars not to begin them, however, the state of affairs in Syria calls for navy intervention which Putin bluntly hostile. constructive discussions and negotiations can by no means end in Global politics even as diplomatic conspiracy will always have its manner, it’s why the sector will hold to stay on the perpetual Danger.

In 2013, Russia paraded her military hardware with President Putin in attendance to witness the USA’s stunning show of army may, the largest because of the days of the Old Soviet regime, concerning 160,000 troops and 5,000 tanks throughout Siberia and the far eastern area. At Lake Baikal, a hundred thirty fight plane and dozens of Russia’s pacific fleet ships took component. The USA’s Deputy defense Minister, Anatoly Antonov said, “it’s far a part of regular combat training and not directed against any precise kingdom. Main whilst, in 2012, distant places sales of Russia military hardware topped the 11billion euros mark a documented parent and surpassing all forecasts by way of round half of 1,000,000 euros. Russian Newsgroups quoted President Putin as saying u . S . A .’s defense enterprise additionally sealed export contracts really worth some other eleven.3billion euro for 2012. The Information confirms Russia as the sector’s second hands exporter after the U.S. Russian government additionally has unveiled a bold palms modernization application that envisages spending over 20 trillion rubles (400 billion pounds) on new weapons through 2020.

Now, my remark is that obtaining of guns is handiest for the reason of domineering and causing frictions in the World. Russia and her allies are the competition of the progressive mild that have to admire for humanity and the guideline of law. Russian support for Bashar al-Assad has two sided positions that are truly understood.

The current International Order has been violated, abused and jeopardized by means of Russian non-stop aggression and show of might. The invasion of Crimea can be seeing as a violation of Ukrainian sovereignty and territorial integrity which is a breach of international regulation. It is obvious that Russia does not want to be taken for a trip to the West and could do the whole lot possible to make sure distinct clarity from the West; the restrict of The united states from adopting Russian orphans is a clean example.

Whilst President Putin took back the energy from Dmitry Medvedev, in his deal with he said, “masses of Russians are dwelling outdoor Russia”, he’s decided to guard them against Western have an impact on and win them again into Russian territory. Georgian invasion was a clean example even as Crimea invasion is some other evidence of what Putin have in thoughts of forceful reclamation of Russians out of doors Russian borders, the Baltic States might be subsequent on Putin’s schedule.

The big numbers of Crimeans are not helping the state of affairs as their alliance and loyalty to Russia is more potent than that of the Ukraine while the memory of Soviet eulogies could be very sturdy of their heart.

Russia is aggrieved of Soviet crumble and could do something viable to humiliate smaller acquaintances who are not in alliance with her through her army would possibly. The method taken through Russia is well worth condemning which violate a global regulation, if Russia succeeded in annexing Crimea along with her military invasion like within the Georgia, we ought to be looking out for other stronger countries encroaching smaller nation’s territories similar to the case of Falkland Island being taken via U.Ok. This movement will end result to general anarchy and gross violation of international regulation whilst the prevailing International Order is subverted.

A brand new World Order must be in an area to prevent violation of human right and international regulation, to save you lack of lives and belongings internationally. The revel in of the beyond has to be able to guide our activities as college students of records. We can’t find the money for to permit someone to motive friction as a way to drag the sector backward and into any other conflict, there are works to do, goals to gain, economic battles to combat to make the arena a unified entity for increase and development. The U.N has a lot to do to make certain peaceful co-lifestyles, freedom of rights and privileges of all countries, and territorial integrity of smaller nations to be preserved. Training, internal democracy, freedom of speech and affiliation have to be guaranteed in all nations of the world on the way to make all and sundry equal earlier than the law.

The warring states ought to come to a peaceful resolution below A brand new World Order, the influence of faith practice can’t be undermined in a human method, but access to excellent Training can alternate human beings’ notion and questioning pattern. So, therefore, the worldwide establishments need to transfer into the movement to save you a breakdown of regulation and order instead of simply being mediators all through a crisis. If peace can be maintained, disaster may be prevented, and if a crisis is inevitable, then peace may be enforced.

The U.N should rise to place an quit to serial violence, attack on innocent souls the world over and invasion of weaker countries by using the more potent ones, the injustice meted out in opposition to individuals and opposition in the ones derailing states that have constantly led to concord and rebellion have to stop. The recent uprising throughout Arab nations is a sign of an alternate in belief and mental improvement of the people which culminates new wondering and new sacrifice for brand new management. Schooling and get entry to statistics play important roles in our gift days which additionally played the first-rate role within the rebellion, for the form of a country the brand new generation deserves. A new World Order is inevitable in making sure peace, improvement, and co-wife in our World that is dealing with populace outburst and suffering to satisfy the MDGs.

The warfare for the world energy between the moderate and the extremist has taken A brand new size, an act of policing the world by way of the West assure no greater peace and security. The State of the world recent occasions is a sign that foreign policies, hobby, negotiations and international co-operation can’t proffer technique to the world’s maximum human-made catastrophe. The rise of faith extremist, racial contentions and civil unrest the world over are indicators of failure in authorities and worldwide co-operation whereby the surge in killings and refugees has to turn out to be inevitable.

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Russia and the Hazard to World News Order

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