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secretgamergirl · 1 year

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The Entire Plot of Final Fantasy 14, with all the expansions, and some serious analysis of how good it actually is. (Part 2 - Post-ARR)

Quick heads up, there’s gonna be a bit of saucy language in a screencap of a famous quote when I get down to Shiva.

When we left off, we had just finished enduring a bunch of long-winded speeches from main villain of the thing Gaius van Baelsar, beat him up, beat his robot up, and killed some loser calle Lahabrea who at the time was possessing some loser called Thancred. And I mean I say we, but the whole point of this series of blog posts is I played this whole game to summarize it so that you, someone who theoretically values your time more than I do, can follow people’s conversations without sitting through a real freaking slog of nothing plot. You know what though? You’re going to humor me here a bit. You’re gonna get this whole damn speech.

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I honestly have kind of a love-hate relationship with this speech. First off like I said the game is structured in a way that you hear it a LOT. Normally, there’s a quick little cutscene when you enter a dungeon, another as you reach the boss, and one after beating the boss. Social etiquette says you stop and wait for anyone there for the first time to watch the cutscenes, but in this final dungeon there are some extras and they are LONG. So apparently it used to be a thing where people would just go screw it, skip those, and you’d finish your big imperial general speech to see people killing the guy who gave it and doing their victory dances, and the fix was to make just these ones in the final couple areas unskippable... and also give people huge bonuses to XP and end game loot tokens if they replayed them, so, everyone who plays the game has heard this like 50 times any any other scene probably once.

Also the content of it is worth commenting on. We get a pretty good grounding of where the evil empire is coming from, philosophically (and again, it’s pretty much just fascism), their wannabe Roman thing where they build crappy sheet metal roads everywhere they go, their regard for the rest of the world as a bunch of primitive savages, and hey credit where it’s due, from there end there’s no lines drawn between the various races that count as “human” and the ones who arbitrarily don’t (because he doesn’t count any of them as human... side note “pure-blooded” imperials have “a third eye” or at least claim to, from where I sit they just have a weird habit of embedding gemstones into their foreheads). There’s also a bit in here about “your leaders” being just as bad and doing the whole god summoning thing which... really feels like a 1.0 thing.

See there’s this whole Zodiac of 12 gods, you pick one as a patron when making your character, and in that end of 1.0/intro movie cutscene, Louisoix does in fact do the standard summoning thing, and that actually really should come up as an issue. Spoiler alert though, the writers totally forget about this until the end of the 4th expansion when they have a character break the 4th wall to remind you that not-for-lack-of-trying but they haven’t resolved EVERY dangling plot thread and “the twelve” we’re still gonna get to. Also honestly, every head of state you deal with seems to be a pragmatist with no real use for religion (except Kan-E-Senna with her weird communing with elder tree monster gods thing), and while your party, AKA the Scions, do have kind of a religious bent, it’s all about Hydaelyn the Mother Crystal, the big space rock from the start of the game which also gives you some divine intervention in the final boss fight. Anyway for now we’re hand-waving the importance of any of this because one of the moons exploded, Bahamut busted out, blew up like half the world map, and sure Louisoix did some sort of summoning thing but whatever he summoned was only around for a few seconds and everyone present has a big convenient memory gap mainly to avoid the question of whether people playing in 1.0 days are still canonically that character or not, so it’s fine.

Post-A Realm Reborn

So that brings us to where we are when the very long credits finish rolling and you get slammed with like 5 interim patch teasers, most notably the one where there’s an incredibly loud roar you can hear a couple countries away to remind you that we never did address the whole world-ending-threat-that-is-Bahamut thing. On top of that though, a truckload of sidequests open more or less at once, and everyone wants to talk to you, but really the most important thing is you unlock your own Amano art style Magitek Armor and when you’re riding around in it it plays Terra’s theme, and there’s even a big snow field with a town in the distance right near where you are.

Once you’re done being a big FF6 nerd, and also over the initial novelty of having flight unlocked across the board for every base game area, allowing you to get around MUCH faster and see the jank low poly cliff tops that show these early maps absolutely weren’t designed with the assumption you could fly over them later, yeah there’s a lot of new content to check out. Just doing some quick math, before going into the endgame stuff, there are all of 7 (9 if we count the two endgame ones) mandatory dungeons and 5 optional ones, to which we are adding another 17 (only 2 of which are mandatory), and that initial count of 3 standalone boss fights against summoned gods and our final boss Ultima Weapon, we suddenly have another 22(!) boss fights added into the mix (5 of those mandatory), between stuff clearly left on the cutting room floor, lead-ins to the first expansion, and fun optional side content. And these counts are all before factoring in the randomly generated rogue-y dungeon I honestly still haven’t touched, and the “raids,” where as tradition in every one of these between-expansions periods, we have one area where there’s a string of about a dozen 5 minute bops exploring a storyline with a mix of breezy mini-dungeons and boss fights for 8-player parties (the standard size for standalone boss fights from here out), and a set of 3 sloggier dungeons you chaotically stomp through in a ridiculous 24 person mega-party. There’s also nearly no filler quests between all these new things unlocking, so the “it gets better after 50″ crowd aren’t lying or suffering from Stockholm syndrome, the game does suddenly open way the hell up the second those credits roll. BUT we’re here to talk about the plot.

So our first major concern is that no seriously, we introduced a bunch of these bad for the environment, bad for the radicalization aspect god summons we didn’t get around to killing, and need to get that done with. Oddly we start with the wildcard that is... Good King Moggle Mog XII. So moogles are a thing, this being a Final Fantasy, played here as kinda pixieish magical creatures we retcon in the first expansion most people can’t see, which is kinda weird because their main role is delivering mail for people. They also hang out in Gridania just kinda being cute and useless. Anyway they summon their god. Or, technically, they summon a recreation of a real world historical figure who they revere like a god but... yeah that still counts. So we get this weird bit where golly gee gosh we didn’t know this was bad to do, but we have to call in the designated god exterminator to fight a whimsical cartoon bunny-cat-fairy thing while listening to a delightful little song that is 100% stealing the tune of This is Halloween. It’s an entertaining change in tone from the usual stuff.

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Next we have Leviathan, but being a big sea monster you need to build a custom boss battle barge to even get to, we’ve got some buildup there, which is largely spent trying and failing to make Ascians interesting, explaining how they’ve been teaching the local fish people their trick of being bodysnatching immortals in a fun show don’t tell way, where Merlwyb shows up to lend a hand, just shoots their high priest, and he immediately takes over the body of the next mook to the left, and then just ultimately gets eaten by Leviathan because, again, human sacrifices also help them with the whole aether hoarding thing. It’s entertaining, there’ll be a quiz later. Thancred also shows up during this, doing a bunch of sick ninja flips and stabbing people, because they realized, if a bit late, we really should do something to make you like the guy who got possessed and needed rescuing. It’s something.

This also ties into some future expansion foreshadowing, where this boatload of refugees arrives from Doma (wait, the Samurai city from FF6, with Cyan, that Doma? Yes) and everyone is making this big deal about how hard it is for anyone to take them in. Then eventually after a lot of hemming and hawing they get introduced to Merlwyb and she’s just like hell yes I’ll make room in my cool pirate city for the elite ninja rebels, why the hell did you think I wouldn’t? There’s also a bit where their leader hides her face out of fear of being seen as a monster, but really it’s because she’s a not-yet-introduced race, which... playing today is available for PCs right out the gate so it seems extra silly when we get the reveal.

Anyway, Ramuh’s kind of an unimportant speed bump, so is Odin, but Shiva is kind of a special case. There’s a whole cult/terrorist organization who are fighting on team dragon in that whole elves vs. dragons war going on up north, following someone who goes by Lady Iceheart and claiming to be the reincarnation of Saint Shiva, who... OK have you seen this thing that’s been floating around the internet for years?

That is actually a very specific reference to the backstory for the whole first expansion of FF14. This terrorist gal has access to secret knowledge that despite this whole war with dragons that’s been going on forever in the region, way back when it was first settled some elf lady fell in love with this big dragon and everyone lived in harmony until sometime later when some elves decided to just be huge jerks and kill one of the more important dragons. The elf pope has been covering that history up forever and insisting dragons are evil and aggressive. Terrorist gal (Ysayle) believes herself to be the reincarnation of that historical dragon-banger, and has an interesting trick where rather than externally summon a god, she personally transforms into one... and really that kinda seems to be the way to do it because if you don’t count the “I am the reincarnation of this historical figure” bit she seems pretty rational and survives boss fights against her in big ice lady form. But yeah this is all Heavensward foreshadowing. Mostly you’re just following around as her and her gang do terrorist attacks on the city off the north edge of the map (Ishgard) and slowly piece her motivations together.

But wait hold up what’s up with Bahamut? Funny story, most people who play this game don’t ever get an answer to this. What’s up with Bahamut is the subject of the first “normal raid,” The Binding Coil of Bahamut, which due to being tuned crazy hard but not showing up in the random lottery for crazy hard quests means parties for it basically never happen and you’re probably never going to see it unless you think to dip back for it later when you’re massively overleveled and turn off the normal level-adjustment thing. Which is a shame because it’s quite neat honestly, and serves as a general hub for resolving outstanding 1.0 plot threads. This also makes it weird and confusing if you’ve never played the version of the game that hasn’t existed for over a decade.

So... OK this is something I need to get into now anyway. While the retroactive overarching narrative covering this isn’t properly fleshed out until we’re a few expansions deep, the world has a very long history with a bunch of apocalypses generally called “Umbral Calamities” in it. 7 to date, specifically. Most of these really aren’t touched on, but #4 involved this ancient civilization called the Allagan Empire who were basically a bunch of ridiculously overpowers science wizards with absolutely no concept of ethics who left a bunch of rad ancient artifacts lying around. Flying continent, core modules for giant robots, cloning facilities, monster making projects, giant crystal tower, they got around. They also declared war on like whoever and were into slavery and such so they butted heads with the dragons way back when.

Dragons incidentally come from space. Their home planet got more or less destroyed by rampaging death robots, and one particular dragon called Midgardsormr (whose corpse is the most visible landmark in Mor Dhona, the area with all the imperial fortresses, thanks to a cool 1.0 cutscene) took all his personal eggs and just flew across space to find a better place to raise his kids. This mostly worked out well but Allagans gotta suck, did a lot of killing and enslaving, the dragons got desperate and did the summon thing, here’s Bahamut. He’s a real big chonky dragon god... and knowing that killing him would just lead to him getting summoned again, they did the sensible thing and built a big artificial moon as a prison for him instead. That came crashing down and busted open at the end of 1.0, and the good news is that whole bit does apparently end up with Bahamut dead after all. But, the Allagans are way into failsafes, so their pan for any eventual Bahamut summoning s to line the prison walls with torture chambers imprisoning a ton of dragons so that should Bahamut die they will of course immediately resummon him back inside the moon prison which can just restrain him again.

So... when I mentioned Alisae, one of the twins, has her own thing going on? She’s finding the main bulk of this wreck while trying to work out what happened to her grandfather, so, yeah big giant roboty moon chunk full of tortured wall dragons and a half-revived Bahamut. Also while you’re in there you find out Louisoix is less dead than advertised... but also he kinda went and turned himself into the god Phoenix and became a huge jerk, and the main imperial antagonist from 1.0, Nael van Darnus, who incidentally was kinda the one responsible for the whole “hey let’s drop the smaller moon on these primitive jerks in Eorzea” thing that lead to the whole game ending apocalypse. Nael kind of isn’t mentioned ANYWHERE in the game as is besides this raid chain, but apparently there was this whole thing with people assuming she was a guy and so it’s a big surprise to people that she isn’t here, but also she’s totally Bahamut’s slave, and has this dragon winged boss form, so it’s a bit “hey, congrats on your transition, that’s a cool new fursona you have to.” And a boss fight that’s a pain even if you are massively over-leveled. But yeah, major figures from 1.0 die, Bahamut gets a proper boss fight, you shut the whole place down. And again most people skip just ALL of this.

So... the other thing about Nael is she apparently had this very special gunhalberd (the Empire kinda loves hybridizing their weapons with guns see) that was all powered up in the process of bring-down the moon shennanigans wand for some weird reason is called Bradamante. This tied into this late in 1.0 questline about this idiot detective named Hildibrand Helidor Maximilian Manderville (Hildy for short), and his also an idiot catgirl sidekick who likes explosives. They got up to some wacky hijinx back there which end with Hildy taking Nael’s ridiculous weapon and accidentally blasting himself up to the falling Bahamut prison moon with it. He of course survives this by virtue of being a wacky comedy character prone to slapstick stuff, and has a whole long sidequest chain in each of these pre-expansion periods having various wacky shennanigans. Also his dad is like the most supernaturally strong guy in the world, the owner of... we just straight up brought in the Gold Saucer from FF7, frequently hangs out in his underwear, and moonlights as miniskirted-FF14-Santa once a year.

The Hildy stuff is WILDLY polarizing. Either these comedy quests are the absolute greatest thing in the game, or the absolute worst thing depending who you ask. Personally I think they’re pretty great overall even if some of the running gags get old fast. This is running long again, so let me see how quick I can cover the major points of this outing.

So you’re introduced to Hildy partly by way of there being a bunch of zombies off in the desert clearly imitating his whole deal. Turns out he was presumed dead after being sent into space and frozen and crashed back down and was buried, and when he crawled out of his grave he was pretty out of it, so, honest mistake. Anyway the zombies really like him and make him their king. Once that’s all cleared up he takes a new case where someone is going around stealing various priceless antique weapons from people. Also on the case is this actually competent detective named Briardien who kinda sorta works in a Miles Edgeworth sorta way, and this big friendly guy, Gilgamesh from FF5. He suggests maybe calling him “Gil” for short, and Hildy procedes to spend the next forever introducing him as Greg.

Conveniently Gilgamesh doesn’t need an excuse to be here since just kinda randomly showing up in other Final Fantasy games looking for cool weapons has been his personal running gag/superpower forever. He’s very nice and we’re doing this real idiot plot so things stretch on for an impressively long while before anyone pieces together that the big weird looking guy stealing priceless weapons everyone’s looking for is, in fact, he big weird looking guy with like a dozen weapons strapped to his back who’s been helping look for the thief. He doesn’t make the connection himself because from his perspective he never stole anything and just won all these in duels where the other person forfeit. Also he misses his friend Enkidu from 5 and named a chicken he dyed green after him. Eventually of course you end up confronting him about this while he’s checking out the biggest bridge in the world, because that song has a name, and also at one point he’s sitting next to a big pile of crystals missing non-chicken Enkidu so, a summon happens, you fight’em as a team.

Also somewhere along the way in there... Ultros from FF6 just kinda randomly shows up, along with his pal Typhon. Here there’s less of an excuse for the cameo. We literally go with “a wizard did it.” Someone was trying a summoning ritual or something and out popped this weirdo.

There’s a bunch of other convoluted stuff in this plot line, involving a face-changing thief and the eventual reveal that Ul’dah was not in fact originally the home of the horrible little capitalist scumbags, and they in fact took it over after releasing some kind of zombie plague on the original citizens. Which is a hell of a detail to only come up in the wacky comedy side stuff. But yeah, in the end, you get fun boss fights against these wacky comedy characters from 5 and 6, a lot of shenanigans happen, and Hildy kinda gets smacked off into the sky to show up again next time.

So, hey, that bit I mentioned with the Allagans making a crystal tower, AKA Syrcus Tower? That’s the huge-party raid set. It’s also just... straight up the end game of FF3. Emperor Xande, Cloud of Darkness, Amon, Doga, Unei, gang’s all here. Full disclosure, while I have played FF3, I played the 3DS port, which kinda sucks, and got to be such a slog at the end that I didn’t quite get to the pile of reference bombs we’re dropping here. Playing all of 14 is already kind of a heavy load, OK? Other entries in the series are totally on the to-play pile. But... yeah. We’re basically just straight up saying that the Allagan empire is straight up the empire from FF3, those are historical events for this game. Or a minor variation anyway. While we’re at it we’re also dumping a bunch of FF6′s backstory with the warring triad on them, they built the Ultima Weapon... “the Allagans” is the answer to a whole lot of questions. Oh and the reason we have all these named FF3 characters around is they were into cloning. And interdimensional stuff.

Anyway, big weird tower, it’s hard to get into, this big dorky catboy nerd named G’raha really wants to do some archeology though, so, Cid is on the case. There’s a bit of technobabble and grabbing magic rocks from all over, you mostly get in, but there’s a retinal scan/magic blood test. Fortunately, also on the case is Cid’s on-again off-again boyfriend/rival Nero who you... probably don’t recognize at all, because he doesn’t show up wearing his big ridiculous red helmet from his time as one of the 4 main imperial general types. I guess this technically makes him the first character who couldn’t be bothered to stay dead (or is that Hildy?), but honestly when you fight him there’s a big deal of him just kinda being gone right after the fight, so him making it out before the Ultima Weapon goes and casts Ultima and vaporizes the whole fortress seems reasonable. But yeah, he’s a semi-evil semi-nazi nerd who’s super jealous of Cid and it’s super super clear that they used to date. And will again. He’s here to try and turn over a new leaf somewhat and help get the weird tower open. And also around really conveniently are (clones of) Doga and Unei who pass the DNA scan so, hey, door works, in you go, go fight a bunch of FF3 bosses.

Eventually you kill the... clone of the evil emperor from 3/the Allagan Emperor, but oh no, we’ve got a portal to hell, AKA The World of Darkness, AKA the Void, AKA the 13th. Anyway yeah, we’re doing the full FF3 end game, gotta fight that Cloud of Darkness, gotta have some Nero oscillating between villainy hey I can use hell powers to be the greatest scientist and oh no gotta help get everyone out of here stuff, and by the end of it Doga and Unei end up giving G’raha a magic blood transfusion which boosts his own secret Allagan royal bloodline powers he secretly had and once all the hell portal/giant pile of clones stuff is sorted out, he ends up locking himself inside the tower to try and work out what the whole deal is with it.

Now at this point I need to go on a little tangent because like... he’s a catboy. FF14 in general is really unclear on the matter of whether the various playable races are separate species, or if everyone’s human and just, hey, this is a world where some humans are really tall or really short or have cat ears and tails or whatnot... but the implication here seems to be the latter? Which also gets me wondering wait, when people go around using “whoresons” as an insult... is that an in-universe slur against catboys? Because NPC wise, catgirls and sex workers match up shockingly close to 1 to 1, and when the game first launched playing as a catboy wasn’t even an option (pretty sure G’raha is introduced in the same patch allowing them, also female orcs).

Also I’m just kinda using my own informal names for all these, so, real quick breakdown for clarity. Our essentially human races save those introduced in expansions and their canon names are:

Humans (Hyur)- you’d think they’d be the default but mostly they seem to come from fantasy Tibet (Ala Migo) and fantasy Japan (Doma) which have both been under imperial occupation forever so they tend to be refugees/generally down and out.

Elves (Elezen) come from the city of Ishgard in the country of Coerthas to the north, where there’s a jerk pope and a bunch of noble houses full of jerks. A lot also live in Gridania, in the Black Shroud forest.

Horrible little capitalist scumbags (Lalafell) come from Ul’dah in the country of Thanalan and no for real they are the worst. Canonically there are maybe half a dozen in the whole world who aren’t corrupt merchants basically or actually in the slave trade, colonialists, crime lords, scuzzy pimps, or just general gross creeps. I’m sorry if you play one, individuals can be cool, but culturally yeah they’re awful.

Orcs (Roegadyn) big usually easygoing folks whose names are either Welsh or ridiculous mountain puns like Curious Gorge. A couple are major NPCs (Merlwyb being one), otherwise they seem to all be either chill retired pirates or fresh-faced adventurers.

The other orc of note is this woman named Moenbryda, who is introduced in one of the most astoundingly “we want you to instantly fall in love with this new character and feel like she was part of the gang all along” ways I have ever seen. So all the scions are just super super thrilled to see this giant woman with a giant axe who’s a giant nerd and has this “I am emphatically not straight” old friend swing by, and I mean yeah I’m not going to say she isn’t pretty instantly likeable (I mean she’s basically just a spare of my character).

Unfortunately I’m pretty media savvy and it immediately struck me that the only possible reason to try and get players to instantly fall in love with a character being introduced out of the blue like this is because the writers are really jonesing to do a big tragic death and aren’t willing to sacrifice any of our existing characters for it. I’m really compressing this down for this summary, and she’s probably actually around for a chunk of this free patches span equal to everything I’ve mentioned so far, but, yeah, that’s totally what she’s here for. Shame, really. We’ve still got a bunch of not really established yet Scions around, could have killed one of them and brought her in to fill the seat, but no.

There’s a whole big run-up to this though. Short version is there’s another one of those Ascians going around causing trouble, and big splashy end of game cutscene power aside, they tend not to stay dead when killed. So Moenbryda and Urianger (the m’lady dork in the hoodie) have a science jam session and make a special Ascian-killing device that basically makes both the target and the user’s soul explode. There’s also a bit in here where forgetable Ascian villain of the day kidnaps Minfilia, just full damsel in distress style. It sucks. Again like everything involving Ascians sucks. They’re terribly written undeveloped villains and every time one shows up we need to stop dead for a ton of exposition on what we’re even trying to do with them now. But yeah, end of the day, Moenbryda shows up, is cool and likeable, heroically sacrifices herself to kill a super unimportant villain and rescue just the worst character, everyone is very sad, especially Urianger. We move on.

Or at least in this summary we move on. In game there’s like 3 or 4 plot threads all kind of advancing at once since this was all added in over multiple patches and, yeah, it skips around and opens up some. The next important thing though is Midgardsomnr, the cool dead snakey dragon up on the tower? According to the new pals from Ishgard you met dealing with the whole Lady Iceheart thing, he’s maybe less dead than advertised. This is honestly a property dragons seem to have in general, and this dragon in particular. They don’t really seem to particularly follow the rules on the whole alive vs. dead thing. You can kill’em, it’s pretty inconvenient, but they’ll hang around as a ghost, possibly powerful enough to manifest a new body, and then you can suck out all their ghost juice and they’ll just take a nap for a while. This would be a pretty annoying thing to get into if we were setting up a new antagonist or something, but... Midgardsomnr is actually a pretty solid pal. Mostly he notices that all your divine plot armor that lets you go fight bosses and not get mind controlled has lost its juice, and offers to do a weird soul pact thing with you to cover you until that gets recharged. Plus he knows you’re going to spend the whole next expansion dealing with his kids. He also manifests this tiny cutesy version of himself you can equip in your little pet slot to hang out for the next expansion or two, who still has this deep booming powerful father of all dragons voice, so, that’s great. If weird and confusing.

Anyway, one final major plot thread to get through before the next expansion starts properly. So one thing we’re trying to do here is actually establish real character for the Scions here since they’re our in it for the long haul supporting cast. Thancred gets to hang out with ninja pals and stab a fish cult, doing some snarking, Urianger gets to be said about Moenbryda being dead and also really do the big science nerd thing beyond everyone else’s exposition dumping, Minfilia is just a lost cause, the damseling was kind of the final straw. Next on the list though is Alphinaud, the twin you officially have in your little group. He’s got this big idea that after having saved the whole continent from an evil empire and several rampaging gods, you could probably get more done as an organization if instead of just being one semi-professional god exterminator and a little over half a dozen research nerds, you had maybe your own whole private military force, independent from what are technically three city-states’ private armies in a longterm alliance. Not a terrible plan on paper, none of the heads of state have an issue, so you help recruit a bunch of vollunteers from all over. And you actually snag existing NPCs from various bars and outposts and stuff, and end up with your nice little blue uniformed pals standing guard in places and doing little missions.

Then political problems start cropping up. Mainly, a couple of those horrible little capitalist scumbags are staging some kinda coup in this weird convoluted way where on paper they’re improving life for those human refugees all over but it’s kind of a front. Have I mentioned yet I kinda love these guys as villains because they all have these goofy names like Pittlety Dittlety and it’s impossible to take them seriously? There’s also an issue where it’s becoming increasingly clear that oh hey this private army you recruited off the street might have some people in it who are kinda corrupt and working against you. Whoops. And again, this is all kinda running parallel with these other plotlines, it’s not like things go horribly the INSTANT you form your army. It’s like, at least a week later.

Anyway all the political machinations come to a head with you getting invited to a big heads of state party in U’dah to talk about future plans, getting Ishgard into the alliance mainly if I recall, stuff like that. Somewhere in there, the Sultana pulls you aside to her personal chambers to split a bottle of wine and tell you how she’s planning to get onto that short list of little capitalist monsters I actually like by abdicating her throne and establishing a democracy, so this corrupt as hell merchant council can’t run things any more. At which point the poison in her glass kicks in.

So things get real serious real quick. Dead head of state, you’re the prime suspect. It’s actually a coup staged by some awful little merchant lords. Her boyfriend/bodyguard Rauban the big ex-gladiator finds out what happened, knows damn well who’s actually responsible, cuts some little piece of garbage’s head right off while everyone’s having dinner. Oh hey, one of the highest ranking people in your personal army who are here running security is also in on all this, for the... honestly pretty understandable reason that he’s one of those fantasy Tibet refugees and the little piece of garbage was pushing for more rights for them. They fight, he cuts off Rauban’s arm. The other two heads of state kinda go “you know what? We should probably go,” which, yeah, fair. Meanwhile the whole place descends into chaos, and hey not only are you being framed for the murder, you kinda... did bring in one of the actual people who did it and all his personal goons, so, it’s time for you and your pals to get the hell out of here while basically pursued by an army.

There’s a big escape sequence, lot of those “I’ll hold them off, go” moments, most of your party goes for this last ditch “this teleport spell is almost definitely probably safe” exit, you get out on foot, end up meeting up with the same caravan driver who brought you into the game to begin with from parts unknown, and the only people you can confirm made it out besides you are Alphinaud, and Tataru, who I don’t think I’ve even mentioned yet? She’s the Scion’s secretary/bookkeeper and really not relevant to anything until you’re fleeing the country with just her and Alphinaud. Super major character from here out though so have an image. Anyway, you’re bound for Ishgard, because you did make some friends with some people up there, and they’re a super militarized isolationist nation state. Good place to lay low, and credits roll on this interlude.

So... wow that was MUCH longer of a write up than I expected it would be. Things actually move fairly briskly through all this, so you’re likely to run out of plot before you run out of fresh new dungeons/bossfights/grinding those tribal quests out. Part of what all the glacial pacing in the base game does though is repeat a bunch of setting history and groups-of-guys-whole-deals at you like 20 times, so things do at least end up pretty damn firmly anchored, plot wise.

I still wouldn’t call the plot for this end of things good though. Most characters still have nothing really established, villains don’t especially exist before they’re relevant, the whole “how to kill an Ascian for real” bit is really long-winded and doesn’t actually really come up again past there. And... I guess this is a “spoiler” of sorts for a post or two from now, but you know what else doesn’t come up again? This whole exciting coup/criminal status thing. Like mechanically you can just turn around and head right back into Ul’dah like nothing happened, which... it would suck if you couldn’t because you have to for a third of the class quests and such, but even long-term plotwise? Post-Heavensward turns out the other coup orchestrator just wanted to preserve the status quo, the poison put the Sultana in a coma rather than kill her, and he just kinda... walks the whole thing back all no-hard-feelings. Terrible decision. Nothing really sticks besides your party getting scattered around and Rauban being short an arm from here out.

Anyway, if you’re digging this whole plot summary project or just, you know, want to help me remain alive, Patreon link?

We’ll be picking this up probably tomorrow with, as they say, The Award-Winning Heavensward Expansion (which if I’m honest I didn’t actually like that much).

#final fantasy 14 #ff14 #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #greg #look don't blame me lalas are basically the british OK

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trashhole · 6 months

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get to know 9 people ask game

tagged by @deadlysoupy hi. prepare for the oversharing because I love to hear my own voice but written and have zero restraint when it comes to shutting the hell up <3

last song listened to: homiefkinbet by sunday cruise currently reading: N/A but my favorite literary work is probably jackalope wives because it's fuckin weird, really based, and I have the attention span of a goldfish. also, jackalopes are awesome. sweet/spicy/savory: probably a combination of sweet and savory because mm kbbq marinade. and pad thai. and creamy carbonara buldak ramen...and I could really go on. the only reason I don't pick spicy is because SOME people (you know who you are irls) forced me to eat fire noodles and it was an awful experience. obsessions: (prepare for big paragraph!!!) my fandoms/blorbos (it rules my life a bit TOO much), art and making art of all kinds except baking which I am notably awful at unless it's pizza, trains but mostly from a cosmetic perspective, I'm superficial that way sorry/jjj, not obssesed but friends are a big part of my life, I can get very paranoid and hysterical about my friends well being (i cried when my besties moved away because what if a meteor hits them and I never see them again I wish I was kidding rn), my chicken gf pharma obviiii, staying up until 5am and getting 4 hours of sleep because I'm nuts and have zero sense of self-preservation, tetristetristetristetris, sorry I think I forgot to say Tetris I love Tetris did I say Tetris because I love Tetris btw korobeiniki metal version slaps, loudish music, especially surf punk/surf rock, shit bangs like you wouldn't believe, anti-fascism I hate fascism passionately, LORE for anything really but especially for original work(oc's, au's original stories, fan continuities, ect), it's so cool to see what peoples brains come up with, and probably more things but I think I'll stop here so I can sleep within the hour. relationship status: single, but a funny story is once in 10th grade I decided amino dating would be a good experience and got dumped because I didn't have Roblox after like 2 weeks of dating 💀 last thing I googled: ao3 (I accidentally deleted all my Google tabs on my phone) currently working on: catching up on homework, ratchet doodle, starbee, fixing my life schedule which has been flipped upside down (i woke up at 7pm the other day 😭😭😭), being more positive, being more social, learning social skills, being cringe and free!!!!, oil painting ok end bean spilling. I don't know people so I'm just going to tag @leefyberrybread ty for the ask soupy, hope you have a great week ^^

#trashbox talk #did you guys know I'm extremely introverted #you would not gather that from this post #I hope I don't regret this when I'm mentally stable again in a month(hopeful) or like tomorrow morning which is in 3 hours and 40 minutes #ok nappy time goodnight tumbly

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cianeto666 · 5 months

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Header of a men's magazine from the early 80's. Does anyone gets the change in morals, censorship, etc., in 43 years. One can claim that these magazines were sexist - made for men's pleasure (Id Est - as a teen, wanking off). Well, that's a load of shit - society itself was more sexist and the pro-moral 'majority' was (not) satisfied by slutting down models and shaming readers/users (I'm mixing the 'then' jargon with nowadays reality. Notice the Sex, Drugs & Rock 'n Roll underline. Is this possible today (unless it's an underground fanzine? I don't think so.) And about what I said above, slut, sluttish, is not even a word that should be admitted. ANYONE can do whatever he/she wants with his own body, if not coerced. I have been in the punk/ metal scene since the mid 80's - I did engage with the sound before that, but let's say that 16 years old in the mid 80's was like manhood. Most of us, then or until the mid-90s became addicts - either to chemicals, alcohol, heroin or coke. A third of my teenage friends are dead. Even in a small country (Portugal) the offer to do nude/ porn pics existed. I was invited, but didn't do it (16 at the time), some did - both guys and girls. When the hard drugs came in, a lot of my girl friends (not as in girlfriend - pardon my English) prostitutized themselves. I guess some of my male friends also did it, but they wouldn't admit to that at the point of a gun. I don't have a single bad word for them. Only LOVE. I could have been there.

It was 1984, when I started sniffing glue, taking amphetamines and downers - even before trying hashish (that makes me paranoid) and I started drinking.

By 1990, I was addicted to heroin as (almost) all Lisbon punks.

By then, my first band (C.I.A.neto), became a chaos due to to drugs, alcohol and compulsive military service for some. A band that will disappear in history - we just recorded 2 songs for a compilation, but that was influential in the Lisbon area: 1 or 2 minutes hardcore songs, mixed with experimental jazzy/funky hardcore rock songs. And a NO MEANS NO attitude towards fascists and nazi skinheads - in the following years, after cleaning off drugs of the system and having grown muscle, my third band was decidedly Antifa - by 1995, no fuckin' nazi would even try to get inside a concert where we played.

All these are old stories. I'm an Arts Teacher now - well, mostly I teach Descriptive Geometry (10th, 11th graders love it... No, they, don't).

I'm still fighting fascism. By information, the most I can.

Sadly. I'm still fighting addiction: alcohol and benzodiazepines. I'm 53 now - for me it means it means 40 years of punk metal. In the meanwhile, I still have been an artist (painting) and studied an awful lot of History, Religions and the Occult. Also, Sociology and Marx (that deserves a chapter of his own). I'm a fuckin' walkin' encyclopedia of Rock Music! Ahahah... Of course, I'm not sobber - but hey, the homework is done and tomorrow I only begin at 12:00 AM.

The point of this was...

AH! WE ARE LIVING IN A PURITANE AGE. TRULLY!

This is not some old fuck talking gibberish. My father was (not now - he's old and sick) one of the great Modernist Portuguese Poets. I have two sisters: the older one is 58, an accomplished theater actress/director; the younger one (from a different marriage) is 27, lost girl, unsure of her feelings, uneasy with her body... Not her fault, not an education fault, but the outcome of a specific time and culture. Getting back to the photo, in 2023 ocidental society, in general, is much more puritan than what it was in 1980. Thank you, Gringos. First, I hated You because I was a communist; then, I hated You because I was an Anarchist; Then, I learned to respect everyone; Then came the Internet... And I Fuckin' Hate the way that American 'culture' and it's Puritan stance makes the rules in Social Media - that, either you like it or not, affects a large part of the world's stances, opinions, acting, etc.

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andyqwoods · 2 years

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Mansionin huomisen keikan kuvat nyt SmugMugissa värillisinä ja virallisina! . Kirjakahvila, Love Metal Hate Fascism vol. 3, Turku, 2020. . #turku #keikkakuvaaja #keikka #minifestivaali #kirjakahvila #kirjakahvilaturku #mansion #iamthemansion #metal #love #doom #cult #historicalmetal #gigpic #ishootraw #canon5dmarkiv #lorelai #on1photoraw @iamthemansion @kirjakahvila @anniinairmeli #alma #almamansion

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gallowswhump · 2 years

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T-rex?

This is an unfinished wip from an upcoming continuation to this story but man do I love this whole scene. It is very long but I love it. Since this isn't finished being edited sorry for any mistakes. From the Dinosaur Writeblr Asks.

TW: Blood, Mutilation, Hallucinations, Choking, Dead Body, Death Threat, Gaslighting, Murder, PTSD, Trauma, Domestic Abuse, Violence, Wounds, Face Mutilation, guilt, guilt tripping, betrayal, manipulation, morally gray, self hate, cold whump, environmental whump, fascism, implied brainwashing, mourning, grief, whump, angst, swearing, pain

Context: Ash has entered into the old Jedi Temple on Illum having his first force experience.

Heading deeper and deeper makes an anxious feeling come over him like he can see shadows out of the corner of his eye wherever he looks that retreat when he tries to focus on them. Along with that he can’t help but feel eyes on him, judging him. It’s the same sinking feeling he gets when he crosses paths with an Inquisitor. “Ash.” The man jumps as he hears the whisper quickly looking around for the origin. He can’t see anyone though, the cavern is silent. He carefully puts his hand on his blaster continuing further in. “Ash.” Another voice, a different one this time. He feels like he can tell where it’s coming from but even more now he thinks he needs to sit down and rest. He ignores the voice pressing on. The cave system was starting to wear on him. He turns as he feels a presence behind him there is nothing there when he turns around and so he quickly turns back only to have an overwhelming feeling of being lost. Suddenly the passage he was in opens into several and he didn’t remember there being so many options before he turned around. Ash places a hand on the wall, he closes his eyes taking deep breaths. They were ice caves, nothing more, he can not be letting so much get to his head. His vision snaps to one of the tunnels when off in the distance a voice calls out, “Ash Help!” His breathing pauses for a moment as he listens intently. He knew that voice, the sweetly deep voice of Korry. It’s not his voice, it can’t be his voice, but it sounds so close.

He doubles his resolve, “Who is there!?” He demands taking a couple of forceful steps down the tunnel that he heard the voice coming from. He tries to listen but all that can be heard is the distant sound of wind and metal hitting stone…. Metal hitting stone that was the first he had heard that. Maybe he wasn’t as lost as he thought. A mining operation could be here. He turns away from the voice he heard earlier trying to suss out where the mining sounds were coming from. He closes his eyes slowly taking steps turning in place trying to get the best idea of the sound. When he opens them a face bloody and mutilated is in front of his. He gives a shout of surprise, stumbling back the pure shock knocking him off his feet. He moves away from the figure but stops clutching at the snow on either side of him when he realizes what he’s seeing. It’s Korry, he’s in his flight uniform sans helmet. The left hand side of his face is freshly burned and bloody. That eye having a white blindness to it. Skin hangs off his bone like an animal ripped into him and his hair was patchy missing chunks.

Korry smiles, it’s his bright hopeful smile, with his state though it’s horrifying. Ash tries to control his breathing, control his heart rate but he doesn’t know what to do. What he’s seeing can’t be real. “Ash!”

“Korry?” He slides back further which turns Korry’s face to one of a confused frown.

“What’s wrong?” Ash stares in disbelief, his stomach turns into knots and it’s taking every ounce of willpower to not throw up. Korry frowns more, “Oh…I thought this is how you wanted me.”

“What?” The officer looks at him bewildered.

“You gave the order that did this.”

“No I-” Ash moves further back using the momentum to get to his feet. He had to be Hallucinating, there must be something in the air causing this.

“No?” Korry’s brows furrow. “It was an order. I made sure you gave it twice... Why did you do this Ash? We could have left, I asked you to leave.” Ash doesn’t have an answer, this wasn’t happening, this wasn’t real. He turns and starts running, not caring where he was going; he just needed to get away.

His nightmare wasn’t over yet though as he was running he found himself sliding to a halt as another figure stood in his way. A Sathari the burn of a blaster bolt straight through her head. An image that has forever been burned into him. “Kari,” Breathlessly as a reflex before he takes a step back looking over her.

She’s more reserved than Kari. Tears are already rolling down her face, “Ash why did you have to kill me?”

“There wasn’t another option,” The answer is reflexive before he covers his mouth.

“There were other options, all of them just meant leaving the Empire.” He shakes his head and turns away; he can't hear this. “Or were you just scared of what I could turn into?” He snaps his head back to look behind him. Kari had changed; she was no longer the cheery bright bird he knew her as, nore the image of her corpse that was seared into his memory. She was dressed from head to claw in black and red with clear markings of the inquisitors. A pointed mask to accommodate her beak. Ash’s eyes widened and he stumbled away from her as a flick of her wrist revealed a red lightsaber. He rushes forward into a full run. The thoughts from the rational part of his brain were lost. This felt so real he just had to get away.

He stumbles through the snow, his muscles screaming in pain especially since he had very little rest from the crash he was just in. Even worse is the longer time ticked on the longer it had been since his last actual sleep. He doesn’t even know if he’s being chased but he doesn’t want to look back. The thought of Kari as an inquisitor was a harrowing one. Kari was so kind and full of life. There was no doubt that would have been her fate if he hadn't… the thought is lost as he slides down a slope turning and pressing his back into a side opening just to catch his breath. Cold air rakes his insides as he catches his breath. It didn’t even feel like he was taking in air, just drowning in pure ice. He coughs and sputters when he regains his senses he hears an echoing voice Korry’s again. “Were you scared of what I could become?”

“Please just stop!” He looks around and out of the shadows steps Korry again. This time he was older, just the slightest hint of stubble, dressed in the full orange uniform of the rebel pilots.

“What are you scared of Ash?” He turns away shaking his head.

“You’re not real, this isn’t real.”

“You’ve been running away from the end, but which end do you want?” Korry steps to the side of the passage welcoming Ash further as it seems the passage lightens. He hesitantly steps forward before remembering what potentially is behind him. He walks forward finding himself faced with three bodies covered in cloth. He checks behind him and the Rebel Korry is still there stepping between him and where he had just come from. He doesn’t want to check but he feels compelled, kneeling next to the first one on the left hand side. He turns his head in disgust as soon as he pulls the cloth back. It was himself wearing white flowing clothing. His arms crossed over his chest. He takes a look again covering his mouth. This double had gone gray at the temples. Older maybe by well hopefully twenty years. Though Ash was distinctly aware of the fact he had already started to dye his hair at the roots. He turned over the medal with the rebel symbol embossed on it. For Superior service was etched into the back and Ash scowled in disgust pulling the sheet crassly back over the corpse. He glanced back for just a moment at the figment of Korry. The man was watching with interest but those big expressive eyes didn’t hide any of the hurt that was there. This wasn’t the real Korry, there was no reason to feel bad, for his heart to sink to think he caused that. He did however step to the next one. It was him nearly as he was now fully in uniform. A myriad of blaster bolts and vibro ax wounds littered his body and tore up his uniform. Blood pooled from some of the wounds like they were still fresh. He was sprawled, like he had been left. No distinguishments, just an Imperial Officer left by both sides. Not worth the trouble to give a proper burial too. He dreaded what the last corpse would offer him. He moves kneeling. He debates for just a moment before he pulls back the cover. He’s much older, his hair gone completely gray. He reaches out and touches the rank plaque that denotes him as a Grand Admiral; the numerous metals below it turn his stomach. Distinguished medal of Imperial Honor, the Medal of Valor, and the Emperor's Fist. He doesn’t know why he feels sick looking over this. It should be what he wants, every major honor, the highest rank. He moves the sheet back over himself, turning his head away. He looks too much like his father. The thoughts of how many lives were ruined to obtain those medals and that rank.

He places one hand firmly on the ground with the intention of getting up before his world is turned again. He feels a hand against his throat and he’s pushed back into the wall. He hisses hand moving down to his blaster before he’s faced with the reality of his father. “You wouldn’t.”

Ash growls, “Try me.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone what you were? Think about how the empire could have used that!” A moment of fear flickers over Ash’s face the idea of his father knowing about his powers was terrifying. He knew his father was far away though that it was this stupid ice temple causing these visions.

“No.” Is simply what Ash says and his father disappears turning into a cold mist. Ash is left alone, left to breathe. The bodies were gone. Korry was gone. He can tell now that this tunnel was a dead end. He turns and slowly makes his way back the way he came. He feels exhausted but spending time resting in this cold would bring certain death. He could only hope that this was over. However he had throught to soon cause as it crossed his mind he heard the distinct hum of a Lightsaber activating. He quickly turned, and he came face to face with himself. No longer was he in the gray-green officer uniform. He was now in an armored black uniform accented with red. A red lightsaber violently pulses and horror comes across Ash’s face as he realizes that the hilt to the lightsaber was Kari’s. Ash wants to run knowing this can only end badly for himself.

The dark eyes of his counterpart watch him, “I forgot how much of a traitor you are, traitor and coward.”

“I’m not either of those things.”

“Really? Hiding such a useful tool from the empire. Not groveling, begging to let them use it. Not to mention hiding this,” He turns over Kari��s corrupted lightsaber in his hand.

Ash matches his counterparts steps forward with steps back, “I’m loyal to the empire.”

“You waste your wealth on the poor who turn to the rebels, who turn out to be traitors.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“I do, anything less then full devotion to the empire is traitorism.”

“Stop, you aren’t real, you aren’t me.”

“Oh but I am. I’m you if you turned over yourself fully to the empire. If you’re anything but me you deserve everything that happens to you like the traitor you are.” Ash took the hint and he turns, running. He knows though that if this is an inquisitor he needs to be smart not fast. He keeps his vision forward as he resolves to make a sharp turn down a tunnel using the ice and momentum to help him around the corner before continuing. He needs something to break the gap between him and his other counterpart. He turns his head to check before finding them right behind and gaining. He keeps his eyes forward heading down another sharp turn and then slinking his way down another immediately after to put some potential wrong directions between him and himself. It doesn’t work though as he can hear gaining footsteps. He is finally faced with hopefully a way out. A small patch of deep looking water that seems to run under into a tunnel. He can only hope that there is an opening at the other end. He quickly breaks another one of the thermal packs in his pocket before he jumps into the water.

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anarchist-satanist · 3 years

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I’ve recently been on space kick, listening to Gustav Holst’s The Planets and Mare Cognitum’s other album Luminiferous Aether on repeat, but Solar Paroxysm is probably my favorite of their work. A solid cosmic black metal record that I will probably be listening to again for the coming weeks.

Ethereal, a bit atmospheric, and especially grandiose; this cosmic black metal record sort of kicked off me listening to more things under the cosmic genre-label, such as Spectral Lore’s work (mostly because of Spectral Lore and Mare Cognitum’s large split-album, Wanderers: Astrology of the Nine, which is also fantastic).

Particular highlight tracks from this album are the middle three tracks, Frozen Star Divination, Terra Requiem, and Luminous Accretion. The album has a good, consistent pace that uses melodic elements well to contrast the harsher, more traditionally blackened bouts of sonic fury, and also to emphasize the thematic aesthetic of space and galactic expanse.

I really want to listen to more cosmic metal, and music in general, because this album and the others I mentioned have really piqued my interest. Especially lefty projects like Mare Cognitum and Spectral Lore because I know that the ideas of space and cosmic place often conjure ideas of science, existence, and intellectualism, but I am more interested in the naturalistic and spiritual nature of space as groundwork for music (I am not personally spiritual or anything).

I am excited to see where my journey takes me, and what this band will put out next!

#metal #black metal #atmospheric black metal #cosmic #cosmic black metal #space #love metal hate fascism

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pseudonympls · 2 years

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From Shelter

Part Three of Love Blooms

Chapter CW: sexual assault. assault. blood. explicit language.

Chapter word count: 7.7k

That dreaded morning on the wireless we had heard of England’s fate - to join ranks with our fellows across the continent, join in solidarity to take down this monster of a man, this regime of fascism and hate.

Little did I know of the price we were yet to pay for it all - how Tommy would bargain his life: for king, for country, for naught.

Tommy, as always, was still in high spirits, as we gathered the corrugated metal and sand bags required for the building of our very own Anderson shelter. Sunk into the earth at the foot of our garden we began digging, Tommy taking his shirt off as per usual mid dig, creating our very own little safety haven. Even in the unlikely event that the Germans were to begin bombing us - our close proximity to the channel meant that our small town was still a target, even if far away from the Industrial powerhouse of london.

That last morning was filled with such dread, a tiny part of me hoped I would not wake from sleep - that I’d remain in a duplicit dream world, entangled amongst my sweetest memories, my most beautiful times, re-lived over and over.

But it was not meant to be, as I readied Tommy, my husband, my dear, my love. I begrudgingly helped him into his new uniform. It was well constructed and clean, the material thick and warm for surviving brutal winter nights. I tried to not let my mind wander as I slipped the jacket over his shoulders, buttoned up his shirt and readjusted his collar - how it would look, blood shod, muddied, weary. Lost in some far away trench, unaccounted for, a whisper in a room full of shouts - gone.

He looked smart, and I tried to not let the fear bubble to the surface, let the sorrow reach my eyes, but it was impossible. Even in the smallest of movements, my eyes tracked every motion. The way his fingers grazed the nightstand, touching every surface in the house to remember it by, taking the atoms with him on his long journey. I could tell he was trying to ground himself, anchor his body and mind to the house, I felt it with every passing day that went by. I had to shake myself, I thought I was going utterly mad. Hearing him shuffling about upstairs of a morning in search of his dressing gown, his nose scenting on the air the distinct tang of hot tea I had prepared before leaving for the hospital. My love letter to him being the breakfast we enjoyed together, eyes sticky with sleep, fingers interlocking over the toast and tea leaves, Home. Our home.

Or at least it was about to be my home, just mine. A sad war wife, pining away at the hearth, eventually giving into the milkmans advances or money running so low she would pay for meat with her own pound of flesh, instead.

As we headed to the train station we travelled mostly in silence, the air thick with unsaid words, and from me - the sting of a secret betrayal. How could he leave me, leave his hometown. I would have to tend to the farm shop by myself, how was I to do such a thing as I worked at the hospital? I could hardly weed the crops in between scrubbing bedpans.

My logic and heart battled on as we neared the train station, the street growing crowded and loud. Wives saying goodbye to husbands, families, their sons.

Tommy pressed his forehead to mine, in a way that was both soothing and maddening. I sucked in a deep breath. Trying to taste him on the air, remember the flavour of him. Soak him down into the marrow of my bones.

He whispered “I’ll come back, I’ll come back to you” and at those words, tears spilled down my face, my eyes scrunched into nothingness as my heart ached.

“P-promise” I implored him “Swear it” I hissed through gritted teeth, feeling the knife in my stomach ever turning as he stood to leave in front of me, I - completely powerless to stop him.

“I-I promise, Em, I’ll be back before you know it” he laughed, his own tears dripping into his mouth “The Germans will surrender and I’ll be back in time for Christmas” he said it with such conviction, such confidence, that I almost believed him.

“Sh-should I get the ham ready?” I whispered, a tortured smile pulling across my own face.

“Yes, my dear, extra for Charlie as well, you know how he loves it” he whispered, threading his fingers through my hair and pushing an errant strand behind my ear. I followed his touch like a lost lamb, my eyes shutting in near bliss as I tried to drink in the last remaining feeling of him like this: remember it.

I laughed through the tears, the thought of preparing Christmas dinner for my two hungry boys, saying our prayers around a table filled with food, joy and mirth, it was the thought that got me through that day - even if I knew deep down, that it was never to be. Merely a pipe dream.

We shared our last kiss on that platform, filled with other wives and girlfriends - also having theirs, well wishes and promises to write home, tears mingled with forced laughter. The dread, the fear and the sorrow was tangible, like a low lying cloud on the hills in an Autumn morning, breathing into everything and anything in its path - filling it with its icy claws.

Never truly letting up.

* * *

“There you are” I uttered, finally removing the last bandage from Bo’s ankle, he huffed a sigh of relief and shook his head.

“You mean, I can walk on it again?” his face held such bewilderment I might as well have told him that pigs were flying outside.

“Yes, Mr Burnham, your physiotherapy has gone exceedingly well, and it is about time you got up and about, if you are to help with the war effort” I nodded, procuring the longest crutches any of us on the ward could find.

“I’m afraid they might come up a little small, but they shall have to do” - sat on the edge of the bed, Bo’s face was furrowed with the kind of apprehension and concern that anyone’s would be - given the fact that he had spent more time horizontal these last few months than vertical.

“Here, I’ll help you” I bent down to become level with him, and placed my shoulder under his armpit, becoming a human crutch until he regained some confidence.

“C’mon now, Nurse, you’re far too small for me” he smirked, our faces being the closest they had ever been, I fought the blush creeping up my face hard as I helped him up. He was right, our height differences were absurd, my shoulder barely met his chest.

“W-woah” Bo wobbled as he rested on the crutch, and me, in equal measure, subconsciously I drank in his scent, a unique mixture of hospital soap masking his undeniably thick, but still fresh and slightly tangy smell. I errantly thought to myself how I could attach a mask to my face and breathe deep, hooked up to his delicious aroma, have it fill every corner and crevice in my body until I was drowsy, fully intoxicated.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you” I struggled a little under his weight, but remained strong, his body wavering between the crutch and me, his arm wrapped around my shoulders like a sideways hug, warm, comforting, if it weren’t for my absolute necessity to be there in a nursing capacity, not a friendly one.

Still blushing, we made it across the ward, his grip lessening on me bit by bit as he settled into the crutches, “See? You’re already doing so well, you barely need me-!” I had spoken too soon, regretfully unsheathing myself from his embrace, he lost balance and almost went headfirst into a medicine cabinet, weren’t it for the thick arm of Doctor Murphy that came out to grab him.

“Woah there, Sonny Jim,” - Doctor Murphy stood several inches below Bo, his moustache feathering as he caught him, mid-fall against the glass cabinet.

“Almost lost my head there, thanks Doc” Bo readjusted on the crutch, pink cheeked and slightly dishevelled from the fall, he glowed to me in that moment, but my attention was piqued elsewhere, as my heart started an aggressive pattern in my chest, my mind whirred and my body went in to fight or flight mode, as Doctor Murphy gazed back at me, momentarily.

“Take better care of your patients, Nurse, I won’t always be here to save the day, you know” he bristled and nodded once again at Bo before heading off, leaving me seething, my brain firing on all cylinders, and I wasn’t quite sure whether to cry or to laugh.

Later, we had managed to get Bo walking almost completely unaided, stairs were a bit of a struggle, as was any surface that wasn’t completely level, but I had an idea to truly test his endurance.

“We’re going where?” a small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, watching the bewildered look that spread across Bo’s face.

“Yes, we are going to the beach, I do think that your ankle is doing quite well, aren’t you ready to test its limits?”

“No-no, Nurse, I really don’t think that I’m there, yet” for all of his smug attitude and boyish good looks, he was sure acting a little cowardly.

He leaned against the tall beam that stretched from floor to ceiling - challenging the post itself for tallest object in the room - having seen him at his full height for going on three weeks now: he really commanded every room he was in. Six foot six inches of piercing blue eyes, towering above almost everyone in our small town, an obelisk of dimples and blond hair.

On closer inspection, regardless of how tall he was, he always managed to seem smaller, to close in on himself like a flower shying away from full sunlight - the beams too strong and powerful in the face of adversity, challenging his sensitive disposition.

“I beg to differ, you’ve conquered stairs, slopes and even some of the hardier ground outside, full of holes and divots, I’d say you’re more than up to the challenge, that is of course,” I shot him a smirk “unless you’re afraid?”

“I am not” he retorted, drawing up to his full height, his petals blooming at my taunting. There he was, what a beautiful flower.

“I love the beach, actually, it’s one of my favourite places” his bottom lip quivered as I circled him, glancing back over my shoulder to give him some privacy “Well, you had better get dressed then!”

Perhaps it was the cool, blue early winter sunshine that reflected off of his eyes, or the excitement I held within my own belly, but I swore I saw a glint of mischievousness in his eye, a shadow of a smirk play on his lips, a hint of a flirt, masked by playfulness.

“It’s a little cold, isn’t it?” he moaned from behind me, the boom of his voice caught in the swift wind that encircled us, the roar of the sea sounding dead ahead.

“Indeed, all the more reason to get moving? Get that blood circulating” I let my shoes sink into the soft sand that lined our town, wrapping my thick winter coat tighter around myself. I looked back at him, the wind trailing hair across my face, shielding myself from him.

“Come on!” I beckoned him closer, his expression at first reluctant and coolly indifferent, morphed into a delicate smile, showing me how kind his face could look - how warm, despite the wind chill.

I faced him, eager to maintain the professionalism, that nurse/patient relationship I had been so studious about keeping, but as I watched him approach me on that grey, windswept afternoon, I felt the grains of sand, like my resolve, slipping from underfoot, not fully supporting my weight - threatening to sink me into unfamiliar territory.

“How is it?” I asked as he approached, a little slower than normal, but more than acceptable for an injury like his.

“Pretty cold, but the company is nice” he sauntered past me, slipping a little as the sand grew damp - more than just the slap of the wind against my cheeks coloured them, as he walked further and further toward the sea.

“I meant your ankle, of course” I chased after him, his exceedingly long stride increasing the distance between us, even if he did have a handicap.

He smirked an “I know” as he peeked at me out of the corner of his eye, as I framed his periphery - although it was more than my caring duty that made me stay so close. I longed for the contact, the pleasant heat he crafted within when he looked at me.

Bo stumbled, and I was nearby to correct him, gripping on to his bicep as he almost fell into the sand.

“I could really do with my human crutch right about now” he smirked at me, the wind gently tickling his face with hair.

I didn’t believe him, not for one second, but still I gave into the way he looked at me, fully aware of what he was setting us up for - failure, and I had never wanted failure so badly.

The grip he had on my waist was soft but firm, and I had to hold back a whimper as his hand left me. How I hadn’t been touched that intimately in so very long, the grasping of a weary patients fist, how one had tore at my nurses coverlet, ripped right through it and almost left me indecent, had been the last touch faintly resembling something that intimate - but it was all in a day’s work.

Nestled under his armpit I basked in his warmth, a little too much as he began walking, and as my attention faltered, so did his step - we barely made it a few feet before we tumbled together into the sand. Somehow, I had fallen on top of him, and despite the fall, Bo had nothing but a grin on his face, at our compromising position.

Both of us panting, suddenly aware of the proximity, the way our world just rocked completely - throwing us on top of one another. Deciding something for us.

“Lord, are you alright?!” I rolled off of him and into the wet sand, turning around to survey Bo’s body, glancing at his ankle.

“Nurse, I am more than alright, the question is” Bo rose up, palms in the sand “Are you alright?”

“I-” I started, aware of the contact we had just had, the way his eyes surveyed me, the way they dipped to my lips before I climbed off of him. In that brief second, I had felt an urge - one I hadn’t felt for the longest time, the urge to marry my lips with his.

“Let’s go sit down, make sure no accidents like that happen again” I finished, clambering to my feet and holding out a hand to help him up.

“I sure do love the sea, reminds me of back home”

“Me too, oh,” I glanced back toward him as we walked” “I guess I’m already home”

“Tommy would never go near the sea. He would come to the beach, but never risk getting wet. Never even dip his toe in. He was terrified, terrified of the unknown - well, I guess the unknown got the better of him, in the end”

Bo was quiet for a few moments, letting Tommy’s name travel on the wind - although I felt a hesitance from him as he paused, shortly broken when he said “I couldn’t live without the sea - being near it, I mean. Back home in the summer, far too hot to remain dry, we’d wade waist deep into the water, it was such a relief on days like that, hot enough to melt the asphalt.” he sighed, bending down to retrieve a large pebble from the rocky beach, turning it thrice in hand “Days like that, I really miss, even here - now, I wish the water wouldn’t freeze us, there is such freedom in being buoyant, letting the water support you”

He turned the pebble once more, before throwing it sideways into the waiting waves; even in the tumultuous November water, it skipped twice before being utterly consumed by the icy tide.

* * *

A few weeks passed and I kept myself busy as I always did, keen to keep the memories from flooding back. I kept focused on my work.

A morning so like all the others before it, drenched in late Spring sunshine, I tended to the few patients we had.

Doctor Murphy stood at the end of the corridor. I had tried my best to avoid his leering glances, the way the hairs stood on the back of my neck whenever he was around. I had even ignored the bunch of marigolds he had left on my desk.

But one morning at the hospital, things took a dark turn.

The sight and smell of him made my stomach turn, that wasn’t helped when he entered my office one morning without knocking.

I turned around, not expecting a soul, and yet there he was, his hand on the top of the door frame, a casual stance, if it weren’t for the fact that he was sealing off my only exit route - my one escape.

“D-Doctor Murphy, can I help you?” I said, brushing off the heavy feeling on the back of my neck, the way it weighed me down so completely, stifled me.

“Yes, I was rather thinking that you might” he sneered, the fuzz of his dark brown moustache smothered on his top lip like an ugly slug, moved slightly as he talked, only adding to my complete and utter distaste for the man.

The clean, smooth way he moved should have been my first indication that something awful was about to happen. He slithered toward me, not unlike a snake, sealing its prey’s fate.

“I’ve been thinking that you have spent an awful amount of time alone in that old house - secluded, a few miles away from town, and I will admit freely that I have spent an awful amount of time thinking on you in that house, all alone” he looked at me with a icy cold look of faux concern, his eyebrows tilting up in that way, his lips pursing, all of the theatre and none of the substance. My skin crawled.

“Well, Doctor Murphy, you needn’t worry about me, I have my cat, Charles. He can test my patience but I do find him to be a suitable housemate” I bristled around the room, touching every piece of paper, every surface in an effort to ground myself, to distract myself from what I knew was coming.

“Oh, Miss Worsley, you can barely count a cat as suitable company, can you?” he tutted, releasing the top of the doorframe and edging into the room, closing in on me. The emphasis he put on “Miss” was enough to chill me to the bone - though a widow I had still retained my Mrs status, despite whatever surname I chose to go by.

“I find him quite adequate” I struck back, turning around and busying myself with the file cabinet, trying to hide the heat in my face, my eyes how they almost rolled back in my head as I tried to keep one eye on him, hoping that he would choose to leave of his own accord.

“No, I think you are in need of something more substantial, something only a man can provide” bile rose within my stomach and I had to take extra care to swallow it all down, not to make a mess of the discharge papers I had in my hand - although my fingers had almost torn them to ribbons by this point.

I heard him close in on me, heard the sound of his clothes moving toward me, my hearing becoming that much more attuned, I would have heard a pin drop on the opposite side of the building.

“Why don’t you just let me-” he whispered into my ear and his hands grasped my waist, white hot fear ripped through me as he spun me around, his eyes half lidded and dark, the look of pure rage mixed with unbridled lust. His hands pawed and pulled at my dress, and I summoned the breath to scream but no noise came, I was stunned into silence, every breath feeling like fire as it ripped through my lungs in protest - how I wanted to slip out of my own skin to avoid experiencing it.

“Just-just, let me take care of you, how long is it since you’ve been touched, hmm?” He snivelled into my ear, and instinctively my right arm tried to swipe at his face, but he caught my arm in his fat fist and my strength was nothing compared to his size, and in the sickening pit of my stomach, I saw that he enjoyed that.

“P-please, don’t do this” I whimpered, sound barely eking out of my lungs - erratically heaving as I tried to stay present, but my mind had other ideas.

I floated above myself as his other hand thrust up my dress, aggressively batting away all my regulation layers. My mind went oddly blank as he shoved his tongue into my mouth, my desperate struggles no more than fuel for him to keep going, keep touching me, keep violating my every cell.

He aggressively knee’d my legs apart, splaying my knees out, the tips of my toes aggressively trying to keep me upright, the way his fat hands held me against the wall had me searching for breath that my lungs burnt for, siezing up in absolute terror as he continued his assault.

I groaned in fear but he took that as a signal to keep going, his fingers inching closer and closer to the place I held sacred for Tommy, the only man I had let touch me, love me - there.

But luck was on my side that morning, and my resolve rushed back to me, knocking the wind clean out of my lungs, as his fat fist left my own and started to grope at my chest. I summoned every atom of strength that I had to hurt him - hurt him in the worst possible place for a man.

Even with my knees slightly spread, his knee backed away to make room for his fat fingers, and I struck. Using my knee to deliver the most pain, I aimed for the apex of his thighs, and I struck true. My knee might as well have returned his scrotum to the inside of his body for all the force I exerted. He bit my lip as I inflicted the vital blow, and fell to the floor in front of me - releasing me from his fleshy, greasy prison.

His words echoed through me as I ran for the door, a hand collecting the fresh blood rapidly flowing from my wounded lip.

“You know, Miss, you would be comely if it wasn’t for your piss poor attitude” he coughed, holding his privates in his hands as he rolled dolefully around the floor, his face purple with pain, embarrassment - or both.

I ran to my superior's office in a mix of blind panic and elation, forever looking over my shoulder, so afraid that he would be limping along, his face lilac - but his trajectory true.

I felt at once comforted and sure that the nightmare would end any second - that my tears would turn out to be my cold sweat - the blood dripping from my lips the spittle of slumber. My shivering breaths kneaded into long soothing drags by Tommy as he caressed and held me, comforted me from my nightmare - as he had so many times before this.

But neither Tommy nor Doctor Murphy materialised, and I burst into the matron’s office in a hurricane of blood and tears, surely looking an absolute sight. Skirts askew and fresh hot blood running down my chin and on to my white pinafore, my mind not much better than my appearance.

“Emily, whatever is the matter?!” Matron Peters rounded her desk and like a shot, was next to me, mopping up the blood that refused to stop flowing. I decided to be honest, that was all I knew: honesty. And like the blood, the story was ugly, jagged and painfully expressed.

The usually brusque woman listened to my story, I layered it with multiple instances of Murphy being unfathomably creepy in all other interactions I had with him. She could have interjected at any point, but the usually staunch woman with which I had once held a modicum of fear for, listened thoughtfully, not once interrupting the flow - only that of the wound from my bottom lip.

Word had spread around the entire medical staff that Murphy was predatory, and many other women and girls had come forward to share their stories, and while nothing could be done about his undoubtedly senior position of power - together we were stronger than the individual, and we ensured that no Matron, Nurse or cleaner would have to deal with the man - alone, as I had done.

As the wound in my lip healed, the fabric of my mind slowly wove itself back together - albeit different. Never the same would I be since that day, something unnameable had transformed inside of me, something challenged my every thought - made me glance around hallways twice and made my heart beat in double time whenever I saw a man that resembled him.

I would never forget the whites of his eyes - how it had almost dwarfed the green of his iris, the maddening, sickening look in them as he lunged for me, tried to take from me what I was sure I never wanted to give, ever again.

* * *

“Thank you so very much for helping me, I really couldn’t have done it without you” I said, as the sky grew dark, that late afternoon sunshine being darkened and stolen from us as 4pm drew closer, the late night sun of the summer a long forgotten memory, winter was truly upon us - the swift wind, sent a chill down my spine.

“It’s no problem, not at all, not after you helped me get back on my feet after hurting my ankle” Bo smiled, collecting all the spades, and other gardening equipment and storing them in the shed safely.

I had a quip ready about how it was just my job - how if anyone had come to us with a broken ankle and needed rehabilitation, I would be just as happy to do so - but something stopped me.

It was the fact that it wasn't wholly true, as well as the ear piercing wail of the air raid siren that sounded from the town hall, over two miles away - but with how flat our little town was and how few buildings lay in the way, it rang out as clear as a bell across the entire land.

“Oh” I whispered, low, as fear pierced my heart and nerves tingled at the edge of my skin, propelling my legs into immediate action.

“Come on, we must go into the shelter” I said, hastily shutting the shed door and nodding over to the below ground Anderson shelter at the end of my garden. Stout though it stood, it was the best protection we had from the enemy planes and their bombs that were surely about to come screeching around, scratching the sky all too soon. Sank into the ground lay our safety, or at least the promise of it.

“I think-I think we can make it to the bunker, n-next to the town hall?” Bo rambled, stutters framing his speech as the colour drained from his rosy cheeks - kissed pink by the cold, now left lifeless and fearful.

“There’s not enough time Bo, not nearly enough, it’s two miles to town, they’ll be here long before we get there - we’re awfully exposed.” I grabbed his large hand and pulled him toward the shelter.

We just about made it before my heart sank even further, remembering Charlie.

“Charlie!!” I screamed, letting go of Bo’s hand and racing for the house.

“Em-Emily stop! We have to get inside!” Bo raced after me, not quite catching up after my three seconds head start.

“I-I can’t leave him” I sobbed, wrenching the front door open, desperately hoping I’d see my dear Charles by his water bowl in the kitchen, or hiding underneath the couch, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I damned the cat as I searched for him, hearing Bo race through the door behind me.

“Emily we have to get in the shelter, now” he panted.

I whirled around in tears and whispered “Please, we’ll get in there faster if you help me find Charlie, please” I begged, my eyes barely landing on Bo as they constantly searched for a fleck of black and white, the curl of a tail.

“He must be so scared” I sobbed, ripping off my glasses as the tears fogged them, and tore through the house trying to find him.

Without a word, Bo nodded and hurtled up the stairs, shouting Charlie’s name.

Through the own rushing of blood in my ears and the faint call of the siren, I didn’t hear Bo coming back down the stairs in a hurry.

“He was under the bed, scared shitless, Em, I got him, let’s go - now” Bo said, the frightened ball of fur cradled in Bo’s long arms, clearly a little ruffled but still enjoying the embrace.

I squealed in relief and we both left the house, hearing the siren come to an almighty stop. Still this brief recompense from the assault on our senses made us run even quicker to the shelter embedded in the bottom of the garden, knowing that the sounds we were to hear next were not likely to be as friendly.

I flung the doors to the Anderson shelter open and went inside. Bo had to duck down, severely hunching down to even get through the door. Securing it shut, I turned around in the pitch black, hearing the relative silence of the outside. I heard the frightened meow from Charlie as Bo set him down, and I felt him weave around my ankles.

I walked forwards with my arms slightly outstretched, the tightness of the shelter becoming immediately apparent as my fingers came into contact with Bo’s chest, the thick material of his uniform. “I’m so sorry” I baulked and tried to move around him, trying desperately to remember where I had put the lantern that lived down here, ready for such an occasion.

“You-you’re alright, Em” he whispered, grabbing my forearms and guiding me behind him, my fingers hitting the cool metal of the lantern and fumbling for the packet of matches that lay beside it. As he held me, I couldn’t help but think about how I felt like I was betraying Tommy, in another's arms, albeit not how I would like to be - still, his touch seared my skin and stilled my beating heart, and how I wanted to so desperately to drip between those fingers, acquiesce to him, make him mine and myself his.

There, in the dark, I came face to face with how I really felt about him - the professionalism I had tried so desperately to cling on to, to excuse me from seeing him, gone in the shutting of the anderson shelter’s door - the last remaining shred of light being blocked off, taking with it my last remaining flicker of sanity - of the hope that I could simply distance myself from him and carry on with my empty, lonely and loveless life. The flicker of fear in Bo’s face as we encased ourselves in the dark only instilled further trepidation in me, how we were locking ourselves in this shelter, away from all others, the fear of what I might do was almost more than the fear of a bomb dropping on us.

Once the oil lamp was burning and we had settled into the cramped, freezing space, I rummaged through the crate we had left down here years ago, and a fragile smile pulled at my mouth, seeing a little piece of history.

I threw the old, dog eared deck of cards between us on the narrow bench, knowing that it had once belonged to Tommy, his favourite deck, one he had been given as a child, the cards now peeling apart in places, a truly well loved pack that we had used many a time - and now.

“Perfect! So what’re we playing, strip poker?” Bo joked, picking up the cards and beginning to shuffle them with precision.

“You’re incredibly funny” I quipped, raising my eyebrows in admonition.

“A joke, of course” he whispered, although something hot and writhing inside me wished that it wasn’t.

“Gin?” he started dealing the cards “Oh I wish” I knew he meant the card game, but I carried on the joke - I hadn’t the forethought to stash any alcohol in here, that had been my first mistake - how I could numb the feeling of being alone with Bo in such a small, claustrophobic space, no, we would have to wait for food or drink until the all clear sounded.

I nodded quietly and felt his eyes on mine, something succinctly thick in the air even in the draughty, dirt piled, glorified hole in the ground, and all of a sudden I felt like he could scent my fear, the way it was oozing out of me like a bad smell. As a tiny smirk lifted his face, he cast a shadow on the corrugated iron wall of the shelter, his body obstructing the light and filling the already dark dingy room with the absence of flame - and how I wished he’d beam that darkness directly into me, damned be the light, in that moment I needed the shadow.

I was fairly certain he had let me win the first few games, and didn’t hesitate in thrashing me in the final few, but as our jokes and fun carried on, so did the mounting dread, piling on in our stomachs, filling us right up to the crown of our heads, stifling the air of any joy, as the first gut wrenching sounds of enemy planes approached.

Bo was in the middle of gloating and watching me pout in response, when we heard the sound. Any and all cheerfulness disappeared when the sound reached our ears and sank our hearts even further into the dirt.

Our breath shallow and shaky, we packed the cards away and sat together, backs against the cold corrugation, shoulder to shoulder as we tried to create conversation, but between the ill fated droning and the thought that our next word would be our last, we were dumbstruck, our torsos shaking partly from the cold and partly from the icy dread that sank through our skin like a cold winter’s sleet - gripping our hearts.

“Do-do you think you will be going to France, soon?” I broached the elephant in the room.

“They are preparing us for that, yes” he answered, his palm shaking on the edge of the bench, the outer edge of our hands touching slightly, just enough to comfort.

“I despise the whole damned thing, the war - coming here” Bo paused, his eyes flitting up to mine almost in apology.

“Although, I guess, now my parents think I’m doing something actually worthwhile, instead of squandering my life on witless words and flighty dreams” he sighed.

“You-you didn’t want to be in the army?”

“Fuck no, pardon me, but-but no. Barely any of us did, me and my friend Greg, we were conscripted”

“There’s a few career soldiers back at camp, but most of us are just stupid city boys they corralled, the promise of valour and free cigarettes sealed the deal for most”

“Do you- do you have anyone back home?”

Bo stiffened.

“Apart from my mom, dad, brother and sister, no, I-I guess I don’t, Fuck, I apologise, that’s so rude of me to say”

“Don’t be silly, I’ve got Charles” I smiled.

Even sat down, his head brushed the top of the shelter, he took up so much space. I felt so infinitesimally small next to his large frame.

I checked my watch, it read 10pm, how we had whiled the last few hours away in here I didn’t know - but we always had something interesting to talk about.

“May I ask you something?” he whispered into the darkness.

“Of course,”

“Is it alright that I call you by your first name, Emily?”

“It seems we have already been on first name terms for quite some time now, Bo”

“I’m just glad you’re not calling me Mr Burnham anymore, or god forbid, Robert”

I giggled - a girlish sound that seemed oddly unfamiliar on my lips.

“Why do you hate your name so much?” I said behind my chilly fist.

“I don’t hate it, just my parents gave me it in case I became a doctor, but instead I became a massive let down, and an artist, instead”

“I’m certain you’re not a disappointment to them” I soothed, wondering at how anyone could think their child a disappointment, how I had yearned for the chance to even become a mother.

As the night drew on, the enemy planes got farther and fewer, the thick silence penetrating the evening, and our eyes grew weary, our hearts tired, as the chill crept in.

“Th-there’s not enough blankets, I’m afraid” I whispered, sorting through the dusty collection I had left here many years ago, when Tommy and I built the shelter.

“That’s alright, you can take them” he reassured, the shadows playing along his face showing no discontent, but with the temperature dropping fast, I was more than afraid that he would freeze.

“N-no, I think, it is simply too cold for that, you’ll catch your death” I shook my head as I wrapped the blankets around both of us.

“If we lay together” I paused, looking up at his face for a shred of reaction, of something “maybe we’ll conserve heat? Share it perhaps?”

Bo nodded, a small smile appearing on his lips “Yeah, like the penguins in the antarctic!”

I tilted my head to the side, not recognising half the words that came out of his mouth.

“The-what, in the where?” I questioned, seeing his smile broaden at my ignorance.

“Penguins, they’re these little fat, flightless birds that live in Antarctica, one of the coldest places on earth” despite the plummeting temperature I couldn’t help but smile at his exuberance.

“They huddle together for warmth, in these gigantic circles, rotating the outermost, cooler penguins for the innermost, warmer ones - making sure that everyone gets a chance in the middle”

Sensing my inscrutable expression, he smiled even wider, showing off those glorious teeth of his.

“Here, I’ll draw you a picture” he smiled, pulling that little black book I always saw him with out of his back pocket, flipping to an empty page.

A few seconds passed as I watched him sketch out a quick picture, the round white chested body had black appendages either side, although he reminded me that those wings did not allow the bird to fly, their sharp looking beaks and tiny eyes on their head were comical.

“Wow, I didn’t know such a creature even existed!” I marvelled at even his quick little sketch.

“They are very cute” I said, my eyes betraying my thoughts as I glanced at him.

“They are, and also, they tend to mate for life” his eyes kept my gaze longer than felt normal, his blue eyes slipping to my lips every now and again.

We lay side by side in the freezing shelter, our breaths mere puffs of white that dissipated into the air as we breathed, the blankets and sheets wrapped around us in some desperate attempt to conserve heat.

Charlie lay snoring at our feet, clearly more used to nights spent out in the cold than we were - our breaths hiding a shiver every now and again.

“I’m so cold” I whimpered, unsure how I would have done this without Bo being by my side,

providing a plenty of extra warmth.

“Here” he said, and, underneath the numerous blankets that covered our bodies from the icy cold, he pulled me into a hug, leaning my head on his shoulder, my chest and arm laying on his broad one. Almost like how lovers would bask in their afterglow, their heaving, bare chests connecting once again in a moment of calm and pleased serenity.

But I couldn’t think about that, not now, not even as I lifted my head up in thanks, as our bodies heat mingled delightfully underneath those blankets, the biting cold not so harsh. Soothed by his heat.

“T-thank you” I whispered, seeing his features half shrouded in shadow from the flickering, dying flame take on something I’d never seen before. I could swear the way he tilted his head, the movement was something akin to just before a kiss between aching unrequited lovers, the need so overwhelming that I couldn't bear not to see it play out. As his lips puckered slightly and his chin descended, the loud drone of an enemy plane could be heard, and our breaths stopped, for all the wrong reasons.

The question in his eyes morphed into abject horror as we both paused, listening for the plane to carry on, to pass us by, show some mercy on our little town. Gradually, as the sound inched further and further away, we each released a shuddering held breath that poisoned our lungs, effused into the shelter in sweet relief.

“D-don’t mention it” Bo mouthed, his voice a gentle hiss as the screaming of planes overhead found their distance.

Whether it was the electricity of fear lit in our blood, or the rising heat simmering between us, I lost myself in his cobalt eyes, truly at the whim of my crackling need to stay alive - that fight or flight response so often triggered by the thundering sound of enemy plains - of the horror of what may happen.

My frozen fingertips gripped Bo’s jacket laying against his chest as he moved in further, pins and needles tapped at my skin - his eyelids slowly closing, and I did the same - allowed myself to submit to this fragile possibility, to let him scratch the itch I had been sorely ignoring these past few months.

Our lips finally touched, the velvety pillow of his lips met mine and I disappeared for a moment - sure in the notion that I had died and gone to heaven. I leaned into the kiss, my first real kiss in years.

My resolve softened against his cool body, I melted into the feel of him, my body bending to his shape, although I stifled the wanton heat that whispered to me to swing my leg over his hip, still not quite leaving the ground, my feet held down by my own reticence.

“Emily” he murmured against my lips as we sweetly explored, gently, innocently. His thumb and forefinger came to my chin, tilting my head slightly to get an easier angle. He dared the first tender prod of my lips with his tongue, and I shyly opened up to him, letting him lead us in this, the most tender of first dances. He tasted like earth and mist, and I was the rain as I realised I was tainting our delicate kiss with salty tears.

“Em?” he whispered, surely tasting me on his lips, parted from me, a low, dark cloud of bother settling over his features, rumbling over the freshly piqued lust that had just brought us so dangerously close together.

“I-I’m sorry” I sobbed, the tears were as much of a mystery to me as they were to him “I-this is just, all a little too much for me, I’m afraid” I spluttered, turning away from him so I wouldn’t wet him further, but he shook his head and pulled me right back to reality, right back to face him.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Em, if that was too much, I- I just thought, that if we were to die here…”

“I wouldn’t want to die knowing I didn’t kiss you” I finished his sentence, his eyes widening in disbelief as I pulled the words from his mouth.

“Y-yeah” he agreed, thick fingers came to my cheek to brush the last few tears away, “How did you…?”

“Because I felt it too, I cannot lie, I have thought non-stop about it for weeks, but Bo…” I shook my head in disbelief, trying to focus on anything else other than the beating of my own tortured heart, how it ached to do nothing more than resume that fervoured kiss, and perhaps a little more, seeing his face fall with each second that passed, a rejection “I-I don’t know if I’m ready…for something like this, I’m sorry -I”

“You don’t have to apologise to me, please, Em look at me” the tips of his fingers came to my chin “don’t feel like you have to, you have done nothing wrong, Emily, nothing”

Then why did it feel as if I had? Had betrayed those vows I took long ago, “Till death do us part” they said, it didn’t make a lick of difference whether Tommy was alive or dead - I still felt the guilt seeping into my blood like the ice cold rain on a winter’s morning, making quick work of freezing my skin and heading to make its home in my bones. The internal torture I was inflicting upon myself was nothing short of barbaric.

“Please, you need to get some rest, we’ll talk about this some other time” he whispered, the want in his eyes overcome with the care.

He curled one of his arms around my body and opened the black book, adding a few shading details to the penguin.

“Goodnight, Bo” I whispered, ignoring that urge to look up again, to give into what I needed, what we both did.

“Good night, Em” he whispered back, just as I shut my eyes and gave in to something resembling peaceful sleep.

#love blooms #bo burnham #bo burnham fanfic #bo burnham fanfiction #bo burnham x reader #bo burnham imagine #fan fiction

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headoverhiddles · 4 years

Text

Wrapped In Plastic - Marilyn Manson x Reader [Smut]

Synopsis: The new kid at school intrigues you. He’s infatuated too, but beneath that scary exterior, you’ve got no idea what’s in store.

Notes: Era: Spooky Kids! Requested by anon: “High school Brian having a crush on you.”

There he is, sitting in front of the principal again. Brian Warner. You're surprised he hasn't been expelled yet, frankly, even though he just moved here to South Florida recently.

You watch from afar, sitting with your friends. He's making that face. That expression... or lack of expression. He doesn't give a fuck what he got in trouble for, and you, he and the principal know it.

"Hey. (y/n)," your best friend says, "What the hell? Are you listening?"

"Yeah," you mutter, glancing back into the office. God, he would probably fuck like an animal, taking you in some old haunted forest somewhere while spanking you and telling you you're his dirty little slut...

Your friend scoffs when she sees where you're looking.

"That guy is dangerous, quit fantasizing. That isn’t your picture perfect bad boy-- that’s like dating the next Son of Sam killer.”

Your other friend chimes in. “My sister told me she saw him and his pack of weirdos out lighting an abandoned house on fire. My sister’s friend said she hears him jerking off in the washroom every lunch hour. The whole school knows about it. Also apparently in creative writing, he turned in this story about this guy fucking his sister's corpse or something. Seriously weird, probably evil. He's gonna end up in jail, mark my words." You ignore your friend, but turn back into the conversation.

Eventually, the principal gives up, dismissing him. You see Brian join his friends outside the office door, who have been waiting-- Jeordie and Stephen, you think you've heard them called in class. The one with the brown comb-over is called Pogo outside of class, because of his fascination with serial killers. You think it's funny. Those guys just do whatever they want.

Your breath hitches. Brian tucks his long black hair behind his ear, looking up and grinning at his friends. He's describing what he did, and he looks like a gleeful child who just got away with murder as the other two bust out laughing and dig for details. How could anyone think he's evil?

Cold chills run through your body as he meets your eyes. Oh, fuck. He smirks a little bit your way, but you quickly look away. His features harden, and he turns back to his friends. You turn back to yours.

You can't help watching after him as he walks down the hall to fourth period, though... his head nearly reaches the ceiling, and that metal Planet Of The Apes lunchbox makes you smile. You've heard him make a threat or two to beat someone's ass with it, and you believe he'd do it. For every bully who promised him he'd be nothing, there's something about him that promised so much more.

The bell goes, and Brian sits down at the desk.

"She was looking at you."

"Yeah, she was talking to her friends about me," Brian mutters back.

"She looked like she was wetting her panties over you," Jeordie grins, "She looks like she wanted to suck your dick right there in front of Mr. Ogilvie!"

"That'd be the day," Brian sighs.

"Yeah, you'd have beat off material forever," Pogo laughs.

"But she wasn't," he said, "You guys are just fucking blind."

"I don't know, I got some blow job vibes from her,” Pogo says.

“You get blow job vibes from everyone.”

“I’ll blow you for lunch money,” Jeordie mentions. Pogo shrugs.

“I might take you up on that.” His obnoxious laughter rings out as you walk by the door. You recognize it immediately, and look back. Brian’s sitting there, knees tucked under the desk like his legs won’t fit. Shit. In your experience, being this preoccupied with someone meant you were into them... or at least, wanted to see more of them.

Brian looks up again, and sees you staring at him. This time, he frowns. You’re drawn away by your friend, who pulls you toward your next class. As you're walking, someone calls your name.

“Hey! (y/n), right?”

You turn as your friend keeps walking ahead. You scoff slightly as he approaches. “Like you don’t know my name.” You pause, backtrack. “I- sorry. That was mean."

“That’s okay. I’ve been known to be a little mean too,” he smirks, and he flips his hair out if his face. “I guess when you hang around a bunch of catty bitches all the time, it rubs off on you.” His voice is so deep and calm. It throws you off whenever he speaks, but does other things to you as well.

"Hanging out with a pair of delinquents can do the same." Your eyes dart inside the classroom to his friends, who are carving something into a desk. He gives a small smile.

"Touché."

“Speaking of rubbing off,” you raise an eyebrow, “Did you want to talk to me?”

He blushes, then forces his embarrassment away. “That rumor’s not true.”

“No?”

“Nah. I did light that abandoned house on fire though.” He grins, and you do as well, hugging your books closer to your chest.

“So. You’re a rebel, huh?”

“If not putting up with everybody’s bullshit counts as rebelling, then yeah. I guess so.”

“I can respect that,” you nod. “I feel the same way... but I’m not as fearless as you.”

“Are you saying you might commit arson with me, (y/n)?”

“Maybe. How did the conversation progress to lighting things on fire with you?”

He laughs, ducks his head nervously. “Well. Um, I saw you staring like a creep, and... I was wondering if you wanted to be creeps together. Y’know... hang out sometime? Come see my band, or...?”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah, I am.”

You smile, poking his black shirt that read Christianity is Unnatural, Abnormal, and Perverse. “You’ve got balls, Brian.” You look at the clock, and back to his class. “What do you say we fuck off for the rest of the day?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You wanna skip class today?”

“Sorry,” you walk your fingers up his chest. “I know I’m not quite at your level of rebellion yet, but it’s a start.”

He laughs as he follows you to your locker.

---

“So. Do you have a car?”

“No.” He scratches his head. “We can walk back to my house, though. My parents aren’t home.”

Following that plan, you make it back to his house. For someone hailed as the Antichrist of the school, he's got a relatively normal looking home, white picket fence and everything. All that changes once you get to his room.

"Wow," you say, looking up at everything. He's got serial killer-like writing scrawled on the wall by his bed, lyrics that seem like they're straight out of a porno or a horror film, or both. There are pentagrams drawn on his bed posts, and posters of bands like Nine Inch Nails, Ozzy Osbourne, KISS on his walls.

"I know it's stupid, but I'd give anything to meet those guys," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's not stupid," you say, examining the edges of the posters, freyed from the move no doubt. "I actually think it's awesome. I love Ozzy."

"One day I'm gonna beat his record for most drugs consumed over a lifetime."

"Have you started practicing?" you tease.

"I... well, I haven't had the chance."

"Right. Let me know when you do." You smile, going over to sit on his bed. He looks down at you, seems to have a mini panic attack, then acts cool with it, playing with his lip ring and sitting beside you. You look around the messy floor. He's got a strange mix of stuff that oddly seems to perfectly fit his personality: leaking boxes of black hair dye, various lipsticks and nail polishes, a bag of weed, books on the rise of fascism and Carl Jung's red book, an antique-looking switchblade, a Willy Wonka hat, condoms with little angry faces drawn on them, an old deflated football with "FIGHT" written on it, and... "What's that?" you ask, leaning down. Brian coughs.

"Oh. Yearbook from last year."

You pick it up, looking at all the little drawings of candy, needles, Charles Manson and other doodles he's defaced the book with. "But you didn't go to this school last year."

"I traded my mom's diet pills for it."

"Huh. Hustling already. Must have been some good stuff." You hesitate. The page was open to the photos of you as the lead in the play last year. You smirk, pretending to squint. "Is that a cum stain I see on my face?"

"You wish," he huffs, but he's blushing, hair curtaining around his face. You give him a look, turning fully toward him.

"Why'd you really invite me over?"

"To tell you I hate you, knock you out, and bury you in my backyard." You laugh.

"I mean, if you think about it..."

"It's the perfect plan. Invite the girl you've got a crush on over, assume she's gonna make fun of you, lure her in, then get your revenge." You smile, laying back on his bed.

"You just admitted to having a crush on me."

"Wasn't it obvious?" he asks. "I only ever threaten to kill the people I really wanna fuck."

"And do you really wanna fuck me, Bri?" you ask coyly, crawling dangerously close to him. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his long, graceful throat. "You wanna fuck me right here, right now, while your parents aren't home, make me scream your name while you blare your favorite metal record and act like things'll never change?"

"That sounds good," he groans. His hands wander up your thigh, and you smile, bouncing on his leg. "...I also wanna share my music with you. Read a book over your shoulder. Maybe pop a few pills, key someone's car, grab a milkshake and look at the stars on Special K so we feel like we're floating, you know. Before I bang the shit out of you. Date stuff."

"Is this not our first date?" you ask. His tongue flicks up over his lip ring again.

"I guess you could say it is."

"Good. Cause I never fuck on a first date," you say, "Or so I tell people." He clenches his jaw, and braces a skinny arm beside your head, leaning down to capture your lips. His lips taste sweet, like mint and those sugary rocket candies. He takes his shirt off, and you rub your hands down, feeling a few scars. He lets out a whimpered noise at your touch, shuddering a little.

You make out and grind against one another for a few minutes, your hands pulling his hips closer by his black belt loops and his fingers tangling your hair. Your breath gets faster as he grinds harder, more desperately, and you reach a hand down to help him out, give him something to rut against.

"You feel so big," you moan, and he runs a hand through his hair, lips falling open.

"I'm gonna..." He makes another desperate noise, and you feel it right where you need him. But since all his condoms in here seem to be used or have faces drawn on them in scented marker, you opt for over the clothes stuff only.

"Use your fingers?" you breathe. He looks like he's about to cum, and you know it'll tip you over as well, what with all the times you had thought of him like this.

He reaches into your jeans, unzipping them, and messily finds your clit. For a teenage guy, he's not bad. He starts to rub, then reaches three fingers down to thrust them into you.

"Fuck, Bri! Three?!" you breathe. He looks into your eyes, not stopping.

"I thought girls were whores for that kind of thing!"

"It's..." you moan, "That's... oh... y-yeah... Jesus...” He really start to work them in, watching your reactions while rutting his clothed erection against your leg. "Fuck, Brian, grab my tits... yeah... this is just how I imagined it when I..."

He freezes for a second, and his whole body convulses. He gasps, and you see him reach down to cover his crotch, face going beet red. He doesn't stop, though. He keeps fingering you, and now that he's not worried about grinding, he can explore you in other ways. He attaches his lips to your neck, and sucks a hickie right below your ear.

“Brian... Bri, make me c--”

"Cum for me, you filthy little slut," he snarls, and you arch your back up, grinding down into his fingers as your orgasm hits. You rock through it, and he kisses you again, sloppy and hot. When he pulls away, he gives you your fingers to lick clean, which you do through a heated stare.

Things calm down into you laying back against his pillows with his stringy body tucked in a cramped position beside you. "I didn't know you were that..." you search for words. "Experienced?"

"What, you thought I was a virgin?”

You giggle. “I didn’t know what to think about you, to be honest. Kinky, inexperienced, I had no idea. Of course, I hoped that you were kinky.”

“I’ve been known to use restraints when asked,” he smirks.

“I’ve got that to look forward to. I thought you were cute too, though. I don’t care if you’re some devil worshipper who parents and teachers everywhere shiver at the thought of." He's quiet for a second.

"I thought you were scared of me."

"That too, a little bit. But what scares me turns me on." He rolls over to face you, a vulnerable position for him, you can tell.

"The way I dress is what I perceive to be beautiful. Looking like this, doing what I want to, it keeps the assholes who like to give my face their own version of plastic surgery away if they think I'm a Satanist who's gonna... cut off their mom's head or something if they fuck with me. Makes the hypocrites who call themselves teachers question their morals too, ‘teaching’ someone like me to be a good little boy and follow society’s rules. It’s all brainwashing, everything they feed us with their sugar and shit, and I’m the bad guy for standing up to it."

You stroke hair out of his face, and he looks up at you, lips pursed. "There’s always gotta be a scapegoat. I guess you fit that role.” You look beyond him. “You think it would ruin your image if those bullies found your poetry books?” He smiles.

“Nah. One day, I’m gonna grow up to be a big rock and roll star. I’ll use my own poetry and turn it into music, and I’ll look ten times more extreme than I do now. Then they can all say they knew me, and I’ll tell them to go to hell.”

You snuggle into him. "Mmm. Speaking of extreme... we should pull a Sandy and Danny. I'll come to school dressed all goth and shit Monday. Throw my friends for a loop."

"Does that mean I have to dress like a cheerleader?" he asks.

"You've got the ass for it."

He grins. "Stop it, you're making it very hard for me not to wanna fuck you for real right now."

"Here's the deal," you say, "I'll show you where I live this weekend. You tell me what your favorite fruit is, because that's a soul searching question. At that point we'll know each other better... and I'll be fair game."

He bites his lip. "I feel like I've known you forever."

"Yeah. Me too."

Just then, there's a knock at the bedroom door. Startled, you sit up quickly, and who you can only assume to be Brian's mom pops her head in. "When the fuck did you two get home?!" Brian blurts.

"About five minutes ago, honey. Don't worry, we didn't hear anything. Jeordie called, said he 'left the smoke bomb under the urinals.' I hope you aren't getting up to trouble like the last school, your father had a heck of a time getting you into this one.”

“Mom.”

“He had to switch jobs too, and with his back, you know how difficult long drives can be. Oh, how rude of me-- hello sweetie, you can call me Barb."

"Mom--"

"Brian, is this the sweet thing you had that dream about the other night?"

"MOM!"

“Hugh, Brian’s got a girlfriend over, we should turn the TV up to give them a little privacy.”

“GIRLFRIEND?!” a voice calls up, “GOOD ON YA, SON. THAT’S MY BOY!”

“Jesus fucking Christ...” Brian groans, burying his face in a pillow. You laugh so hard into his chest you nearly tumble off his bed. Most dangerous guy in school, your ass.

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dustedmagazine · 3 years

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Punk’d History, Vol. VIII: This Machine [blank] Fascists

Photo by Richard Young

It has the appearance of a worrisome pattern: any number of punk rock’s founding figures embraced the symbolics of Nazi Germany. Ron Asheton, an original and indispensable member of the Stooges, played a number of gigs wearing a red swastika armband, and liked to sport Iron Cross medals and a Luftwaffe-style leather jacket. Sid Vicious loved his bright scarlet, swastika-emblazoned tee shirt, and Siouxsie Sioux, during her tenure as the It-Girl of the Bromley Contingent, mixed her breast-baring, black leather bondage gear with a bunch of “Nazi chic.” And how many early Ramones songs (inevitably penned by Dee Dee) referenced Nazi gear, concepts and geography? “Blitzkrieg Bop,” “Today Your Love, Tomorrow the World,” “Commando,” “It’s a Long Way Back to Germany,” “All’s Quiet on the Eastern Front,” and so on—for sure, more than a few.

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“Appearance” is the key term. Poor Sid lacked the sobriety and smarts to have much of a grasp of fascism as an ideology. Siouxsie was just taking the piss, and gleefully pissing off the mid-1970s British general public, for much of whom World War II was still a living memory. Asheton and Dee Dee? Both were sons of hyper-masculine military men. Asheton’s father was a collector of WWII artefacts, and the guitarist shared his father’s fascination. When the Stooges adopted an ethos and aesthetic hostile to the late-1960s prevailing Flower Power rock’n’roll subculture, the Nazi accoutrement seemed to him fitting signs of the band’s anger and alienation. Dee Dee hated his father, an abusive Army officer who married a German woman. Dee Dee spent some of his youth in post-war West Germany, in which Nazi symbols were highly charged with anxiety and vituperation. Casual veneration of Nazis was a convenient way to reject the triumphal ennobling of the Good War, and of the military men associated with its traditions. And (as Sid, Siouxsie and Asheton also noticed) it really bothered the squares.

None of that makes the superficial use of the swastika or phrases like “Nazi schatzi” any less offensive — it simply underscores that in the cases noted above, the offense was the thing. The politics weren’t even an afterthought, because the political itself had been dismissed as corrupt, boring or simply the native territory of the very people the punks were striking out against. If that’s where the relation between punk and fascism ceased, there wouldn’t be much more to write about.

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The post-punk moment in England provided opportunities to rethink and restrategize the nascent détournement of Siouxsie’s fashionable provocations. Genesis P-Orridge and the rest of Throbbing Gristle were a brainy bunch, and their play with fascist signifiers was a good deal more complex. The band’s logo and their occasional appearance in gun-metal grey uniforms clearly alluded to Nazism, with its attendant, keen interests in occult symbols and High Modernist representational languages. TG’s visual gestures were also of a piece with an early band slogan: “Industrial music for industrial people.” Clearly “industrial people” can be read as a highly ironized coupling: the oppressed workers marching through the bowels of Metropolis were a sort of industrial people, reduced to the functionality of pure human capital. TG seemed to impose the same analysis on the middle-managers of Britain’s post-industrial economy, and their uncritical complicity in capital’s cruelties. But it’s also possible to argue that industrial people are industrious people; like TG, industrial people (middle managers, MPs) can get a lot of stuff done. They can produce things. They can make the trains run on time. And what sorts of cargo might those trains be carrying? What variety of conveyance delivered the naked “little Jewish girl” of “Zyklon B Zombies” to her fate?

To be clear: I don’t mean at all to suggest that TG was a fascist band. Like their punky contemporaries, TG traded in fascist iconography in a spirit of transgressive outrage, expressing their hot indignation with equally heated symbols. And other British post-punk acts flirted with fascist themes and images, ranging from ambiguous dalliance (Joy Division’s overt references to Yehiel De-Nur’s House of Dolls and to Rudolph Hess; and just what was the inspiration for Death in June’s band name?) to more assertive satire (see Current 93’s appealingly bonkers Swastikas for Noddy [LAYLAH Antirecords, 1988]). But a more problematic populist undercurrent in British punk persisted through the late 1970s. The dissolution of Sham 69—due in large part to the National Front’s attempts to appropriate the band’s working-class anger as a form of white pride—opened the way for a clutch of clueless, cynical or outright racist Oi! bands to attempt to impose themselves as the face of blue-collar English punk. And literally so: the Strength through Oi! compilation LP (Decca Records, 1981) featured notorious British Movement activist Nicky Crane on its cover. It didn’t help that the record’s title seemed to allude to the Nazis’ “Strength through Joy [Kraft durch Freude]” propaganda initiative.

Of course, it’s unfair to tar all Oi! bands with an indiscriminate brush. A few bands whose songs were opportunistically stuck onto Strength through Oi! by the dullards at Decca Records — Cock Sparrer and the excellent Infa Riot — tended leftward in their politics, and were anything but racists. But for a lot of the disaffected kids sucking down pints of Bass and singing in the Shed at Stamford Bridge, it wasn’t much of a leap from the punk pathetique of the Toy Dolls to Skrewdriver’s poisonous palaver.

In the States, a similarly complicated story can be recovered:

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In numerous ways, hardcore intensified punk’s confrontational qualities, musically and aesthetically. The New York hardcore scene made a fetish of its inherent violence, which complemented the music’s sharpened impact. So it’s hard to know precisely what to make of the photo on the cover of Victim in Pain (Rat Cage Records, 1984). If inflicting violence was an essential element of belonging in the NYHC scene, with whom to identify: the Nazi with the pistol, or the abject Ukrainian Jewish man, on his knees and about to tumble into the mass grave?

Agnostic Front seemed to provide a measure of clarity on the record, which included the song “Fascist Attitudes.” The lyric uses “fascist” as a condemnatory term. But the behaviors the song engages as evidence of fascism are intra-scene acts of violence: “Why should you go around bashing one another? […] / Learning how to respect each other is a must / So why start a war of anger, danger among us?” That’s a rhetoric familiar to anyone who participated in early-1980s hardcore; calls for scene unity were ubiquitous, and the theme is obsessively addressed on Victim in Pain. But the signs of inclusivity most visibly celebrated on the NYHC records and show flyers of the period were a skinhead’s white, shaven pate; black leather, steel-toe boots; and heavily muscled biceps. Those signifiers clearly link to the awful cover image of Strength through Oi! The forms of identity recognized and concretized in the songs’ first-person inclusive pronouns have a clear referent.

Agnostic Front wasn’t the only NYHC band to refer to and engage World War Two-period fascism. Queens natives Dave Rubenstein and Paul Bakija met at Forest Hills High School—the same school at which John Cummings (Johnny) befriended Thomas Erdelyi (Tommy), laying the groundwork for the formation of the Ramones. Rubenstein and Bakija also took stage names (Dave Insurgent and Paul Cripple) and formed Reagan Youth. But unlike the Ramones, there was nothing tentative or ambivalent about Reagan Youth’s politics. Rubenstein’s parents, after all, were Holocaust survivors. The band’s name riffed on “Hitler Youth,” but specifically did so to draw associations between Reagan and Hitler, between American conservatism’s 1980s resurgence and the Nazi’s hateful, genocidal agenda. Songs like “New Aryans” and “I Hate Hate” accommodated no uncertainties.

Still, it’s interesting that Victim in Pain and Reagan Youth’s Youth Anthems for the New Order (R Radical Records, 1984) were released only months apart, by bands in the same scene, sometimes sharing bills at CBGBs’ famous matinees of the period. And while Reagan Youth toured with Dead Kennedys, it’s Agnostic Front’s “Fascist Attitudes” that’s closer in content to the most famous punk rock putdown of Nazis.

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It’s odd what comes back around: Martin Hannett, whom Biafra playfully chides at the track’s very beginning, produced much of Joy Division’s music, moving the band away from its brittle early sound to the fulsome atmospheres of the Factory records, and to a wider listenership. “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” similarly addresses a formerly obscure, tight scene opening to a greater array of participants, some of whom were attracted solely to hardcore’s reputation for violence. Like “Fascist Attitudes,” the Dead Kennedys’ song itemizes fighting at shows as its chief complaint, and as a principal marker for “Nazi” behavior. Biafra’s lyric eventually gets around to somewhat more focused ideological critique: “You still think swastikas look cool / The real Nazis run your schools / They’re coaches, businessmen, and cops / In a real fourth Reich, you’ll be the first to go.” The kiss-off to punk’s vapid romance of the swastika (it “looks cool”) complements the speculative treatment of a “real fourth Reich.” Both operate at the level of abstraction. The casual, superficial relation to the symbol’s aesthetic assumes a sort of safety from the real, material consequences of its application. And the emergence of a fascist political regime is dangled as a possible future event. That speculative futurity undoes the “real” in “real Nazis.” The threat is ultimately a metaphorical construct. The Nazis are metaphorical “Nazis.”

Still, it’s the song’s chorus that resonates most powerfully. So much so that the song has found its way into other artworks.

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Jeremy Saulnier’s Green Room (2015) is frequently identified as a horror film on streaming services. We could split hairs over that genre marker. The film gets quite graphically bloody, but there’s no psychotic slasher killer, no supernatural force at work. And cinematically, the film is a lot more interested in anxiety and dramatic tension than it is in inspiring revulsion or disgust. It terrifies, more than it horrifies. What’s especially compelling about the film (aside from Imogen Poots’ excellent performance, and Patrick Stewart’s menacing turn as charismatic fascist Darcy Banks) is its interest in embedding the viewer in a social context in which the Nazis are a lot less metaphorical, a lot more real. In Green Room, the kids in the punk band the Ain’t Rights are warned about the club they have agreed to play: “It’s mostly boots and braces down there.” And they understand the terms. What they can’t quite imagine is a room — a scene, a political Real — in which fascism is dominant. Their recognition of the stakes of the Real comes too late. The violence is already in motion. In that world, the Dead Kennedys song provides a nice slogan, but symbolic action alone is entirely inadequate.

OK, sure, Green Room is a fiction. Its violence is necessarily aestheticized, distorted and hyperbolized. But perhaps the film’s most urgent source of horror can be located in its plausible connections to the social realities of our material, contemporary conjuncture. You don’t have to dig very deep into the Web to find thousands of records made by white nationalist and neo-fascist-allied bands, many, many of which deploy stylistic chops identified with punk rock and hardcore. You can listen. You can buy. (And yeah, I’m not going to link to any of that miserable shit, because fuck them. If you do your own digging to see what’s what, be careful. It’s scary and upsetting in there.) It feels endless. And the virulent sentiments expressed on those records are echoed in institutional politics in the US and elsewhere: Steve King (and now Marjorie Taylor Greene, effectively angling for her seat in Congress), Nigel Farage, Alternative für Deutschland, elected leadership in Poland and Hungary. Explicit white supremacist music also has somewhat more carefully coded counterparts in much more visible media (the nightly monologuing on Fox News) and in very well-positioned, prominent policy makers (Stephen Miller, who’s on the record touting “great replacement” theory and is a big fan of The Camp of the Saints). It’s a complex, ideologically coherent network, working industriously to impose and install its hateful vision as the dominant political Real.

Sometimes it feels as if no progress at all has been made. Maybe we’re moving toward the reactionaries. Contrast Skokie in the late 1970s with Charlottesville in 2017. And now if the Neo-Nazis have licenses for their long guns, they can strut through American streets wearing them in the name of “law and order.” It’s even more disturbing that a subculture that wants to clothe itself in “revolution” and “radicalism” is so tightly in league with institutional politics. Say what you will about Siouxsie’s Nazi-fashion antics, no one suspected that her prancing echoed political activity, policy-making or messaging in Westminster.

So what’s a punk to do? It’s certain that a vigorously free society needs to preserve spaces in which unpopular speech can be uttered and exchanged. Punk should pride itself on defending those spaces. But speech that operates in conjunction with an ascendant political power and ideological agenda doesn’t need defense or energetic attempts to preserve its right to existence. In October of 2020, that speech (in this case, speeches being written by Miller, texts by folks who have spent time in Tucker Carlson’s writer’s room and songs by white supremacist hardcore bands) has become synonymous with political right itself.

So now more than ever, it’s important to be active in the public square, to stand up to the fascists and to say it, often and out loud:

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Jonathan Shaw

#dusted magazine #punk'd history #jonathan shaw #punk rock #siouxsie and the banshees #throbbing gristle #agnostic front #dead kennedys #green room #mdc

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