#men who see women as a public commodity
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Men love to believe women do everything with men in mind. Aiming to impress them. Especially in public. In reality, no woman wastes her thoughts on dorks with insecurities who don’t respect her. She would never choose such a miserable existence.
#men who see women as a public commodity#weirdo behavior#women live in their heads rent free#while our thoughts are on Starbucks & Target runs#women#we just existing#and they’re mad#queue are so beautiful to me#trash men#dorks
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And so it makes sense that these are now the places where fascism grows; that’s what these places were designed for. The suburbs were invented as a reactionary tool against the women’s liberation and civil rights movements. The US government, in concert with banks, landowners, and home builders, created a way to try and stop all that, by separating people into single homes, removing public spaces, and ensuring that every neighborhood was segregated via redlining. The suburbs would keep white women at home, and would keep white men at work to afford that home. These were explicit goals of the designers: “No man who owns his house and lot can be a Communist,” said the creator of Levittown, the model suburb. “He has too much to do.”
The reason Target has become the locus of today’s particular right-wing backlash is the same reason countless viral TikToks attempt to convince women that they’re at risk of being kidnapped every time they’re in a parking lot. It’s the reason why true crime is one of the most popular podcast genres in America, and why many refuse to travel without a gun by their side and shoot people if they set foot on their driveway.
[...]
It is of course true that these mass hysterias are part of an organized right-wing movement that is attacking human rights across the country—through legislation banning abortion, gender-affirming care, and books, and making it illegal for educators to teach American history accurately. But the shape this movement has taken is not coincidental; it is in fact the product of the unique shape of public life in America, or lack thereof. Suburbanites do not have town squares in which to protest. They do not have streets to march down. Target has become the closest thing many have to a public forum.
We often hear that urban areas are more liberal and suburban ones more conservative, and we’re often told that this is because of race. That may be partly true, though cities are whiter than ever and suburbs more diverse than ever. Instead, it may be that suburbanism itself, as an ideology, breeds reactionary thinking and turns Americans into people constantly scared of a Big Bad Other.
The suburban doctrine dictates that public space be limited, and conflict-free where it exists; that private space serve only as a place of commodity exchange; that surveillance, hyper-individualism, and constant vigilance are good and normal and keep people safe. It is an ideology that extends beyond the suburbs; it infects everything. Even cities, as Sarah Schulman writes in The Gentrification of the Mind, have become places where people expect convenience and calmness over culture and community. What is a life of living in a surveilled and amenity-filled high-rise and ordering all your food and objects from the Internet to your door if not a suburban life? To make matters worse, the people who have adopted this mindset do not see it as an ideology, but as the normal and right state of the world; they, as Schulman writes, “look in the mirror and think it’s a window.” So when anything, even a gay T-shirt, disrupts their view, they become scared.
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There is nothing wrong with being mindful of your own personal safety.
We all have a right to feel uncomfortable, and to act accordingly. It’s okay to cross the road to avoid others, I do this myself.
So too we should all be mindful of how we can make others feel safer when walking home at night – this is just basic common decency.
But what isn’t okay; is to fear monger, vilify and create a cultural panic around ‘men’ as a group.
To talk about men as if they’re monsters forever lurking the shadows; comparing experiences with men to walking through a room of snakes, or swimming in a shark tank, and yes, eating from a bowl of poisoned M&Ms.
This is not advocacy. This is ignorance, and hate.
Neither do such thought experiments help women ‘feel safe’ either. In fact, such terrifying analogies will likely make them feel the opposite.
Neither do you get to tell men (who are at a significantly higher risk), that they can walk the streets at whatever time they like, without fear or consequence – under the protective shield of so called ‘male privilege’.
Walking home at night is not an opportunity for you to inject your bigoted political ideas around men, or stoke fear and division.
I am tired of it.
I am tired of the endless pearl clutching.
I am tired of seeing the conversation of violent crime centred on highly privileged millionaire celebrity women, who are not at risk, and taken away from those who are – which is young, inner city, working class black boys.
I am tired of the conversation making no effort to understand what shapes violent crime, or how to reduce it, to instead fan the flames of a gender war.
I am tired of seeing tragic stories hijacked for political ends, to become yet another bludgeon to hit ‘yes all men’ with.
It is boring. It is divisive. And most of all, it doesn’t achieve anything.
So let’s look at the numbers, for a more reasonable and evidence based insight into violent crime.
--
Sources:
[1] https://tinyurl.com/5ah8vw34
[2] https://ucr.fbi.gov/crime-in-the-u.s/2019/crime-in-the-u.s.-2019/topic-pages/tables/table-39
[3] https://www2.census.gov/programs-surveys/popest/tables/2010-2019/national/asrh/nc-est2019-agesex.xlsx
[4] https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulationandcommunity/crimeandjustice/articles/homicideinenglandandwales/march2022
[5] https://www.researchgate.net/publication/31065232_Gender_motivation_and_the_accomplishment_of_street_robbery_in_the_United_Kingdom
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Xians will thank their god for everything good in their lives, but are pathologically incapable of blaming it for the bad things that happen. It's either "free will" or "Satan" or some other excuse. This is hypocritical.
If you blame men as a category for violent crime, then you can also give credit to men as a category for the decline of violent crime over the years. To not do so would also be hypocritical.
Or you just blame the extreme minority who are actually responsible.
And if you're still like, nope, changes nothing, then okay. But just do one thing for me. Type: "I'm justified crossing the road when I encounter..." Then go look up violent crime by race, pro rata it, and see how you feel about finishing that sentence. I dare you. If one would make you feel racist about making assumptions about and blaming all members of one group, then the other should also make you feel sexist about making assumptions about and blaming all members of another group.
In fact, such terrifying analogies will likely make them feel the opposite.
This is, of course, a feature not a bug. Women's fear is a valuable political and ideological commodity.
"... as we know from the war on drugs and the war on terror, for those in the business of providing protection, high threat levels are bread and butter. Likewise, for those in the business of healing race relations, racial division is your sworn enemy but your secret friend—so much so that wounding and healing become part of the same operation."
-- Lyell Asher, "Why Colleges Are Becoming Cults."
The same thing applies here. The point of stupid analogies and stories is the same as the threat of hell: to control and manipulate, to gain authority by building dependence through fostering fear.
When someone is encouraging you to be afraid, stop for a moment and ask yourself, why. What do they get out of it?
#The Tin Men#violent crime#misandry#gynocentrism#gynocentric#stranger violence#religion is a mental illness
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jones when predators take advantage of self ID, when orgs push for legislation that is detrimental to women or when perverse trans identifying males victimize women for the thousandth time:. You're demonizing a BeSIEgEd minority based on the actions of the unrepresentative few! BIGOTRY
jones when rando talks about TRANSGENDERISM, a regressive trend, not even fucking people: omg it's a genocideeee 😱
jones when a completely random person at a gender critical outing in a park says something weird: all GCs believe in weird shit!
jones when Gussie Grips protests that completely unfair and unpopular GRA reform shit: Omg they're such weirdos! Anyway, do you want to hear about me endorsing a suck dick for socialism t-shirt cuz I am a gay man who sucks dick? How about me defending gay men having sex in public places which is an offense? Orrr me ignoring how many young gay men get assaulted in these sketchy clubs that I defend with my life? Anyway, I can't sew a tshirt but i can suck dick and I sure love getting railed hard! I bet my 1m followers love seeing me reply to Twitter accounts that share repulsive porn of irl men! And I also endorse "sEx WOrK" or women viewing themselves as a commodity and traumatizing themselves so they don't starve!
He's a hypocrite.
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‘Trek’ is a burden, blessing for actress McFadden
17 Feb 1988 - Evansville Press
Transcript below
LOS ANGELES — Actress Gates McFadden, a cast member of the Fox television series “Star Trek: The Next Generation,” projects a certain ambivalence about all the attention she’s been getting.
The series (seen in Evansville on WEVV-Channel 44) has done well enough across the country and has been renewed for next season. That gives McFadden a chance to develop her role as Dr. Beverly Crusher, whose involvement in the crises aboard the star-ship Enterprise go far beyond any woman's role in the original “Star Trek” of the 1960s.
To hear McFadden's assessment of the situation, the high visibility has the potential for becoming as much a burden as a blessing.
“In (creator and executive producer) Gene Roddenberry's original pilot, a woman was the first mate,” McFadden said, “but the network (NBC) didn’t feel that the public was ready for it, so it was changed, and all the central characters were men.
“I do think there is a difference now,” she said, “although there are still instances where women have all of the emotional parts, and I would prefer to see us a little more involved in the decision-making.”
“That's something that worked on the space shuttle, where both men and women were involved in positions of skill and, authority.”
McFadden paused a moment and then laughed, “I do notice that in the old series, the alien women were always throwing themselves at the men on the ship, weren't they?”
Her concern about the substance of her part extends to the public’s response to it. The popularity of the current series draws from an intensely loyal core of “Trekkies” nationwide. McFadden’s fan mail seems to represent a cross-section of who's watching and why.
“The nice ones (letters) are when people talk genuinely about what they like about the show, the fact that they like my character as a role model, or how nice it is to see someone in a high position who is also a mother,” she said.
“But some people say, ‘I want 12 pictures signed, and this one’s for my Aunt Louise,’ with no mention of ‘thanks for your work.’ Then you realize that you're just a commodity to them.”
McFadden’s name has been a familiar one in New York theater as a performer, director and choreographer. Still, her current high visibility hasn't generated hordes of fans dogging her day-to-day routines.
On the other hand, she also is well aware of the “Star Trek” legacy, one that became so strong over time and countless reruns that most of the original cast members were inexorably linked to their on-screen characters.
Asked about a similar identity crisis, she said, “Ask me the same question a year from now. Whenever I work on something, it’s a joy for me to become very involved in it.”
“I don't know ...there are always prices you pay for anything in life, and it becomes a question of whether you want to pay that price or not.”
#gates mcfadden#dr crusher#beverly crusher#type: article#media: TNG#star trek: the next generation#star trek tng#tng#st:tng#year: 1988
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A victory for women
When Wendy Kou read the headline on a Chinese social media platform about whether sanitary pads should be sold on railways, she frowned. The debate was heated. Some felt it provided a basic women's health service, while others vehemently opposed it as a private matter and felt that women should come to trains prepared.
"I found the request totally normal. It is surprising to see that so many people are against it and raising it to the level of bigger issues," she told NPR by phone from Chongqing city, where she currently attends university. For her, the question should not even be asked.
But for many people in China, a country that ranks 107 out of 156 countries in the World Economic Forum's 2021 Gender Gap Index, it is still considered embarrassing to openly discuss menstruation or to take out sanitary pads in public.
"Private items such as sanitary pads are not sold on railways, and passengers need to bring them by themselves," a customer service representative of China Railway, the state-owned railroad operator, replied via social media when a female passenger requested that pads be sold on trains.
But who decides what is private?
Kou decided to speak up. Majoring in visual design, she drew up a series of posters about menstruation and posted them around her university's campus. "I think that 'period' shouldn't be a shameful word for women to speak out in public," she said.
One of her inspirations comes from the common experience of buying sanitary pads in China: The checker always wraps them in a black plastic bag before handing them back to customers, assuming it is embarrassing to be seen with them.
"It is like an unsaid convention. So, why not design a transparent plastic bag, with 'NO PERIOD SHAME' [printed] on it?" Kou said.
A male relationship influencer with nearly 1.3 million followers on Weibo, the popular Chinese social media platform, doesn't think the discussion has anything to do with period shame. "Sanitary pads are not emergency supplies, unlike Band-Aids, disinfectants, or quick-acting heart relievers. Therefore, since it is a commodity, the cost must be considered," he posted, opposing the idea of selling pads. "Don't be a giant baby, whether it is provided or not by the railways, you should learn to plan ahead and be independent," he added.
Another tech influencer put it more directly. "Railways only provide food, they are not grocery stores," he wrote on Weibo. "Are you asking railways to sell sanitary pads together with peanuts and beers in the dining car?" He showed his embarrassment by using a facepalm emoji. The post was liked 17,000 times.
For Zudy Zheng, co-founder of Period Pride, mainland China's first social innovation group focusing on menstruation health and hygiene, the driving force behind this debate is gender inequality.
"We are not asking for free pads on trains, but a commercial sale of these products, as meals and poker cards are all being sold on trains," Zheng said. "The society is operating according to a default standard set up by men, so it is difficult to understand women's needs."
Calling for pads as an essential item
A group formed by young women, Period Pride wants to bring the subject of menstruation out into the open in China and works to fights against the stigma surrounding it. To celebrate 2021's International Women's day, it launched an online campaign called #NothingToBeAshamedOf, encouraging women to openly share their hygiene products and personal stories related to menstruation.
During the past two years, they have been helping women obtain menstruation products in some cities where China's zero-COVID policy enforced stringent lockdowns, limiting access to these supplies.
"Government only sent us masks, and some families with difficulties would receive food like rice and oil; sanitary pads were never provided," Xiaomin, a health worker in the Chinese city of Ruili, on the southwestern border with Myanmar, told NPR by phone, "When the city is locked down, you cannot go anywhere, it is hard to buy them," Xiaomin said, giving only her first name because of security concerns.
As a health worker, Xiaomin needs to wear an airtight hazmat suit for at least four hours a day, which is especially uncomfortable when she has heavy menstrual bleeding.
"Once the suit is on, we can't drink and go to the toilet," she said.
When she received pads sent out by Period Pride, which raised money and managed to transport thousands packages of pads to Ruili during the lockdown, she felt like she was being supported. "I hope that pads can be provided as an essential item to female health workers. It is our natural need."
Promoting open discussion of periods
Growing up with her parents and her brother in a village outside of Chongqing city, Nova Tan knew that her period should not be discussed openly, as her mother always hid sanitary pads carefully and threw them away immediately after usage.
"Behaviors are even more convincing than words. My mom has never left any traces of period at home," said Tan. "So without saying it explicitly, I know that period is considered embarrassing."
Tan learned about menstruation from an older sister, which saved her from panicking when her first period came. It wasn't until high school that menstruation was mentioned in her biology class, "but it was too late," she sighs.
Her situation is not unique. A 2020 survey conducted by China Family Planning Association and Tsinghua University showed that only half of nearly 55,000 students surveyed from thousands of universities nationwide said they received sex education in school, and less than 15% said they felt "very satisfied" with what they were taught.
Today in some parts of China, menstruating women are still seen as "dirty." Tan remembers that she was told not to go to wedding ceremonies when she was having her period, which would be seen as inappropriate at festive occasions. "Especially in rural areas, this is a widely practiced custom," she recalled.
"If we can have a scientific explanation of the period when we were young, we won't feel ashamed when having a period," Tan said.
Last year, Tan created a podcast called "TruffleRice." Her idea is to have conversations about female issues with two friends, and their first topic was menstruation.
"Discussing these issues openly would probably help to empower women," Tan said.
As for who won the debate on whether to sell sanitary pads on trains, it's hard to say. But two weeks after the social media firestorm, some noticed that the period products were being sold on China Railway.
#China#menstration#Wendy Kou#Access to menstrual products#Of course this made some men mad#Period Pride
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It’s no secret that gay men can be defensive of their cultural territory. This of course can be one of the major causes of biphobia and transphobia within the LGBTQ+ community as often what gay men culturally claim goes beyond their domain, like the importance of trans women in gay liberation or the invisibility or minimizing of trans men in queer culture. This unjust defensiveness has been more and more critiqued by queer folks but it’s important to realize that an internal critique like this can be taken out of its context as well and led to more culturally dangerous conversations about the concerns of gay men.
I want to make it clear that the zealous gatekeping by some folks is not excusable and has been harmful and can create real problems for real people like the example of the accusation from some about Kit Connor queerbaiting.
But I’ve been reflecting on the discourse around it more and more and I just want to vocalize that it’s not inherently wrong for gay people, bi people, trans people etc etc, to want authentic representation by gay , bi , trans or queer performers or writers. It’s fine to be frustrated generally about how queer culture is produced by creatives who don’t represent a certain aspect of a queer identity or to be angry with how queer content that is consumed by a significantly cishet general audience.
It’s even fine to roll your eyes at creatives who are unlabeled but who benefit in some way from queer media that attracts the attention and money of people who seek out gay media, bi media, trans media etc etc. But it’s equally as important to be serious about people who are in the closet still. Many queer people don’t want a public label for fear of it limiting them professionally or creating unwanted issues on their personal life which I think is important to respect. Some honestly don’t care about labeling their identity and it wouldn’t make sense to impose one on them.
There is a tough break in queer reality, that identity is so important to many and protecting that cultural ground we build out for ourselves is the only way to maintain that empowerment. At the same time many queer people don’t find identity empowering and seek to be who they are beyond a public label.
Gatekeeping is never really morally justifiable. It always limits beyond its purpose and ends up harming and excluding some undeservedly. At the same time there is a real fear that what it means for something to be gay, bi, lesbian, trans, queer, ace or non-binary becomes unbound to the reality of the people who directly experience those identities because it’s becomes a commodity that can be used by anyone who sees it as a free cultural territory to explore creatively. There is no easy answer just stop being over zealous and creating unnecessary harm to queer people in your fight to protect queer people.
A similar issue I’ve been thinking about is in the idea that Byler might be queerbait. That the writers might have either intentionally or unintentionally written Mike Wheeler as queer. Now to the extent we can hold writers and directors responsible for an audience interpretation is ambiguous at best.. but it’s become increasingly clear that there is an audience interpretation of Mike’s character as queer and this has caused a reaction among some on the fan base. They fear outrage that Mike’s character could be considered queerbait if season 5 ends with Mike’s sexuality not being made explicitly queer after hinting at it for seasons and many in the audience reading it that way. So these anti queer Mike “fans” try to actively counter on places like Reddit by claiming Byler theories are delusional. This vocal reaction to Byler theories tells us we can hold the creatives behind the show somewhat accountable as it’s become an interpretation that the fan base is wrestling with actively on all sides so they can’t act ignorant of it going forward. They have to address it somehow and it’ll be very interesting how they do it season 5. I assume they always planned for Byler so I don’t have real concerns about it but there is the chance I am wrong and there will be a important conversation again around queerbait.
Queerbaiting is a real concern for many queer people who are rightfully angry at being exploited but not truly recognized by the culture around us.
Anyway just thoughts, there is no simple solution.
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Street Smarts: Chapter 27
The beaming afternoon sun shines down upon one of the big apple’s supermarket districts, the shops lining the blocks reflect the sunbeams off their windows to brighten the cold concrete streets; to brighten the lives of those stuck in the mundane routine of shopping. Weather it be for everyday necessities or the occasional, but expensive commodities; the never ending crowd of bustling shoppers come in and out of the many stores and supermarkets that line the shopping blocks; flowing in with surpluses of money and spewing out with whatever they could spend it all on. A dense looping river of commerce streaming through but a small section of the NYC.
Among the crowd of bustling shop goers, a pair of hooded figures attempting to discretely stroll through the crowd while carrying bags of groceries; no doubt wishing to remain anonymous even among this packed crowd of everyday shoppers.
When the reflected sunlight glimmers off one of the windows to beam straight into the face of one of these people they attempt to veer their vision away from the bright glow, the figures hood ends up slipping back to reveal them to be none other than the chaos triggering psychic himself, Thursotte; grunting from the flash of light hitting his eyes.
The other figure beside him is quick to grasp his hood to drape it back over his head, something that nearly throws the young man off and prompting him to ask:
“Ah! Easy, Frida. You don’t gotta be so rough.”
“Well, maybe if you keep that hood on straight, I wouldn’t have to tug it back on you every 20 minutes.”
“Its not my fault that this coat barely fits. I swear a gentle fall breeze could send this thing flying off me.”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to get out of the safe house for a bit. And you know damn well why we have to where them.” Frida reminds him.
“Yeah, I know. Conceal our identity in the dense public. But couldn’t we have found something more…fitting. Like a beanie and a scarf. I like beanies, they’re the weird off shoot cousins of hats.”
“A beanie and a scarf wouldn’t cut it enough to hide us. Besides, I hate scarfs; I cant stand the way they feel on my face.”
Digging into the pocket of her jeans, the wall merging psychic pulls out the red key they need to return back to their special safehouse; looking over through the oncoming street as she tells Thursotte:
“Now, come on. Help me find a door to use this key on.”
When hearing her request bait no response out from the young man, she glances back to discover the young man standing a far ways out to stare towards the end of the supermarket district; his gaze fixated to what lay beyond the polished face of the block.
Approaching him to share in the same view, she finds Thurs looking over towards one of the cities highways, where upon a constant, never ending stream of cars, trucks, and other vehicles rolls right over. But his attention is not focused on the vehicles that stride over the concrete roads, but rather of what stands underneath its cold shadow. Sitting at the bottom of the towering highway stood a homeless camp blanketed by the shadow it casts; where dozens of unfortunate men and women facing hard times gather together for the sake of survival.
The simple act of gazing to this unfortunate site so and knowing Thursotte long enough, Frida already puts the pieces together and starts to waltz over to the site as she goes:
“Alright, come on.”
Following his fellow coat cloaked friend down to the homeless camp, the rumbling of the cars above reach Thursotte’s ears as they approach; some of these trembling shaking the young man entire body. The people living underneath the bridge witness the pair coming and start to pull themselves up from their spots of squalor; a middle aged man donning drabs and coats welcoming the two with a hearty:
“Evening, folks. There uh, there something that I can offer ya in there here neighborhood of ours?”
“Oh no no no. See, we wound up noticing you guys coming in and since the both of us were doing some grocery shopping, we figure to ease some of your troubles.” fibs Thurs, digging into his bag of groceries to pull out an entire value pack of canned goods.
“Real kind of you two there. Don’t get many people coming with any of that in mind.” the man admits, taking the offerings.
“Not even when next to a supermarket?” questions Frida.
“Especially next to a supermarket. Folks around here usually too busy thinking about there own budgets to bother; and that’s even if they notice us.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yeah, but we get by; havin people here go around the district and beggin folks for whatever they can scrap up, digging through dumpsters, snatching up leftovers off tables from outside. Ain’t pretty, but hey, that’s life.”
Out from underneath one of the tents close by does another man crawl out to thoughtlessly inject himself in the middle of their conversation, claiming out loud how:
“Okay, Mertins. I counted up the money, and it seems like we have just enough to…”
His speech wanders off when upon finding him in the middle of conversing with both of the psychic shoppers, noticing the bags of groceries they carry; both Thurs and Frida’s generous expressions begin to sour as he lets out a little hiss.
“Ooh…This is…this is kind of awkward, ain’t it.”
“Care to justify the whole begging method again?” asks Thursotte.
“Now, I know how this looks; but believe me. There’s a hella good reason why we got cash stashed here.”
“You got 30 seconds.” claims Frida.
“See, economic disparity isn’t the only thing we humble folks have to account for in these trying times. Truth be told, there are some other…services that have been unfortunately be burdened upon us.”
“I don’t get it. If you guys can savage for food and other stuff, why scrape for money at all.”
That much needed tidbit of information is hastily put on hold when a sharp whistling suddenly pierces across the entire camp; a distinct sound of which sends a wave of terror and tension looming above everyone.
“Whoa, the hell’s with the sudden mood shift here? Somebody find a dead body?” Frida questions.
“Oh lord. They’re early.” shutters Mertins.
“Who’s early. What’s going on?” wonders Thursotte.
“No time to explain. You two gotta hide. They catch us receiving handouts, they’ll kill us.”
“What!?”
“Quick in here!’ he then urges, shoving the two underneath one of the nearest tents.
“The hell is going on!?” demands Frida.
“Shh…Keep quiet.”
Stashed right into the cover of a cloth tent, the pair pipe themselves down and listen as Mertins shovels back out back towards the edge of the camp; the homeless man dusting himself off a tad as two people alongside a dog barge their way in.
“Ah, Janice, Mathew; you two are early.”
“Yeah, we we’re shopping through around here and figured we go ahead and stop by to collect.” the man called Mathew informs.
“I see. Well, don’t worry. We got the dough.” Mertins claims, the homeless person with the money coming up to present the stack of gathered green.
“This better be enough chief. If it even a dollar off-” the woman named Janice threatens.
“Don’t worry about it, counted every piece myself; all 300 of them.” insures the homeless chief.
“I hope so. You know how generous we are, letting your lot camp out down in mob turf underneath the overpass. And we know how hard times can be for you guys; which is why we only ask for 300 a month. Say its a pretty fair deal.” claims Mathew.
“Well, we do what we can in the middle of looking for food and water. Searching through cans, bathrooms, dumpsters, some of us did things we ain’t too proud of.” admits Mertins.
“Hey, long as you raked in the dough, what’s it matter?”
“285, 290, 295…Got about five off.” Janice claims when finished counting.
With only five dollars short of the fulfilled quota, Mathew veers his contemptuous glare against the homeless chief; drips of nervous sweat running down Mertins brow as the mobsters eyes pierce through his person.
“What? B-b-bu-but We counted every bill. There should be 300 there.” he claims.
“You calling my girl over here a liar?” the male mobster questions, marching closer to the homeless chief.
“No. I-I…I didn’t…We counted them all, I swear…” Mertins pleads, blanketed by the mobsters looming shadow.
Before the chief could further beg for his innocents, he is struck in the side of the head by the mobsters hardened fist; a blow of which instantly knocks him down to the cold concrete floor.
The rest of the homeless people can only watch in terror as the crooks that rule over them mercilessly beat their chief down right in front of them, with tiny bits of blood and snot splattering across the pavement.
Watching this violence transpire before his eyes from underneath the tent, Thursotte grows ever furious upon watching them abuse the leader of all these unfortunate souls into submission; tempted to race out to aid the old homeless man. Yet the moment he attempts to spring out from cover does he suddenly feel his wall merging partner aside him clutch at his arm; Thurs turning over to Frida to find her wordlessly telling him to not do it.
The mobster towering over the chief soon grows tired of swinging his fist into the homeless man, looking down to see his work having reduce the unfortunate soul into a sniveling, pleading mess; Mathew rising up from atop Mertins to stand tall over him.
“Please, stop…” the chief can only plead.
“Seems like its starting to get through to you and rest of you roaches under here why you shouldn’t try to stint us. You all better make up for that five by tonight; cause if you don’t, you ain’t the only example I’m gonna be making around here.” the mobster threatens.
“Co-count on it, Mertins. We’ll have it by the time you get back.” promises the chief, rising from the mess of snot and blood.
“You better.” Janice threatens, both of them beginning to take their leave.
The mobsters planned departure from the camp is suddenly put on hold when the dog with them starts to sniff at one of the tents close by, the same tent that the chief hid away his visitors in; the hound constantly barking and growling at what may be lying underneath.
“You got guests?” wonders Mathew, glancing to the chief with an accusing glare.
“Its just one of the residence. The tent was left here, so they decide to move from the back to here. More warmth, you know.”
“Well, how suppose we pay them a little visit, get to know them.” Janice figures, marching towards the tent.
“Hang on!” Mertins interrupts standing in the way of the goon.
“They-they’ve been out all night last night getting the last of your payment, maybe give them a bit of a break.”
Oppose to the chiefs wishes, Janice roughly shoves him aside to reach over towards the tent, clutching at the thick cloth to yank it away to see what could be underneath. Her anticipating grin deflates however when finding there be not a soul hidden among the tarp, confusingly glaring over to the homeless chief expecting an answer.
“Oh, guess they must’ve woke up.”
Their suspicions left unsatisfied, the pair quietly depart alongside their canine companion; the chief waving them off with a kindly:
“Have a fine rest of your day, you two.”
Once the mobsters were out of site, the chief lets out a relieved sigh as both Frida and Thursotte emerge out from the wall behind him; Mertins gasping while quickly turning over to them when Thurs goes:
“Jeez, what monsters.”
Though at first perplex over where they hid and how they had reappeared so seamlessly, the chief decides to drop that confusing tidbit to add how:
“True. It gets pretty rough having to scrape up money for those two. Simply begging for the money doesn’t get us enough anymore. Some of us had to resort to some real dirty deeds, stealing and robbing other people; makes us sick doing it. But with people who are out of options, what else you expect us to do?”
“Why not swipe some hundreds from one of the supermarkets sitting around here. Those soulless corporate bastards are only human in the most tangible legal sense.” suggest Frida.
“Oh, no no no no no no. I can’t possibly deal with drawing one of their ire. The gangster’s we can tolerate. But the multi billion dollar corporations with limitless resources and on the side of the law, no thank you. Pretty sure pissing just one of them off would get this whole camp cleared out in hours.”
“Wish there was more we could give.” laments Thurs.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. You’ve already done more than most folks that pass us by. I’m sure what you’ve given us’ll quiet the stomachs of those who hadn’t had a meal in days.”
“Yeah, hope things get better for you all out here. Glad we got to know you all.” Frida departs alongside Thurs with.
Out from the edge of the homeless camp, the duo depart back to the shopping districts main streets with groceries and necessities in hand; Frida keeping her eyes peeled for a door she could use the key back to the safe house with.
Looking right up to his wall merging partner, Thursotte takes a deep breath before he speaks his mind, Frida on the other hand already beating him to the punch by denying:
“No Thurs, we can’t help them.”
“Why not? You seen the terrible situation they’re in, how badly they get used and beaten when they already have nothing left. Its monstrous!” states Thursotte.
“Believe me, bud. I’d like more than anything to shove a hollow point through their heads; but given our current statues as wanted traitors, it be a little counter productive to jump in, guns blazing.”
“Still, we can’t just sit back and let it happen, there has to be something we can-”
“Thurs. I don’t think you’re getting the bigger picture here. Sure, we could run around, saving people and fighting off the mob; but not with the gigantic targets on our back.
If you’d have ran out, fight off those fucks and save the homeless people they threaten; but once word gets out couple of psychics running around playing hero, especially one that those asshole higher ups are actively looking for, they’ll tear that homeless camp to hell and back if there’s an inkling of a chance we’re there.”
Hearing the hard hitting fact of their traitorous identities holding the chance to bring about such terrible doom leaves Thursotte saddened and frustrated; their involvement risking not just them, but every unfortunate soul in that camp.
“Hey, no need to worry about it. With that surplus of cans we gave them, I’m sure they’ll be fine.” assures Frida, both of them heading towards the door of a marijuana shop.
Thrusting the red key into the doors hole, the way back into the psychic’s safehouse emerges to let the two of them back in; the wall merging psychic heading right on in while Thursotte takes a moment to peer back towards the direction of the camp.
“Thurs, come on. You’re letting all the warm air out.” he hears Frida urge, prompting him to follow her inside.
Trading the afternoon sun for the crisp evening night, the supermarket district is flooded with lights aplenty as the streetlights, signs, headlights pour all throughout the numerous blocks; the abundance of luminescence leaking into the homeless camp under the overpass like a pointed spotlight.
Despite the warming glow of the lights aimed their way, the people under the overpass bundle up in their tents to stave off the cruel cold night; some resorting to huddling together against the drawing chill. Though most of these unfortunate souls resort to hunker down and hide for the night, the chief among them stand at the foot of the camp in waiting for the mobsters who swore to return.
And approaching the edge of the homeless camp just as they promised, the two mobsters and their canine companion near; their eyes locked to the chief that stands between them and the rest of the shelter.
“Evening, Mertins. You got the 5 all saved up for us?” Mathew first questions.
“Well, with so little time for us to do anything, the most we gathered up is about 3 dollars.”
“Only 3 bucks in an afternoon? That’s fucking weak shit.” Janice criticizes.
“You try coming up with 5 bucks on the spot?” Mertins fires back with.
“Mertins, Mertins, Mertins. I think I’m understanding the problem here.” claims Mathew.
“Y…You are?”
“Of course. People like you’ve lost the motivation to keep going in life. Its why you all are living underneath this nasty urban armpit of a city block like bottom feeders instead of picking yourself back up.”
“Pardon me?”
“I know it can be hard, especially with how cruel the world is these days; trust me, I’ve been there. But a little piece of advice my daddy taught me is all I needed to hear to kick start my life right around.
“A man can’t climb a mountain without motivation.” the mobster surmises, slithering past the chief and towards the nearest tent.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding you all the right motivation.”
After a moment or two of parsing across the first row of tents and slumbering homeless people, the mobster reaches down to one of these unfortunate souls to clutch them by the scruff of their torn garments; the middle aged woman lets out a frightened yelp as she struggles to break from Mathews grasp.
“This one might do?” he claims, dragging the poor woman out from her sleeping bag.
“What do you think you’re doing!?” the chief exclaims, rushing over in an effort to make the mobster cease.
Yet before Mertins can even approach the assailant in question, he is suddenly struck from behind by the mobsters partner, who knocks him down to the cold concrete with just a simple blow to the side.
“I want you and the rest here to really remember this woman, what she looked like, what she sounds like. Because she won’t be the same when I bring her back.” threatens Mathew, dragging the poor woman out to the edge of the homeless camp.
Left kneeling on the pavement, there is little the chief could do as he watches the mobsters abduct the woman out from the safety of their camp and disappear out behind the nearby gas station.
From underneath the shadows cast by the back of the building, the mobsters throws the middle aged woman against the side of the gas station dumpster; the homeless woman clutching at her neck as she gets up off the ground.
“Now, if you just stand still and don’t scream, I swear I’ll make this quick.” Mathew proposes; lurching closer to the woman as he pulls out a metal pipe.
Left cornered in the shadowy pocket of this gas station, the homeless woman is left to only cower in fear upon the approaching mobster; the metal pipe in his hand letting out a horrid screech as he drags it across the ground. When his figure overshadows the cowering woman, Mathew heaves the pipe up like a baseball player waltzing up to bat; aiming carefully as he prepares to make a home run swing right against the poor woman’s head.
Yet just before the mobster could swing the dense metal pipe against the poor middle aged woman, they start to hear a commotion happen from the side of the gas station; Janice preparing for whoever may try and play hero here.
But instead of somebody emerging out from the shadows to stop them, a square trash can on wheels comes barreling out form the darkness towards the mobsters. Janice steps out of the can’s way as it comes rolling towards his partner in crime, with both Mathew and the woman he was about to take a crack at having the same idea and dashing out of harms way; the plastic can ramming straight into the front of the dumpster.
When the plastic trash slams right into the dumpster, something stirs within the depths of the waste receptacle; the constant rattling and screeching being heard from inside urging everyone to step back as whatever lies within awakens.
Springing out from the top of the dumpster do an entire pack of raccoons come flowing out from inside their hard iron nest; the mobsters and the homeless woman scrambling about as the trash mammals scatter all across the back of the gas station.
Flailing his metal pipe wildly down against the horde of raccoons, Mathew is only able to strike but a few of them before both him and his mobster partner are overwhelmed by the swarm’s number; this unexpected ambush giving the homeless woman amble time to make her escape.
Among attempting to fend off the swarm of trash digging mammals, the steel pipe accidentally slips out from the mobster’s hands and goes careening right into the bottom corner of the gas station; the blow strong enough to make the foundation of the corner crumble and send the piece of building tumbling down like a descending oak.
Though not a soul is hurt by the collapsing corner, its unexpected fall is enough to scare the swarm of raccoons off, leaving the mobsters in a mixed froth of confused terror; Janice breaking the silence between the recent incident with:
“What the fuck was that all about!?”
“God, I don’t…I don’t even where to start. The raccoons in the dumpster, the corner coming down, the trash can. Triple whammy shit, right there.” reviews Mathew.
“What about the old bitch we dragged in here. Those other bum’s are expecting us to drag her back to them as a bloody mess.”
“Eh, fuck it. She know’s better, she won’t show herself around again. Keep her friends back in that dump guessing. Right now, I just wanna chill out; unwind after going through all that shit.”
“Yeah, suppose we can just come back tomorrow. Tell them otherwise. I just wanna get the fur and rocks out of my hair.” concludes Janice, both of the mobster waltzing out from behind the gas station.
Much to the mobsters lack of awareness, the young man who had kick started the wacky sequence of accidental events had been watching the chaos unfold from the comfort of the gas stations bathroom window; Thurs letting out a relieved sigh upon finding his little ploy having succeed in fending off the cruel mobsters.
Glad to see that homeless woman didn’t get harmed. I was scared for a second that she’d get caught in the crossfire. But it seems everything turned out alright, so I better bail before those guys find out I was here.
Exiting out from the gas station bathroom, Thursotte stops dead in his tracks when he hears the clerk on the other side of the counter call for him; going:
“Ayo!”
“Uh…yeah?”
“You’ve been in there for like…15 minutes. You know the bathrooms are for paying costumers, right? You just gonna stand there, or you gonna buy something?”
“I have a better idea.” the chaos inducing psychic claims, pulling the key back to the safe house from his pocket.
Upon thrusting the crimson red key right into the bathrooms lock, the clerk is utterly astonished watching the bathroom door trade its blunt steel far an elaborately carved wooden face; the gas station worker watching as Thursotte waves him goodbye while entering through this doorway.
Witnessing the finely crafted doorway returning into a simple slab of steel, the clerk is swift hop over the counter to rush right on over to the bathroom door; the employee swinging it wide open to discover not a sign of the young man he had just seen go in.
From the door head had just came in from, Thursotte waltzes through the hall while whistling a jaunty tune; feeling proud of himself having successfully and secretively saved the life of the homeless woman. That chipper attitude takes an unexpected turn when coming around the corner to discover the Frida waiting for him on the other side, arms crossed and clearly upset.
“Uh…Hey, Frida…There something I can…”
“Where were you?” she cuts straight to the point with.
“Me, I was just out getting some fresh air, taking in that cool city night breeze and…um…”
“You went back to that homeless camp, didn’t you?”
“What, no. I just…” he attempts to lie.
though it was clear to him that any story he tries to spin her, she ain’t gonna by; letting out a defeated breath before he decides to answer more earnestly.
“What did you expect me to do? Just do nothing while a bunch of mobsters abuse a bunch of poor people!?”
“I expect you to take what I say this afternoon more seriously! You realize what might happen if those guys trace what happened back to us, right?”
“I was careful and made sure none of them knew I was there. To them, it might’ve just looked like a freak accident.” assures Thurs.
“And that’s all its ever gonna be. I don’t want you going out in the field without me again, are we clear?”
Seeing the chaos triggering psychic look at her silently with an upset eyes, she repeats more sternly:
“Are we clear?”
“Fine.”
This being the end of their little exchange, Frida strolls off taking Thurs’ word on him not going out on his own again; unaware of the accident triggering psychic have crossed his fingers upon making said promise.
Going against the wall merging psychic’s wishes, Thursotte sneaks out from the safe house garbed in a thick hoodie, returning to the supermarket district at the break of dawn.
And thought the warming light of the sun was welcoming, the site it shines upon is all but; Thurs gazing below the highway overpass in horror to discover the homeless camp having been left in ruins, the unfortunate souls left to pick up after the wreckage left behind.
Despite being tempted to simply ask them what happened, he know’s doing so out in broad daylight like this would no doubt look suspicious; so he instead decides to stealthily make his way towards the ruined camp from the side, sticking to the shadows cast by the sun.
Slithering across the darkened slat of shadows, Thurs sneaks behind one of the overpass’s concrete support beams, peaking out from behind to watch as some of the homeless people pick up what remains of their only shelter.
While trying to gather their belongings, one of them remarks on how:
“Last night; it was all so fast. That whole gang just showed up and wrecked just about everything in the blink of an eye.”
“Well, nothing we can do now, except pray they’ll make it.”
“Forget that. I’m not waiting around the next time those bastards wanna fuck with us. I’m packing it in.”
“You’re leaving? But this is one of the few places in the whole city that’s warm enough. Where else are you gonna hunker down?”
“Anywhere is better than here.” the homeless man claims, packing the last of his stuff before making his way out.
Perturbed over how severely these local mobsters had retaliated against this homeless community, Thurs sneaks away from the remains of the camp from the shadow cast by the overpass; determined to fix this injustice.
The blocks along the other end of the shopping district are lined with small shops and stores left mired with neglect and decay; seemingly not having had a good influx of costumers in what looked to be years. Those that do find themselves traveling through the nest of old shops simply just pass on through towards the much more popular and cost friendly supermarkets that lay on the other side, paying little to no mind to the other stores they simply stroll past. But within one of these very small stores does somebody do make their way through the door; a very familiar pair of mobsters making their way in a local burger joint.
“Still don’t know why we have to go all the way out here just for some lunch. Could’ve stopped over at a Burger King or something.” Mathew complains.
“Mat, Mat, Mat. Didn’t your daddy ever tell ya, the best kinds of burgers are made from love. The tenderness of a hand made beef patty just doesn’t taste the same as shoving that over processed shit down your throat.”
“Least it costs less than whatever price hikes crap these guys are pulling.”
“Trust me, Mat. The Extra couple bucks are worth it. You’re taste buds will thank you.” promises Janice, pulling out a five dollar bill from her dress.
“Is that the fiver that those bums thought they had when counting our pay the other day?” Mat questions.
“Maybe; I mean it don’t hurt to help yourself sometimes.”
“You sneaky bitch.” the mobster chides with a sly grin.
Slapping her hand upon the counter a few times, the mobster shouts for the cook shuffling in the back to claim how:
“Yo, were ready to order.”
“Might I suggest today’s special?” they hear him ask.
Specials? Didn’t know you guys did specials. What is it?”
“Today on the menu, we have…” the chef prepares to say as he lowers down from the back.
Out from the back of the kitchen and popping back up to the other side of the counter, the hooded chaotic psychic emerges out with a gun aimed squarely at them in one hand and a platter in the other.
“A shot of led to the head…And this delectable spread of steak fries it seems. Looks pretty good.”
“Whoa, holy shit! The hell you bringing this from a 0 to a 10 for!?” questions Mathew, nearly falling from his seat.
“You guys seem to feel pretty bigm bullying a bunch of poor people; tear what little they have left to pieces. Some of us more sympathetic bystanders are getting real sick of it.” explains Thursotte, putting the fries down on the counter.
“You can’t be serious? Threatening known mafia members for pushing around a bunch of city rodents? You know how stupid your being right now?” warns Janice.
“I guess I can’t really help it. Whenever I see someone getting roughed up and pushed around, I just wanna jump on in stop it.” the accident triggering psychic.
“Listen, buddy. We’re not being unreasonable with them. They wanna live underneath an overpass surrounded by stores without worry, then all they gotta do is-” Mathew attempts to explain, his words cut abruptly short when Thurs fires a warning shot between the two of them.
“I’m not in the mood to hear it. I don’t care what sort of twisted self justification you use to bully homeless people. What I wanna hear coming out of your mouth is who you work for.”
“Listen, bud. We don’t work for anybody but ourselves here.” Janice claims.
“What about Captain Shultz?” Mathew wanders.
“Man, shut the fuck up!”
“Shultz? And where’s he stationed at?” Thurs attempt to coax out.
“Oh, yeah. We’ll tell ya exactly where our captain is, lets just have a nice plate of fries over it.” Mathew says, quickly taking the platter of steaming fries and flipping them right in Thursotte’s face.
Thurs’ aim deterred by the hot plate of fries, both of the mobsters take the chance to try and make a daring bolt for the exit, the chaos inducing psychic letting off another shot in their general direction as he scrapes the pieces of fries off his face. The wayward bullet shatters one of the restaurant windows and makes the glass scatter out in all sorts of directions; one of the bigger shard just so happening to stab Mathew right in the arm.
“Fuck!” he curses.
“Keep moving dammit!” urges Janice.
Peeling off the last of the fries right off his face, Thurs wastes no time in pursuing after the pair, leaping right over the counter and sprinting straight for the door.
Rushing right outside the restaurant, Thursotte frantically looks across the streets for wherever they are, but find not a single trace of either of them anywhere across the block.
Yet all hope is not lost in tailing these two, for peering down to the concrete walkway beneath his feet has him discover drops of crimson left behind to show which direction the duo may have scurried off to; the chaos triggering psychic quick to follow the trail of scarlet down the street, around the corner, and into an alleyway.
Before he could race out from the other side of the alleyway, he suddenly feels something clutch at his ankle that causes him to fall face first onto the pavement. Thurs glances back at what his foot could’ve got caught on to discover them to be the hand of his partner in crime emerging out from the concrete.
“Frida!? How did you know I was here?” he’s inclined to ask the gunwoman first.
“What the hell do ‘you’ think you’re doing out here?” counters Frida, letting go of the young man’s foot as she rises out from the floor.
“Uhhhh…”
“You were going after those to mobster fuckwits, weren’t you?”
“…Maybe.” Thurs claims, getting himself off the floor.
“Dammit, Thurs. How many times do I have to tell you how we can’t compromise out whereabouts just you wanna help people.”
“So what, you expect me to just let them get away with pushing homeless people around like some callous bastard!?”
“Yes! What part of that’s hard to get? We are in hiding, Thurs. We can’t risk it.”
Seeing out upset this unfortunate situation has made Thursotte feel, Frida puts her hand on his shoulder and attempts to console him by claiming:
“Listen, I know how shitty this makes you feel, but I promise that this is the best for everyone here. We can’t help people right now, else everything we’ve been working hard for could go up in smoke. Do you understand?
Now lets get back home before anybody spots us.”
Thursotte’s uncertainty slowly morphs the determination before he brushes Frida’s hand off his shoulder and dashes away while defiantly shouting:
“No!”
“God dammit, she curses, chasing after the plucky young psychic.
Rushing out from the alleyway and into the baron shopping streets, the wall merging psychic delves down into the concrete road to slither ahead towards the corner he was fleeing towards; Thursotte taking out his gun to prepare for the encounter. But rather than shooting directly at the gunwoman, he fires off an accident triggering infused bullet right at the bottom of the corner; the single bullet being enough to fracture the aged and frail stone and spread the cracks all across the wall. The foundation crumbles away as pieces of the brick wall break off to collapse on the road and atop Frida.
As the dust settles, the wall merging psychic surfaces out from one of the pieces of debris above the pile, quickly looking around for wherever her chaos triggering partner could have scurried off too. When noticing some of the chunks of brick tumbling down from the pile, she peers back to find him scaling up the broken remains of the wall to the roof above; Frida wasting no time to climbing after him, shouting:
“Thurs, wait.”
Scaling up to the top of the crumbled building, the wall merging psychic tails her chaos inducing friend across the roof and to the very edge; Thursotte making a daring leap over to the next building. After the young man lands on top of the neighboring building, Frida follows after him by leaping down to slip right into the neighboring establishments wall, slithering up to the top and across the roof to catch up to her fleeing ward.
Quickly closing the distance between them, the wall merging psychic appears out from underneath Thursotte to grasp at his ankles and trip him up; toppling him before getting on top of the young man to keep him from escape.
“Quit fighting me, Thurs. This is…for the best!” she claims, struggling to hold him down.
“I won’t…believe that!” he staunchly objects, reaching into the depths of his pockets to pull out a couple of pennies.
Infusing them with his brand of chaotic unpredictability, Thurs throws out his own two cents across the roof; one of them nicking off the big air vent, with the other clinging off an old satellite tower standing tall close to the side.
Both of the copper coins spread their catastrophic power upon them, in turn causing the two to suddenly break from their bases to topple down onto the roof; their combined crash causing the roofs foundation to snap and in turn for the ceiling to collapse from underneath both psychic.
The two of them tumbling down to the inside of the building beneath them, both Frida and Thurs soon find themselves having dropped right smack in the middle of a small restaurant, thankfully having closed for the weekend.
The first to pry himself out from the rubble, Thursotte find the empty restaurant he had dropped into utterly in ruins from the collapsing roof; its recently scrubbed and organized dinning area now in shambles. Though the sorry state of the establishment is not what he worries about in the moment, for he grows more worried over not seeing another soul in the place with him; weakly calling out for:
“Frida…Frida?”
His calls baiting not even a whisper, the young man immediately start to dig through the wreckage in hopes of finding his partner in crime alive and well, growing more anxious as he combs through with no sign of her anywhere.
“No no no…”
Despite the initial growing worry over the well being of his friend, the very woman he digs for ends up popping right out from the depths of the rubble to push Thursotte; the young man sent careening straight through the restaurants display window and back into the streets on the other side.
Swiftly rising up from the glass littered sidewalk, Thurs peers back towards the restaurant he had just been thrown out of to witness his wall merging partner in crime leap out the broken glass frame; Frida seemingly turning out okay from the collapsing roof making him let out a relieved sigh.
But he swiftly retraces that same breath when that very same woman sprints on after him once again, leaving Thurs to scuttle back on his feet to bolt away; the young man glancing back to discover Frida closing the distance.
The chaotic psychic is swift to dart down through the nearest alley in hopes of escaping from his pursuing partner, Frida making a lunging charge to tackle the young man down against the side of a nearby dumpster.
Swift to shake off from his friends clutches, the young chaos triggering psychic makes a beeline for the end of the alleyway; Frida surfacing out from the trash after him to witnessing about to escape. The gun totting woman thinks fast and with a hearty blow, kicks the dumpster beside her towards her fleeting friend; the container enshrouded in Frida’s sky blue aura.
As the giant iron dumpster rolls up after Thurs, it quickly sinks into the concrete below while continuing to tread across the length of the alleyway, rolling right underneath the young man’s very feet. When safely past him, the giant dumpster emerges out from the layer of concrete to crash against the other side of the alley, lodged between the buildings to block Thursotte’s only means of escape.
Seeing little option but to fight his way past the wall merging psychic, Thurs draws his pistol once more to crack off a couple of shot to the fire escape overhead; the bullets loosening the screws keeping rusty metal grating on the wall. Shaken off its frame, several pieces of the fire escape falling apart and tumbling down towards the wall merging psychic.
Though Frida is quick to sidestep the raining bars of metal from above, she doesn’t realize the very same young man she pursues charging after her in the midst of the chaos until the last moment, just barely dodging Thursotte’s initial tackle. What she fails to see coming is for Thurs to swipe one of the metal bars that plummet down from above and swing it right into her stomach; the unexpected blow knocking Frida right into the wall.
Prying herself off the side of the alley, the gun wielding woman decides to draw out her own pieces from the depths of her denim jacket. But rather than aim towards her fleeting friend directly, she insists on unleashing several rounds into the walls between them; the bullets sent into the surface of the brickwork to streak across the alley. She has them surface out to hit the descending pieces of the fire escape at the right ankle, all to send them hurdling right past the young man she chases; the several piece of the fire escape embedding themselves into the other end of the alley to block off Thursotte’s exit.
Left with nowhere else to run from his wall merging pursuer, Thursotte is forced to finally face his partner in crime; Frida making one last attempt to talk him down out of his incessant quest with:
“End of the line, Thursotte. Quit this whole thing and I won’t have to get rough with you.”
“I already told you that I refuse to watch people be abused. The only way you’re dragging me to the safe house with you is unconsciously.” he staunchly denies.
“Fine, have it your way!” states Frida withdrawing her pistols back into her jacket.
Declaring this do the two charge at one another in an effort to keep the other from stopping them; both clashing right in the middle of the ruined alleyway.
Thurs proves the first to strike, driving his fist right into Frida’s cheek to knock her into the brick wall; the surface swimming psychic taking the slip up as a chance to delve into the wall.
She scuttles down from the wall and across the concrete floor underneath Thursotte, grasping at his ankles to make him trip up and fall to the pavement; Frida then clutching at Thurs hair to pound his head onto the hard ground.
Before the surface merging psychic could beat the young man’s head into the pavement once more, Thursotte catches Frida by the wrist of her arm and begins to heave her out from the concrete as he rises from the floor; the chaos inducing psychic plucking the gun woman out from the floor to fling her upwards.
Thrown into the air above, Frida can only watch as Thurs swipes up a piece of metal from the fire escape infuses it in his power before flinging it towards the wall beside her; chunks of the brickwork falling out down towards her.
With the rock covered in Thursotte’s psychic energy, Frida decides to take the falling piece of debris and kick it right towards the very same man that orchestrated its descent; Thursotte quickly backing away before the giant chunk of brick could crash down on him.
From dodging the descending brick does Thurs peer back up to find Frida having disappeared from site, the young man looking around to try and find her before she ends up breaching out from the wall beside him in a thrusting kick, striking Thurs in the side and sending him fumbling back.
Attempting to retaliate from this unexpected assault, Thurs attempts to take his gun and aim somewhere around them, soon realizing his firearm having been pilfered from his grasp; the young psychic finding his weapon in the hands of the woman he fights.
Unflinching from his disarmament, Thursotte makes a daring lunge toward Frida, swift to slap the gun out of her hand before proceeding to trade blows; the firearm lobbing through the air before it ends up dropping in a nearby pile of trash bags.
With the chaotic psychic’s power still infused in the gun, its discordant influence spread throughout the pile of bags and to whatever mysteries may lay inside; something from within the bag prodding out to the guns trigger and fire a bullet at another. The resulting sparks from the fired shot end up setting the piles of garbage bags on fire, which ends up making one of the bags unexpectedly explode; one having end up stowing a bunch of fireworks underneath.
Some of the fireworks nearly hitting them, the two cease their conflict to make a break away from the ongoing chaos beside them; the walls between them fracturing from the countless explosions as they flee towards the dumpster.
Taking Thursotte’s hand, Frida pulls the young man into the surface of the iron dumpster with her as the batch of fireworks come to its crescendo and explode all at once; the sheer combined force of them all going off dislodging the dumpster out from between the walls, sending it rolling across the street and crashing straight into the face of a closed store. Once the dumpster ceases to move, both of the psychic slink out from its side and end up plopping onto the floor; their fight having left them drained.
The aftermath of their swift scuffle filled with nothing but exhaustion and needless destruction, both psychic’s lay flat on the ground next to one another, catching their breath from the intense struggle.
Among this moment of reprise does Frida take the moment to say in between breaths:
“I…not gonna…talk you out of it…am I?”
“No…way…”
“Augh…Fine. Guess that means I have to tag along then.”
“Wait, really. After being so adamantly…against me doing this?” Thurs double checks.
“Well, if your gonna recklessly throw yourself in the wolf den like some reckless jackass, I might as make sure you don’t die doing it.” she states, pulling herself off the floor.
“Aw, Frida.” the young man goes, wrapping his arms around her waist to hug her.
“You’re the best.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. Wh-what were you doing before I stopped you.”
“The blood trail!”
“The what?”
Returning to the very same alleyway where they had first confronted one another, both of them resume to follow the drips of crimson left behind by one of the mobsters; going out of the alleyway, down another block and over towards the edge of the district. They soon find unfortunately the trail of red growing cold as the last drops of blood cease just short of a crosswalk, with next to no further hint where the two mobsters had fled.
“No no no no! They must’ve patched up the cut while they were running. There’s no way to tell where they went. They have to be at least a mile away by now.”
“So, wait. You used your powers on your gun to shoot the window and make one of the glass shards cut the guy by the arm?”
“Yeah, I was hoping to follow them back to their hideout. But it looks like that plan went up in flames.”
“And while you were talking to them, say anything interesting?” asks Frida.
“Meh, not much. Just mentioning how they worked for somebody named Captain Shultz.” he recounts.
“Shultz? I wonder if they mean…Can’t believe he’s a captain now.”
“Hang on, you know who he is?”
“Somewhat. He was this little wiener me and Wedsle worked with a while back on some collaborative assignments with his gang.”
“You know where they’re at?”
“I mean, if they haven’t packed up from that little store by now then then maybe they’re-”
“Take me, take me, take me!”
“Alright, alright. Easy. I think the place he used to lurk is somewhere here.”
“What? Like an abandoned warehouse?”
“Uhhhmmm…”
Starchily contrasting to the worn down shops and stores the opposite side of the district, the inside of one of the cleaner sides supermarket starts to close as the midnight moon begins to rise out from the horizon; the last customer making their way out with cart full of groceries as one of the employees flips the open sign to closed.
The dog tired employee lets out a loud yawn as he strolls away from the doors and towards one of the cash registers, cracking it open to begin counting all the profits they had accumulated though the day. Its at the cusp of counting all the cash that his focused is shattered when a familiar voice chimes in to exclaim:
“Yo, Tommy!”
The employee lets out an exhausted sigh as the woman that Thurs had been chasing from earlier struts up to the counter, slamming a wad of twenties before him as she requests:
“Mind adding this in with the rest of the earnings; freshly donated from the locals around here.”
“Little last minute, don’t you think? Any later and the manager might think you’re stealing from him.” the employee questions, taking the mobsters money to stuff in the register.
“Shultz can eat my ass. Guy’s been constant this week throwing assignments at us; running this store at the same time as shaking down the rats and moving around blow, least he can give us a bit of a break here.”
“Is that why you and Mat weren’t here around the first shift? Just help yourselves to a little down time while I do all the work.”
“Come on, Tommy, don’t look at it like that. I’m sure you wouldn’t feel the same way if you helped yourself to some time off.”
“And how much time do you think you can afford, Janice?” they then hear another beside them question, a voice that makes their hairs stand on end. Peering beside them stood a man with jet black hair and sunglasses garbed in the same store employee uniform they were; the manager name tag hanging beside his chest referring to him as Shultz.
“Oh…evening sir. Me and Matt, mostly Matt, thought after shaking down those guys under the overpass, we’d give ourselves a little bit of a break would be good for us.” Janice nervously claims, straightening herself.
“And you thought you’d do that without running it by me first?”
“It was just an afternoon. We’re all on the clock here day and night and barely get any time to ourselves.” Mathew then steps up to bat with, some gauze slipping out from underneath the sleeve of his uniform.
“Listen, I know how stressful it can be running a department store in the background in the middle of being drug mobsters. Gotta make sure things don’t end up accidentally mixing, else somebody out there’s gonna take one look at us and wonder what the hell’s going one behind closed doors.” Shultz attempts to reason with.
“And you figure a grocery was the best place? Seriously, I make my way up in the gang, and I end back up as a cashier. What kind of ass backwards logic is that?” Tommy points out.
“Yeah, you think we’d be living it up somewhere up in a penthouse by now instead of scraping for cash.” Mathew comes in with, bits of gauze hanging overt the sleeve of his uniform.
“Well, I’m sorry. Things haven’t been as lucrative since a couple months back. Bosses’ve been making a bunch of cuts for god knows why and ain’t anybody willing to tell…What uh…what’s that?” the captain then brings attention to.
“Huh?”
“You’re arm. What happened to it?”
“Um…”
“So, care to tell me what all happened during your little, self appointed break?” the manager turns to Janice asking.
“Meh, nothing much. Tried to get burgers, got into a bit of a tussle instead.”
“With who?”
“Just some little punk all pissy about messing with those bums under the overpass. Little bitch thinking he’s playing hero.”
“Does he know anything?” the captain insists on knowing.
“Nah, nothing that much…” claims Janice, noticing Mathews nervousness rapidly rising.
“You two sure?”
“We let your name slip!” Mat then blurts out.
“You what!?” the captain exclaims.
“Just your nickname. I doubt this kid’s gonna look into every Shultz in the city to see which one it is.”
Its upon the end of that very statement that they suddenly hear a knock at the twin doors leading outside, all of them peering over towards the glass doors to strangely find nobody on the other side.
“The hell was that?” Mathew wonders.
“Don’t know. Someone should go look.” Shultz claims.
“Good idea. Tommy, go look.” orders Janice.
A frustrated sigh seeping out from between his teeth, the cashier marches over towards the doors and attempts to push them open, soon finding neither of them not budging to move even an inch.
“The…the hell?” he utters.
“Come on, just open it already.”
“Can’t. Doors jammed.”
“Gah, you fucking…Hang on.” Mathew tells him, approaching the employee’s side.
“Let me see your credit card.”
“Um…Okay.” complies Tommy, reaching into his pocket to hand him his bank card.
“Okay. Shultz, you got the key?” Mat then asks, putting his fellow employee’s card in his own pocket.
“Way ahead of you.” the manager claims, approaching with a set of keys in hand.
“Hey, wait; what the fuck!”
Jamming the tip of the key into the doors lock, the captain quickly finds it refusing to turn; claiming how:
“The hell kind of shit is this. Its already unlocked.”
“Maybe its jammed.” Janice suggests.
“On what. There ain’t anything out there.”
“Lets just go through the back. See if something’s stuck on the other side.” Mathew then suggest.
The most sensible option any of them could come up with, the grocery store employee’s follow their captain into the rest of the store; none of them aware of what really bares the entrance. Beyond the other side of the twin doors remains a long iron pipe implanted within the very surface of the doors, kept within the face of the door by the dimensional psychic’s cyan aura.
Left unaware of how strange their predicament was turning, the captain of the small gang leads his employees through the aisles of the established small grocery store and towards the backdoor; Janice and Tommy bickering among one another as they follow:
“All I’m saying that you could’ve at least given a heads up or something. Would’ve been less painful knowing you two were leaving me to dry from the get go instead of clinging to false hope all day.” Tommy claims.
“Hey, at least it wasn’t that busy. From the sound of things, you two mostly had the store to yourself.” points out Janice.
“Tell that to the meth head we forcibly had to carry out from the store. Guy was clawing at us like a feral zombie.”
“I’d say with the little run in you had while horsing around, you two got you deserved.” venomously says Shultz, leering to both of his absent employees.
“I’m the only one who got hurt, and I didn’t even wanna go.” Mathew complains.
“Well then, maybe that little injury is exactly the wake up call you need to start growing a spine.” Tommy retorts.
Out of the blue do all of them suddenly hear a brief clang from behind, causing Mat to let out a little yelp; they swiftly glancing back to discover it to be from a lone can having fallen onto the floor, rolling across the mildly clean store tile.
“Geez, relax. Its just can of corn. Up here acting like we in a horror flick.” berates Janice.
“Little weird though. Thought I shelved them all just right.” remembers Tommy.
“Meh, must’ve tilted off. Store here’s pretty old. Who place is practically falling apart.” their manager then informs.
Putting this little tidbit as nothing more than some random slip up; the four of them continue their way to the back of the store for a way out; unaware of the can behind them continuing to roll across the floor and underneath the other shelves.
Enraptured in a thin layer of orange power, the can of corn rolls under the shelves into the support beam standing behind it; the lid of the container popping open upon hitting the corner of its base. The wet kernels spill along the loose rusted screws keeping the base stable; their juices lubricating them enough to slip out from their holes, letting the chaotic aura encompassing in the can fester up the beam.
After trekking their way across the bland beige shelves lined with products and snacks aplenty, the four make it to the other end of the small grocery and approach the door they had sought; their manager the first to reach for the doorknob.
Though the handle does indeed turn for the gang captain, the door refuses to budge for him nonetheless; the steel door failing to open no matter how much he struggles to push at it.
“Come…Come on! Open dammit.” he curses.
“Gee, captain. Too much paper work and not enough working out?” Janice snides.
“Piss off! Liked to see you try your hand at this.”
“Alright, fine. Mathew, pry this thing open.” she demands.
A disheartened sigh escapes from Mathew’s mouth as he approaches the door, taking his turn to attempt to open the way out; the employee pushes the stubborn slab of steel normally a couple of times before full on tackling it with his entire body, with the others standing back as Mat repeatedly shoves himself onto the door full force.
Despite having bashed himself into the door about a dozen times, he is no closer to opening it than his manager was; simply responsible for leaving some dents in its steel.
“Oh my god.” Shultz goes, his hand sliding across his face.
“You jokers ever stop to think that it might be a pull door.” Tommy the chimes in with.
Its at that point that Mathew steps aside and silently offers Tommy to have a go at the door, an offer he takes in approaching and clutching at the handle.
Thought try as he might to pull at the doorway, he is ultimately proves just as unsuccessful; a botch of which Mathew is all too eager to make jokes out of by sarcastically jesting:
“Wow, you were right. I can’t believe it was that simple.”
“Least I tried using my head instead of slamming into it like some coked up gorilla.”
Tired of everyone at each others throats, the good captain of this gang tries to block out his employee’s constant back and forth by glaring out towards the store they just strolled through; soon beginning to notice something off happening in the background.
From where he stand does he notice one of the beams holding the ceiling up slightly slanted off center, a small detail that starts to make itself known as it tilts further down. From the top of the pillar do cracks begin to form across the ceiling, with the fractures stretching their way across the store towards them.
“Oh no.” he utters.
“What?” Janice checks up with.
The growing cracks stretching along the ceiling finally open as they can no longer bare the weight of the roof, the gang of employee’s looking on in terror as the chunks of the rooftop fall through the cracks to plummet down onto the store floor; the food atop the sets of shelves scatter as pieces of the ceiling crash atop them, leaving the shelves they once stood atop of bent and busted.
“Oh shit!” Mathew curses in shock.
Witnessing the fractures along the deteriorating ceiling only multiply, the four of them huddle together as the scene around them further crumbles apart.
“The whole store’s gonna fall on top of us! What do we do!?” shrieks Tommy.
“What can we do!? Both doors are stuck! We’re fucked!” exclaims Janice.
“Wait, I just remembered, there’s a window in the bathroom. We break through it and we’re outta here.” Shultz then points.
“Why didn’t you say that earlier!?” Mathew the screams.
“Do you know how expensive windows are to replace!?”
“Just shut up and move!” Tommy desperately urges.
Bolting from the barricaded back door do the four sprint across the store as it crumbles apart at the seems, stepping over whatever groceries may have spilled across the floor midst the chaos. Among their race towards the store’s bathroom, all of them leap over pieces of the roof that had fallen in their way, maneuvered over the shelves that have fallen and bent, and even skip over the dozens of cans that roll across the floor.
Tommy on the other hand doesn’t prove as graceful as the others in these endeavors and ends up stepping on one of the cans that roll underneath his feet, causing the man to slip face first onto the tiled floor.
And just when he attempts to pick himself right back up, a piece of the ceiling comes crashing down atop its legs, leaving him helplessly pinned to the floor.
“Aguh! Ah! Ahhhgh!” Tommy screams.
“Tom!” Mathew shouts, tempting to go back.
“Leave him.” demands Janice.
The trio choosing to abandon their forth gang member, they leave the fallen employee to his fate as they continue heading to the bathroom; Tommy’s cries for help soon abruptly coming to an end.
Reaching the store’s restrooms, the three are relieved to find the door leading inside not having been locked from the other side, preparing to push through when again tragedy strikes; the light fixtures above suddenly break off from the roof and crash down in between Mathew and the others. Before the mobster could simply scale over the broken glass and plastic, the busted lights suddenly light aflame with a bursting inferno; a literal wall of fire blocking him from the others.
“Guys, hang on. I can get through this.” he tells them.
Even with attempting to maneuver past the flames, the manager knows time is of the essence and orders Janice to:
“Come on. We gotta move.”
“But…Mat…” she utters, staring to the man behind the flames.
Despite her seeming unwillingness to leave her partner in crime behind, the crumbling debris falling above their heads urges her to continue regardless; Mathew left to only stare through the inferno in disbelief as they abscond into the bathroom.
Shutting the door behind them, the two employees still left standing enter the bathroom and peer past the several stalls to find their way out as promised; the only window in the entire grocery store. Approaching the small window leading outside, the manager reaches down for the latch to desperately push it up; soon finding even it refusing to budge no matter how much he struggles.
“Fucking, come on!” he curses.
“Quit bitching and move over.” he then hears Janice demand, peering over to find the woman prying the bathroom mirror off the wall.
“I’ll get it open.”
Fully complying with his employee’s last ditch effort, Shultz steps aside to let his last employee make a daring charge towards the only way out with mirror in hand, with Janice swinging the frame directly against the window.
Shards of glass and mirror burst all across the bathroom as the sheer force of the swing shatters not just the window, but the mirror as well; Shultz quickly turning back to shield himself from the flying chunks of glass.
Peering back around is the captain ecstatic to find the window left in pieces from the forceful blow; their only way out simply a few steps away, with Shultz praising his empolyee’s quick thinking with:
“Nice work, Janice. Now let me just-”
“Gah! Ah!” he unexpectedly hears her shriek.
“What the fuck are you Oh god!”
The gang captain turns back over to his last member and is left utterly mortified when discovering Janice face to be left torn asunder by the countless shards of glass and mirror embedded in her face; the woman’s eyes shut tight as drips of crimson leak out from her eyelids.
“Fuck! My face! My eyes!” she screeches, frantically shambling throughout the bathroom while clutching at her head.
Shultz watches his final employee stumble randomly across the bathroom while left horribly blinded by the numerous shards of glass jammed in her face; Janice constantly lashing out everywhere like a wounded animal as the ceiling above them starts to fall apart.
“Shultz! Where the hell are you!” she screams, lumbering away from the window.
The looming threat of the grocery store collapsing atop him any second now, combined with his wounded employee’s confused flailing, the manager refuses to take his chances and opts to simply climb out the window by himself; Shultz leaving the blinded Janice behind to shamble in the crumbling bathroom.
After he climbs out the other side of the busted window, the manager frantically bolts from the collapsing store as swiftly as he possibly could; not once even glancing back for any thought of his employee’s he so selfishly left behind. Once a safe enough distance away, Shultz simply stands back and watches as the grocery store he and his fellow mob members used as a means of operation comes crumbling down before his very eyes, leaving behind nothing but a heap of broken bricks and metal in the aftermath; a terrible disaster which he lets out a relieved sigh having evaded, at the cost of his entire gang.
Yet the captains relief almost instantly dissipates when turning around to be greeted with the wrong end of a pistol, slowly backing away to find a woman with blue hair donned in a denim jacket fixing cross hairs at his head; it takes Shultz a couple moments staring at her to finally recognize her and claim:
“Frida? Should’ve know this wasn’t just some freak accident.”
“Nice to see you too, Shultz. Glad all the hard work you gave the mob finally got you exactly where you belong.” the dimensional psychic jokingly greets, staring down to the manager name tag dangling at his shirt.
“Like I’m gonna take blasts from some bitch who turned traitor for a bunch of losers.” he retorts.
“From the look of things, you don’t seem to be doing much better.” comments Frida, glancing to the remains of his grocery store.
“The hell you even doing here? You just come to wreck all my stuff for shits and giggles?” Shultz then questions.
“Nah, nothing personal. Just out here doing a friend of mine a favor.”
“Nobody with common sense goes this far for just some jackass they know. What’s the real reason?”
“To be honest, that’s really it. Friend of mine hated the way you guys treated the homeless people under the lot and wanted to do something about it.”
“You’re joking. All this for those roaches under the highway?”
“Guy’s pretty passionate when seeing people mistreated. Guess you could say it started rubbing off on me.”
“You know taking me out won’t fix shit for them, right? Might give them a bit of a break, but they’ll be somebody else around the corner to see them as an opportunity to make some bank. Ain’t a matter of if, only when.”
“Maybe. But even if its temporary, I’d say they need the break the most.”
To this rather obtuse explanation over why the gun woman up and decided to destroy everything he worked for, Shultz can’t help but laugh over how ridiculous the prospect is; the former manager putting his hand over his face as he shakes his head.
“You ever figure that one of these days, hanging with those traitors is gonna get you killed, woman?
I don’t gotta tell ya that all the best gun play and fanciest powers around can only get ya so far in this business before you end up six feet under. You gonna stand there and tell me you cool with that?”
Upon this mortal inquiry does Frida ponder on the notion for a brief moment, thinking back to all the escapades, all the dangers, and all the wonderful times she had shared with not just Thursotte, but the rest of the motley crew as well.
“Ya know, several years ago, I’d have looked you in the eye saying there’d not be a chance in hell of me sticking my neck out that far for somebody. But when you meet the right kind of people, ones that stuck by you through it all; makes you think that it might not be a bad way to go. Helluva lot better way than how you’re gonna be leaving in a sec.”
“What, as the last man standing?”
“Exactly, all alone with nobody to miss you.”
These haunting words prove as the final sendoff for the manager as the gunwoman finally pulls the trigger; a single bullet pierces straight through Shultz’s head, leaving the former gang leader to crumble down onto the cold hard concrete.
The leader of the local gang hustling the homeless people left as nothing but a limp body, Frida stares down to the dead manager as the pool of blood grows underneath his head; the dimensional psychic left with nothing left to do beside turn her back on the body before she wander off.
Strolling away from the remains of both the grocery store and the corrupt manager that had ran it, Frida turns the corner away from the grizzly site to be greet by her partner in crime on the matter; the first thing that Thurs does when meeting up with her is giving her a big old hug.
“I can not thank you enough for helping me out with this, Frida. I wasn’t too sure I could pull it off myself.” he thanks.
“Ain’t no big deal, Thurs. Just following your plan is all. Sorry for doubting you.” apologizes Frida.
“To be honest, I can’t really blame you for it. With how precarious our situation is, I know you were just trying to look out for everyone.”
“Whelp, guess its good it all worked out in the end. Now lets get the outta here there are any witnesses.”
“Wait, before we go back to the safe house. Wanna get some burgers?” the young man then offers.
“Hmm…Eh, why the hell not.”
Left with little left to do in the shopping district, the dynamic duo stroll off from the underhanded demolition they had both took part in; both pondering among themselves where to cap off their little adventure of gang warfare.
“There’s a Burger king across the road from here.” Thurs suggests.
“Nah, ain’t that much of a fan of how they grill patties. What about Rally’s?” wonders Frida.
“Meh, bit to greasy for me. What about some Five guys?”
“Five guys, on our budget? We’d be better off buying Hardy’s.” protests the dimensional psychic.
“How about we see what the local stuff has in store, think that’s a plan?”
“Mmm…Sure. Can’t be any worse than McDonalds.”
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New Post has been published on Books by Caroline Miller
New Post has been published on https://www.booksbycarolinemiller.com/musings/the-one-true-thing/
The One True Thing
Before he took his life to escape the ravages of ALS, a gentleman with a wicked sense of humor shared this thought about his neighbor: She is a woman of strong opinions—most of them wrong. A little wicked myself, I laughed but felt guilty afterward. Even so, the witticism was apt. Firm opinions shutter the mind. Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene, a Republican, is a prime example. Buoyed by her fiscal ignorance, she saw no danger for the country if it defaulted on its debt. No one is freaking out, no one is concerned about this mystery date that Janet Yellen has thrown out… Greene’s mystery wasn’t much of one to others. Most people understood a default would create a recession, costing millions of Americans their jobs, and wreaking havoc with their social security and retirement benefits. The devastation would have overshadowed the January 6 insurrection, reducing it to a historical footnote. To take the country hostage with a manufactured crisis would have been the greater infamy. Republican Representative Matt Gaetz who earned a law doctorate makes no bones about his intention to break the nation’s spine. Why negotiate with Democrats, he reasoned, when Republicans had taken them hostage? Does the lion negotiate with the rabbit clamped between its jaws? Gaetz seemed to think President Joe Biden would be held accountable for the chaos that would follow. Others weren’t so sure. They doubted the public was gullible enough to blame a man hauled before a firing squad for the guns pointed at his chest. With the crisis now averted, we’ll never know how gullible citizens can be. But we have learned that Gaetz’s suicidal gambit makes him the comrade of White Supremacists and Christian Nationalists. The same is true for Greene. She planted the flag for racial injustice after a heated exchange with James Bowman, a Black colleague. Whining to reporters that Bomwn’s demeanor had threatened her, she evoked the memory of Emmett Till, the 14-year-old Black boy who was tortured and killed because he made a White woman uncomfortable. Given more power, these two members of Congress would upend the common notion of justice. They’d see nothing untoward if Donald Trump were to run for president from a prison cell, then pardon himself if elected. Instead, they’d applaud, imagining his new version of American Carnage would rise from the ashes–failed policies on immigration, revitalized industries, and infrastructure. But they’d be disappointed. Trump has already revealed his new platform. Vengeance. His supporters will imagine he intends to address their grievances, but they, too, would be wrong. He intends to weaponize the government, focusing its power like a death ray on his enemies. A man who reveres tyrants like Vladimir Putin, Kim Jon Un, and Mohammed bin Salman, could do nothing less. History teaches that in their quest for power, villains use words indistinguishable from those of patriots. Yet when a tyrant speaks of freedom, what he seeks is a license for himself. Justice narrows to exclude the many. Statesmanship inflicts cruelty. Or, in the case of Greene’s calls for decorum, tr reflects buffoonery. Voters lack the power to peer into the hearts of the men and women we elect. We know less about their backers–powerbrokers who pull strings from the shadows, treating Democracy like a commodity to be bought and sold rather than the noble idea for which many have died. Only one truth is self-evident. Democracy works best when it tempers the influence of a few with the diversity of the many. Diversity is the one true thing we all have in common. (Winston Churchill)
#2023 Debt Ceiling Debate#American Carnage#Christian Nationalist#Donald Trump#Emmett Till#Gaetz takes country hostage#James Bowman#Janet Yellen#January 6 insurrection#Kim Jon Un#Marjorie Taylor Greene#Marjorie Taylor Greene cals for decorum#Matt Gaetz#Mohammed bin Salman#power of diversity#The language of villains and patriots#Trump's failed legislation#Trump's Presidential platform 2024#Vladimir Putin#white supremacists#Winston Churchill
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"Integrity... Don't Leave Home Without It!" - Proverbs 10:9
He who walks with integrity walks securely, but he who perverts his ways will become known. - Proverbs 10:9
What is the single most important trait of a person who desires to truly make a difference in our world today? Some would say it is intellect. After all, knowledge is power in many ways. Others contend it is intensity, that spirit of conquest accompanied by a passion that becomes contagious. Still others suggest it is insight, good old common sense, along with the ability to clearly see certain issues. However, I contend the most important trait is integrity. We have all known people along life’s journey who have incredible intellect, but no integrity, and they are no longer in the race. Others possessing amazing intensity and passion but little integrity have gone the same way. The same is true of people with keen insight but no integrity. Integrity is our most valuable commodity.
Integrity is that state or quality of being complete, and it is freedom from corrupting influences or motives. The thesaurus equates it with such words as honesty, completeness, and incorruptibility. Yes, “he who walks with integrity walks securely.”
Each of us lives in four distinct spheres of life and influence. You live in a private world. There is a part of you where no one really goes. Not even those closest to us--our husbands, our wives--know all our private thoughts. No one invades your private world except you . . . and the God who knows all your private thoughts. You also live in a personal world. This is the part of you that you share with a small circle of immediate family and perhaps a few friends who really know you intimately. Next comes your professional world. This existence consists of dozens or even scores of men and women who, although they do not know you personally, much less privately, know you in a professional setting. Finally, you live in a public world. This is the world in which people have never met you personally or dealt with you professionally, but they have formed an opinion about you. We call this our public persona. The reality of these four spheres raises an important question: where is integrity in life rooted?
Integrity is Rooted in One's Private Life
Integrity stems from an inner code, not an outer promotion. Integrity is rooted in that private life we develop alone with God in the secret, hidden place. We often hear architects, engineers, or builders say, “This building has structural integrity.” That is, the public beauty of a tall skyscraper relies on its private, unseen foundation that is dug deep into the earth and solidly constructed. It is that hidden life of a building that brings structural integrity. It is the hidden life of an orange tree, that unseen root system that digs deep into the earth, that produces those juicy, delectable fruits. And so it is with us. Integrity is rooted in the private life.
What made a man like Billy Graham so influential and so trusted for so many decades? Was it his intellect? Was it his intensity? No. It was, without question, his unblemished integrity that earned him a prolonged hearing. King Solomon had it right: “The integrity of the upright will guide them” (Proverbs 11:3).
Integrity is Reflected in One's Personal Life
Once integrity is rooted in our private life, it begins to be reflected in our relationships with those closest to us. Many seem to think that integrity is rooted in these close interpersonal experiences, but it is not. It is only reflected there, if, in fact, we are men and women of integrity. If you want to know whether I have integrity, ask my wife or my daughters who really know me in the intimacy of close family relationships. Integrity does not find its roots in the personal world. However, it is certainly reflected there.
Intergrity is Reinforced in One's Professional Life
What about your professional life, that sphere of life that is ever widening? If you have a hidden life where your own integrity finds its roots, it will not only be reflected in your close relationships with those around you, but it will also be reinforced in your day-to-day dealings in the work world. Integrity is reinforced on the anvil of personal experience and practiced in the marketplace.
Our greatest opportunity to make a difference and engage our culture is out in the marketplace. It is imperative that, as Christians, we are men and women of integrity in the professional world around us. There is a small and decreasing percentage of people in our cities in church on Sunday mornings. However, on Monday, multitudes enter the marketplace. They take note of individuals of integrity. Integrity is not rooted in our professional life; it is only reinforced there. That is, if we truly possess it.
Intergrity is Revealed in One's Public Life
Once we are thrust into the public arena, it is too late to look for integrity. If we do not already possess it, it is too late. However, some seek to put a spin on their personal promotion in a hopeless effort to somehow lead others to believe they are people of integrity. But integrity is not rooted in spin, it’s rooted in our private world. Solomon’s words ring true today: “He who walks with integrity walks securely, but he who perverts his ways will become known.”
When integrity is rooted in the private world, it is reflected in the personal world, reinforced in the professional world, and, ultimately, revealed in the public world for the glory of the God whom we love and serve. As you memorize this verse, meditate on your own private life. Bring focus to that time alone with God, to your hidden life. Then “all these things shall be added to you” (Matthew 6:33).
Content drawn from The Joshua Code.
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just saw a t*rf video (recommended by tumblr no less) about how “womanhood is being turned into something stores sell back to you” as if thats something trans women are responsible for like… literally no, thats what weve been pointing out the entire time. not only are cis people the highest consumers of gender affirming products and surgeries, but trans people dont WANT to have to overtly present extremely feminine/masculine. the reason why you’ll see trans women (especially those just coming to terms with their gender) present hyper feminine is because if we don’t, we’re told we “aren’t even trying” or are mocked for it. t*rfs are the ones who compile images of cis women they believe must be trans based solely on their own images of beauty. you wont find t*rfs who dont maintain their appearance because they DO support the commodification of gender!!! they just dont support YOU having equal access to it. But they don’t present any situation where trans women can win, because if we don’t act “feminine” they will use it as an excuse to call us men, and if we DO act “feminine,” they say we’re putting on a masquerade. this is why even though i argue with EVERYONE, its rare that i actually engage terfs nowadays. if you want to dismantly femininity being a commodity, other women are not the target of your ire. ask who makes it necessary to be purchased.
(note: obviously the underlying problem is with capitalism and marketing femininity goes a long way back and im not saying its a good thing; but we exist in the world we exist in, and if wearing eyeliner is whats gonna get me called by my correct pronouns then im gonna do it. do i like that i have to do that? not at all. but, just like with ALL women in public places and workplaces, we play the roles we’re given to succeed regardless of revolutionary politics).
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do you know Chinese symbolism for homosexuality?
tw homophobia, pedophilia
Hi again, for gay men there are a couple really well known ones but I’m not sure if they were real or fabricated, because all the articles describing them always cite the same couple sources from Antiquity... I tried to verify them but the only articles that didn’t copy and paste from the same source came across as extremely homophobic, so I decided to give up. The most common and reliable one is probably 断袖 or “cut sleeve”, which I mentioned in a previous ask. I would like to use this opportunity to talk about some tangential but more important topics regarding homosexuality in China though.
As a followup to my previous ask where I said I'd look through some Ming and Qing novels to see how homosexuality was perceived at the time, the conclusion I (unfortunately) came to was that homophobia was very much alive and well in Chinese literature and society. A lot of people like to argue that gay people fared pretty well in China historically by either pointing to emperors who were or were rumored to be gay or time periods where gay sex was prevalent as a form of consumption. This is extremely shallow and also kind of Orientalist in my opinion, these arguments always go for the emperors and do not take nuance into consideration or dive into wider societal discourses on homosexuality in imperial China. If you research homosexuality in Europe by only looking at royalty, you’ll find plenty of homosexual behavior too, does that mean gay people had it very easy in Europe historically?? Not to mention that they usually don’t differentiate between dynasties, let alone centuries or decades, even though public opinion on homosexuality in China (or anywhere in the world tbh) could change very quickly. This is also sort of Orientalist, assuming “imperial China” to be a never changing entity with a never changing stance on homosexuality. Since I know nothing prior to the Ming Dynasty I’ll share some of my random findings on homosexuality and homophobia in the Ming, Qing and 20th century.
Gayness as disease
Nowadays the symbol of the cut sleeve is just a benign historical allusion but historically it seems that it was used in a negative and condemning sense, implying that people thought of homosexuality as a disease or deviation from the norm. The common phrase used for the cut sleeve is "断袖之癖", usually translated as "the passion of the cut sleeve" nowadays, but the meaning of the word 癖 here leans more toward "fetish", "obsession" or "hobby" with pathological connotations. I thought maybe this word had a different, nuanced meaning historically but it seems that it was used to describe what it means :(( The only silver lining is probably that with the progression of language it isn’t offensive anymore.
In a lot of popular novels from the Ming and Qing, homosexuality was depicted as a "perversion" and a decadent lifestyle that plagues morality, and gay characters were often either killed or straightened out by the end of the story. An example of this is the story 黄九郎 Huang Jiulang from the series 聊斋志异 Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio by 蒲松龄 Pu Songling written in the 17th century. In this story, one of the protagonists was gay; he died after confessing his love to the other guy in a very fast paced bury your gays arc which somehow reminded me of the Supernatural finale, and reincarnated as a straight man because of his piety. Thanks I hate it. Pu uses the symbol of the cut sleeve to refer to the protagonist, presumably in a negative manner.
Gayness as power/status symbol
Another thing was that historically in China a lot of people confused homosexuality with pedophilia. This is a global thing, but its presence in China is often overlooked. This could be seen in the popularity of another term for homosexuality, "娈童", meaning something similar to "pederasty". I read somewhere that since the late Ming, pederasty was considered a type of tasteful consumption for high society, along with things like fashion, food, music and art. This was not equivalent to the "cut sleeve" or homosexuality as we know it nowadays, which refers to a personal sexual orientation, pederasty historically often refers to an imbalanced power dynamic where a wealthy, privileged man takes advantage of a young boy as a leisurely activity. It’s more to show off that someone in a position of privilege and wealth has the power to procure sexual objects, gender and age don’t matter much in this regard. I cannot help but cringe violently whenever someone brings up pederasty as proof of China’s historical “openness” toward gay people. Talk to me again when in this time and place you could marry someone of your sex (not a minor) and be considered a respectable couple instead of two jerks with a degenerate fetish (not saying that gay people have to marry, it’s just that the ability to do so is an important indicator of equality imo). Pedophilia and homosexuality are not one and the same good heavens.
I hypothesize that the reason why Chinese society was historically homophobic despite having no religious condemnation of homosexual individuals was the idea that having many concubines and male children was a status symbol for men. Women of marriageable age were seen more or less as commodities and male children could supposedly "continue the bloodline" 传香火 and were vessels for passing down prestige, so having them were of utmost importance to a privileged man. Being just gay or lesbian, however, meant that you didn't perform the "man strong working woman weak making babies" heteronormative family prototype, and was thus prone to criticism. When gay men didn’t have children they “couldn’t continue their bloodline” and were emasculated, when gay women didn’t have children they failed to “fulfill their duties as a woman” and were shamed.
It kind of makes sense considering how being bisexual was never a problem in comparison, especially for men. If you were a rich guy who had both male and female partners, you would still have children and concubines both male and female so nobody gives a shit. Emperor Zhengde of the Ming (reign 1505-21) was presumably bisexual and had both male and female lovers, nobody had a bone to pick with that; he famously liked to fuck around but those who criticized him did so for his debauchery instead of focusing on the gender of his partners. This is different to homophobia in Europe where same sex attraction was considered evil and immoral in and of itself because of religious reasons, in China it was rather the other practical implications of homosexuality (not having children or a family) that attracted hate.
By the way can we just take a moment to talk about bi erasure in Chinese history. From all accounts of Emperor Zhengde I’ve read he comes across as extremely bisexual, but a lot of people try to make him a gay icon? I mean, he liked women too.
One interesting homophobic angle in ye olde China which I find kind of funny was straight women who wanted to climb the social ladder by marrying rich men talking shit about them after figuring out they were gay lmao. Historically, there were not so many work opportunities for women, so the easiest way to improve social standing was to marry a rich and powerful guy. Not saying that women didn't work, they did but their upward social mobility was restricted because they couldn't enter the imperial examination system which was how men became rich and powerful. This angle is relatively benign and kind of helps illustrate that historical Chinese homophobia was indeed fueled by classism and patriarchy.
Gayness as crime
I used to think that there were no anti-sodomy statutes in China (laws prohibiting sex between gay men), but it turns out that there was one decree in the Jiajing era (1521-67) and one in 1740, and private gay sex was not actually decriminalized until 1957. Same sex marriage is still not legal in China at time of writing. I couldn’t find detailed information on what these laws entailed or how they were enforced, but they’re enough to prove that homosexuality in China was legally punishable from the 16th century onward. On top of that, even when there was no law prohibiting private sex acts between people of the same sex, displays of gay affection such as kissing or holding hands could still be legally punished under “public indecency” or “hooliganism”, which was frequently what happened in the 20th century.
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After Tamir and Richard were murdered, when we had to bury our sons, we didn’t see ‘Black’, ‘Lives’, or ‘Matter’. Our DNA changed when our sons were murdered. It took breath out of our bodies. When y’all go home, y’all chant “Black Lives Matter!” When we go home, we miss our sons. We don’t need y’all to stand in front of us to tell our story. We need y’all to stand in back of us, and lift us up! If your agenda is not about helping our children, men, and women, then get out our fight! Enough is enough!
We released a public statement that expressed our concerns with Tamika D. Mallory, Shaun King, Benjamin Crump, Lee Merritt, Patrisse Cullors, Melina Abdullah, and the Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation to stop capitalizing off our loved ones, and we call on the People to join our fight for accountability.
*****
The mothers, families who have lost loved ones to police violence, Black grassroots organizing communities—and those who exist in proximity—are increasingly skeptical about the donors, ideologies, and political economies of “Black leadership.”
We condemn capitalism’s monetization of Black people’s death and dying through the following modes of violence: “celebrity activism,” along with fundraising without transparency. We need structured distribution of funds to Black working class families and grassroots organizations. Families of those who are killed by the police—and whose loved ones’ deaths spark mass movements—continue to navigate political misrepresentation, battle zones of police repression, homelessness, and poverty, while Black “leadership” that has not been selected by the masses flourishes through celebrity status. These families must be provided the resources to sustain themselves, their families, and their work dedicated to building community infrastructure.
The mothers, and Black people en masse, call for accountability and transparency that fuel collective organizing in support of Black families victimized by state-violence. Contradictions within our movements—within the crisis of anti-Blackness, broadly, and predatory capitalism more specifically—reduce our deaths to monetized commodities. Stop celebrity activism; stop corporate investments that support lobbyists for this norm; put an end to the political-economy’s parasitism on Black death and poverty.
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Ties That Bind, Debts That Burden | Curtis Everett x reader
for @stargazingfangirl18 and @navybrat817‘s august challenge! my prompt was the gif!
summary: you didn’t expect the man who bought you to be so kind. you didn’t expect to fall for him, either.
warnings: death of a parent character, kidnapping, implied noncon/mentions of noncon, sexism, sexual slavery (mentioned), dub con (but not in the way you’re expecting), implied age gap (everyone is over 18!! as always!!), semi-public sex, breeding kink, loss of virginity, pain kink (slightly)
word count: a bit over 4k (and I wrote it all in one day... hey that rhymes!)
[this is another one of those things where the fic itself is dark due to the subject matter, but the character in question is not ‘dark’ in the traditional sense. so, curtis is a good dude, it’s everyone else that sucks; this is a dark fic tonally, but not sexually per se]
Life in the tail section was ruthless. It was all about survival, and survival was about being stronger than others. You weren’t strong. What you did have was your father, and he had kept you safe all your life, even before the two of you had lived in this terrible place. He was a sort of leader; people looked up to him, and as a result, they obeyed his wishes to stay away from you. Even so, you could sense that a lot of the men in the train were just waiting for their chance to take you. Women who didn’t have significant skills to offer, women like you, were seen as a commodity with only one purpose. Less like wives and more like slaves, they were traded, sold, and bartered for like clothes or rations. It made you feel sick, but most of all it made you terrified for what would happen when your father couldn’t protect you anymore. He was strong, but old, and so tired. You hated to see how hard he had to work so late into his life, just so that you wouldn’t have to suffer.
When he died, it almost didn’t feel real. Even though it was sort of expected with the way his health had been declining for months, it was nothing you ever could’ve imagined. A world without your father meant a world you were truly alone in… and only now did you confront the real cruelty of life in the tail section.
You woke up to being dragged by your hair; you screamed and kicked, but there was little you could do as you were thrown down onto the floor. Your worthless fighting was muted as rags were used to bind your wrists and ankles, and a gag silenced you. You looked up to see you were surrounded by men, with one-- you were pretty sure his name was Jamie, you’d seen him around before-- standing up and hovering over you.
“Her father is finally dead!” he announced to the crowd with a dirty smile that was missing a few teeth. “I got my hands on her first, but I’m willing to sell her to any reasonable bidders.”
“Five rations,” one voice quickly jutted in.
“Five-- what the fuck are you talking about, man? Everyone’s been drooling over this little tart for years and you offer me five rations?! Get a grip,” Jamie spat.
“Twenty,” another called out.
“Getting warmer,” Jamie laughed. “Come on, boys, she’s never known a man before. This is truly a priceless opportunity.”
“Thirty!”
“Thirty-three!”
“Best I can do is thirty-five.”
“This is preposterous,” Jamie scoffed. “She’s a virgin, and look how cute she is when she cries! If nobody’s gonna make me a suitable offer,” he growled, suddenly grabbing you by your neck and putting his face right against yours, “maybe I’ll keep you for myself, hm?”
You sobbed and tried to squirm away but it was beyond useless, your bound limbs overpowered easily as he held you down and licked a stripe up the side of your face, just to hear you scream behind your gag.
“I’ll take her,” a deep voice boomed suddenly. “A hundred rations.”
“A-- what?” Jamie stammered.
You tried to look around at who it was but you couldn’t see very well in the dark.
“It’s more than enough,” the man continued. “Hand her over.”
“Curtis,” Jamie greeted awkwardly, and your eyes went wide with recognition, “I… didn’t take you for the bartering type.”
That was an understatement. You knew Curtis, like some of the more chivalrous men of the back car, was a long-standing boycotter of this sort of activity. He didn’t even seem interested in the women who wanted to sleep with him, let alone those who were being sold against their will. Seemed like his patience had worn out, and he was finally giving in to his biological needs, no matter who would suffer cruelty along the way. Just your luck that it would be you for sale when he gave up on his morals.
“I didn’t take you for the type to stall when he’s offered a great deal,” Curtis replied coldly. “Now give me the girl and take your payment.”
Something must have changed hands, but you were too busy staring at the corrugated steel floor and hoping it was all a dream that would end any moment.
You lurched back as Jamie picked you up again, tossing you to Curtis who caught you awkwardly.
“Have fun with her,” Jamie encouraged, “make sure it’s loud enough so we can all hear; a little consolation prize for the rest of us.”
Curtis said nothing as he turned and dragged you to his bunk, ignoring your muffled pleas. When he set you down, he kneeled beside you and put a hand on each shoulder to brace you.
“I’m going to take off this gag, and your ties,” he offered, “but you need to stop crying, okay? Everything will be alright. I won’t hurt you.”
You weren’t sure you believed that, but you tried to steady your breathing. Maybe if you did what he said, he would be gentle with you…
You nodded slowly, and he untied the gag. Your sore mouth appreciated the reprieve as you wiggled your mouth around to stretch your lips. You had sort of assumed that whoever bought you would leave the restraints on, so that you wouldn’t fight back. But Curtis was so strong and healthy, he didn’t even need to bind you: your body tensed up again at that realization.
“Shh, shh, calm down,” he requested as he worked on the knot around your feet, “you don’t need to be afraid of me.”
Finally your limbs were freed, though that freedom was wasted on exhaustedly falling to the cold steel floor.
“Use this rag to clean off a little,” he instructed, handing you a cloth that had been soaked in water, “and go back to sleep for the night.”
“You… you’re not going to…?” you murmured, confused.
“I don’t believe in enslavement,” he shook his head. “Your father was a good man; he did a lot for me, even when I had nothing to offer him in return. He told me to pay him back by keeping you safe after he was gone.”
You hadn’t realized your father knew Curtis so well. You’d seen him around, sure, but he was more a stranger than anything.
“Thank you…” you whispered, your voice hoarse and ragged.
“You need to rest,” he whispered back. “You can sleep in my bed-- someone’s already claimed yours, I’m sure. I’ll be on the floor beside you if you need me.”
Your cheeks burned with guilt. “Curtis, don’t do that. You spent so much on me... I don’t want to be any more of a burden.”
“Don’t worry about that now,” he soothed, “we can talk in the morning. Get your sleep.”
After washing yourself hastily with the rag (focusing most on wherever Jamie had touched you), you slipped into the sheets on his mattress, finding him different from the ones you were used to, but comfortable in spite of the unfamiliarity.
Curtis settled in on the floor, and in the near-darkness you could just make out the silhouette of his face as he closed his eyes and relaxed against a roll of tattered clothes as an improvised pillow. You’d always thought he was handsome, and the impression you’d gotten was that he was patient, and honorable, but kept to himself. You could remember just a few nights ago when you never could’ve imagined this being your new life. Although you did wonder if Curtis was simply waiting for the morning to claim you, in the meantime you decided to take him at his word and just be thankful that someone seemingly kind had bought you instead of Jamie or his fellow bidders.
Two weeks later...
If anything, it was odd how little Curtis had asked of you. He didn’t even really talk to you. Even your father expected you to help him with anything you could; sometimes it was just keeping him company, listening to him. But Curtis all but avoided you. All that said, his presence was rarely needed to keep you safe. People respected your father, but they feared Curtis. He wasn’t violent-- well, he wasn’t violent typically. Nearly a week ago he had gone to fisticuffs for you after a man had tried to grope you. The weird thing was that you hadn’t even realized Curtis was nearby: one moment you were alone and being pulled into a stranger’s oppressive form as he purred in your ear, the next Curtis had appeared and shoved him off of you. That seemed to get the point across that Curtis’ things were not to be touched.
Feeling guilty, you decided to do whatever chores you could think of while he was away from his ‘room’ (which was, of course, not a room at all but a bed draped with a canopy of tattered fabric in order to create some privacy). You waited for his return with a little smile on your face, sure he would be grateful for your service and maybe would start to warm up to you more.
“Hi, Curtis,” you greeted with a peppy grin when you saw him approaching, jumping up from where you had been sitting.
“You washed my clothes,” he noticed instantly.
Your smile fell when you realized that he wasn’t happy. “Did I do something wrong?” you asked sheepishly.
“You are not my slave; I cannot make that more clear,” he frowned. “Never do a chore on my behalf again.”
“Please, Curtis. You’ve done so much for me, just let me prove my usefulness.”
“You want to be useful? Stay out of harm’s way.”
“Oh, I see,” you sneered, “you don’t want me to do your chores because I am your chore. Is that all you see me as? A debt you are repaying to my father?”
He seemed confused by that question. “What else could I see you as?”
“A partner!” you protested. “A woman!”
He grabbed you suddenly, pulling you into him by your wrists. “Stop talking like that. I won’t hear any more of it. Just stay quiet and take care of yourself.”
He dropped you as you began to cry, crumpling into a ball on the floor.
“Don’t cry,” he frowned. “Why could you be crying, when all I told you was that you don’t have to do anything?”
“I suppose I should be thankful that you’re not sadistic,” you explained with a shaky, weak voice, “but you’re still plenty cruel to me, I hope you know that. You ignore me completely-- and no one else will talk to me, because they’re afraid to upset you. I’ve never been so alone.”
He sighed and sat down beside you on the floor. “I never meant to…” he trailed off. “I bought you to save you from them. Not because I had any purpose for you.”
“I have no purpose,” you stated plainly, moving from sad to stoic. “Don’t you hear how sad that sounds? Can you blame me for being upset when you’re telling me straight to my face that I’m useless?”
He seemed to at least see where you were coming from with that, looking to the side with an oddly guilty look in his eyes.
Suddenly, he reached to pull up his shirt and you gasped when you saw a cut along his side.
“I fell,” he explained, “and scraped against something.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you comforted to the best of your ability, “I hope it’s not giving you too much trouble.”
“It’s not, but I’m worried it’ll get infected.”
You thought for a moment. “I could… help you clean it?”
“Sure,” he nodded, “that would be nice. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” you shrugged as you grabbed a rag to dampen. “I’ll be right back.”
You cleaned his wound in silence, carefully washing away the dried blood, even when he sucked in breaths through his teeth as you touched the sensitive places. The task at hand distracted you from your previous outburst; this was exactly proof of why you needed things to do, you’d go crazy otherwise.
“I don’t think it’ll need stitches,” you informed him as you put the rag away and rolled his shirt back down. “We’ll just clean it again tomorrow and I bet that’ll be enough.”
“Good,” he nodded.
The day was winding down to a close already, and you looked around to see a lot of the people nearby starting to prepare for bed, if they weren’t already on their mattresses with their eyes and ears covered to block out the distractions of those still awake.
“I think you should take the bed tonight, since you’re injured,” you offered. Up until now, you’d been alternating nights on the floor; it was the only compromise you two could come to.
“I couldn’t ask you to sleep on the ground two nights in a row,” he shook his head.
“You’re not asking me to. I’m telling you that I will.”
“I won’t take the bed.”
You crossed your arms and grinned stubbornly. “Then we’ll both be on the floor.”
“Fine,” he sighed with defeat, “I’ll take the bed, but only if you share it with me. I can never sleep well when all I can think about is how cold and uncomfortable you must be.”
You were surprised to hear that, because you had always felt the same way on the nights you were in the bed. Seemed both of you were getting worse sleep than you let on.
“F-fine,” you stammered, realizing how little space the two of you would have to work with on the mattress, “we’ll share it then.”
“Might help with the cold anyway,” he shrugged as he stood up, removing his outermost layer of clothes before slipping behind the curtain that surrounded the bed. You swallowed, as if you hadn’t realized until now that you were going to be in bed with him so soon.
You removed your jacket as well; even though you normally liked to sleep in something less bulky than the dress you were wearing now, you figured he would protest if you were in any state of undress while sharing a bed with him.
As you pulled the curtain aside, you found him already on the farther side of the bed, facing away from you. He was so far off the edge that he surely would’ve fallen if there wasn’t a wall on the other side.
“Curtis, you’re twice my size and you’ve left nearly two-thirds of the bed for me,” you chuckled, slipping into the covers with him and noticing how much space was still left between you. “Relax, won’t you?”
“Alright,” he relented, laying back a little as his shoulder brushed against yours.
“Goodnight, Curtis,” you mumbled as you settled in and got as comfortable as could be reasonably expected, letting your eyes fall shut. Sure, it took awhile, but with a forced relaxation you were able to drift to sleep and stay that way for quite some time.
At some point, you awoke to the softest noise beside you. At first you thought it was just your dream, but then you heard it again-- Curtis was breathing strangely, and you jumped up when you heard a strained noise of pain.
“Curtis!” you hissed into the dark. “Are you hurt? Is everything alright?”
“What?” he stammered, jolting away from you.
“You were--” you started to explain, but then you realized he was palming at his trousers; specifically, he was stuffing his cock back into them. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry,” he sighed, “I didn’t-- sometimes you just-- I never meant to--”
“Are you feeling… frustrated?” you asked him softly, moving a little closer to where he was pressing himself back against the wall.
“It’s fine,” he assured you, “I’m fine.”
“Let me help you,” you pleaded. “I wanted to help you so much, but there was nothing I could do. Let me do this, please. I want you to feel good…”
“Your father, I promised him--” he began, but you interrupted.
“Don’t talk about my father,” you requested. “You kept your promise. I’m safe. Let me thank you for all you’ve done.”
Your hand reached out and made contact with his heaving chest through the thin layer of his shirt, beginning to trail down over his stomach and finally to the hard outline inside his trousers.
“W-wait,” he stuttered quietly, even though you felt him quietly sigh with relief as you palmed at his erection.
“I don’t want to wait anymore,” you whispered-- so quiet even you could barely hear it-- as you leaned in and your nose brushed against his cheek. “I wanted you for so long, Curtis, did you not know? Wanted to touch you… wanted to make love with you…”
He let out a long-held breath as you reached into his trousers and wrapped your arm around his length. It was so hot in your palm; it warmed you in the most intoxicating way.
“R-really?” he murmured.
“Of course I did,” you answered, moving your hand and slowly stroking him. God, the poor man must’ve been so pent-up: he was bucking into your touch already, his cock so hard that you wondered if it was hurting him. “Every woman on the train lusts for you. To have you so close and not be able to do anything about it, it was torture.”
“Nothing compared to what it was like,” he groaned softly, “to want to have you for so long and feel horrible for it.”
You began to pump his cock faster, seeking more of those beautiful noises he was making. The way his length flexed against your palm made arousal tingle all throughout your body.
His hand slipped to the back of your neck, his fingertips brushing up against your hairline and making you shiver. He whispered your name and you felt like putty in his hands, so distracted by your own need that the pace of your strokes faltered briefly.
The two of you stayed like that for a few moments longer-- foreheads pressed together, shivering and shaking and panting in each other’s arms-- before a rush of adrenaline gave you the confidence to speak.
“I want it inside me,” you whispered against his ear. “Please, Curtis, I want you inside me.”
You swung your leg over to straddle him, pushing yourself up off of his chest. He whispered your name with shock as you lifted your tattered dress and pulled it over your shoulders.
“Touch me,” you begged. “Didn’t you want to? I wondered if you did. I wondered how your hands would feel…” you trailed off as you grabbed his wrists and guided his hands to your waist. They were strong and rough, and so hot against your skin that you thought you might just burn up right there. He moved them on his own then, sliding them up to your breasts which he gently grasped. You sighed a little and melted into his touch.
His thumbs teased your nipples, which were already hard and alert. You tried your best to suppress your moans, aware that many other passengers were sleeping nearby. Secretly, the idea that they would hear Curtis pleasuring you was almost titillating. You hoped it would make them all jealous.
“You’re so soft,” he whispered, “and… smooth…”
“Did you long for me?” you asked, your curiosity getting the better of you.
“Yes,” he finally admitted, “yes, I wanted you. I want you now.”
You reached down and grasped his cock again, guiding it to your wet, swollen opening. He made a noise that sounded something like a whimper and a groan as the head of his cock moved through your folds.
As you sunk down, you tried to ignore the burn of his cock stretching you open, though a pained whimper escaped your lips.
Curtis’ hands gripped your hips tight enough to bruise as you slowly took more and more of him into you. His head fell back with a groan, lost in the way your walls gripped him tighter than he thought possible. In that moment, he wanted more than anything to hold you close and never let go.
You shivered as your hips met his, feeling full in a way you could’ve never imagined. It still stung as he forged a new path inside you, moulded you to his shape, but you didn’t mind because it was him.
You were so weak that you struggled to lift yourself on top of him, but he gently guided you to lessen your load. Your body adjusted to him rather slowly, and every time you rocked your hips made you hiss with discomfort along with the sparks of pleasure burning through your gut. Even when it hurt, you wanted more; if nothing else, the noises of his restrained ecstasy spurred you on.
Leaning down, you laid yourself on his chest so that you could hear him better, and him you. His arms wrapped around you and you felt small; normally, feeling small meant feeling weak, vulnerable, scared… but in his arms, it was wonderful. You felt vulnerable, yes, but protected.
Your name tumbled from his lips like a whispered chant as you moved on top of him, and you whispered his name back. The way his cock rubbed against your insides felt so good that you couldn’t even remember that it hurt before, but then again, you couldn’t remember anything from before right now and you didn’t want to.
Your moans got louder and louder, though they were still relatively quiet, but either way they were like music to his ears, sweet and soft and all for him-- just like you.
“S-stop,” he groaned, “you have to stop.”
“Why?” you gasped, feeling a little guilty for not instantly obeying, and yet too lost in pleasure to stop moving your hips.
“If you don’t stop, I’ll come,” he explained breathlessly, “and you could get pregnant.”
You bit your lip, feeling your face warm with an emotion you were sure you hadn’t experienced before. “What if that’s what I want?”
“Fuck,” he sighed.
“What if I want you to come inside me? What if I want to have your baby?” you continued.
You managed to suppress your yelp as he grabbed you and flipped you both over until you were on your back and he was hovering over you.
“Is that what you want?” he asked with a low growl.
“Yes,” you gasped, “Curtis, it’s all I ever wanted.”
“Fuck,” he moaned, pulling back and thrusting into you again. He lifted your legs to rest on his shoulders, nearly folding you in half as he fucked into you so deep that you could scream. You didn’t, but you wanted to. “Gonna fill you up so good… you’re gonna be so full,” he promised, “you’re gonna be mine.”
“I already am,” you promised, “I always was.”
He leaned down to dominate your lips with a searing kiss, fucking you deep and slow but with an increasing ferocity. Each thrust was harder than the last until the most prominent sound was the slapping of skin, your arousal so prominent that it was beginning to leak and drip down your thighs and ass.
“Tell me who you belong to,” he growled, right against your ear.
“You,” you moaned, “I belong to you, Curtis.”
“Fuck yeah you do.”
You gripped his arms tight as you felt your walls spasming with your orgasm-- it was unlike anything you’d felt before, even though you’d touched yourself plenty of times up until now. Already you knew you were going to be addicted to this feeling. Poor Curtis; you were going to be begging him to fuck you day and night if this was how good it felt.
The tightening of your body around him, and the way you bit down on your lip to keep from screaming with pleasure… it was all too much for him to hold back any more, and with a stuttered groan he spilled himself into you.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into another kiss. He relaxed on top of you as he reciprocated, both of you basking in the glow of the moment.
“Don’t pull out yet,” you pleaded as the kiss ended, “just hold me a little longer, won’t you?”
“Of course,” he smiled softly, placing one small, delicate kiss to the tip of your nose.
“Did you really want me for so long, like you said?” you pressed, remembering what he’d said and fearing it was just a sweet nothing in the heat of the moment.
“You have no idea how long,” he sighed. “I dreamed of this; of you being mine.”
“Was it everything you imagined?”
“And more,” he assured with a soft laugh. “Best hundred rations I ever spent.”
#how did this turn out so fluffy??? lmao#curtis everett x reader#curtis everett smut#chris evans x reader#chris evans smut#ehhh that's enough tags right?#shamelesshoesforchris
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PTC: part v
Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Fem!Reader
gif by @pascalsky
Word Count: 2,312
Rating: PG
Warnings: sweet moments, little bit of angst.
A/N: here’s the next part! some reveals. did you guess correctly? @creativekat and i are having a blast writing this and we really do love this story and these characters!
Series Masterlist
You looked around the large rented ballroom and shook your head nervously. You had brought up the idea of taking the kids out on field trips to facilitate their learning and the Heroics school board had decided to hold a fundraiser to help take this from an idea to reality. You hadn’t imagined that they might opt to raise said funds by auctioning off dates with the Heroics themselves. Since the event would be opened to the public, it couldn’t be held at HQ (a logistical nightmare) so a local Events Center had been the next best option. Now, as you watched the room beginning to fill with people you could see why. This was, apparently, the event of the century.
Soft classical music was being piped in from speakers in the corners of the room as people mingled, getting drinks from the bar. Your students were all wearing black outfits and acting as greeters and coat-checkers so the gathering masses would see just who their money would be helping. You quickly realized, for some here, it wouldn’t matter where the money was going. A night on the town with one of the Heroics was a hot commodity.
Glancing over at Marcus, surrounded by half a dozen women, you understood the appeal. The urge to go over and rescue him from his adoring fans was strong, but you couldn’t do that. For one thing, as the teacher of his daughter and the other Heroics’ kids it was inappropriate. For another thing, you’d spotted your brother in the crowd and you just knew he’d have an opinion on your feelings for Marcus Moreno and you just didn’t want to hear it.
Wearing a suit and tie was really nothing new but wearing it that evening made Marcus super uncomfortable. Not that the women who were flocked to him would have complained. A few of them tried chatting him up casually but there were a few making comments about what their ideal date night would consist of. One of them even tried slipping him actual cash to try to rig the auction.
Marcus shook his head with a forced polite smile as he got more uncomfortable until his gaze looked out and found you. “Ladies, I have to go do my part in helping set up,” he explained with a slight lie as he gently pushed through them and walked over to you. His smile changed from forced to nervous as he approached you and leaned in to speak to you.
“What else is left to set up? Please tell me there’s something so I can keep myself busy,” he added with a soft chuckle as his eyes did a very quick, brief scan over your scan to take in your outfit. “You look beautiful by the way,” he commented quietly as he attempted a smile at you.
At his compliment you couldn’t help the heat that rushed to your face. You didn’t feel beautiful most of the time. Cute, sure. But beautiful? No. But, if Marcus Moreno was saying it maybe you needed to believe it. You shook off the exhilaration of the moment to focus on what he was asking. “Ummm, do you want to add the raspberry sorbet to the punch?”
The two of you walked to the end of the table where several pints of fruit-flavored frozen goodness had been softening and you handed him an ice cream scoop with a smile, “Thank you.” You giggled before adding quietly, “You look really good yourself. I’m sure you’ll bring in a lot of money.” You were surprised when Marcus blushed. A little thrill shocked your spine realizing you were the cause.
Missy cleared her throat getting the attention of you and her father, “We’re done getting all the coats hung up. We were wondering if we could get some snacks?” Marcus looked at you for the answer since you were the one in charge for this event. Nodding, you said, “You guys have done more than enough. You’ve earned a break.”
As she walked away, Marcus leaned closer, asking, “Are you going to bid on me?” His smile nearly melted you.
With a nervous laugh, you replied, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Marcus’ brows knit together in a frown as he scooped some of the sorbet into the punch bowl, watching it fizz as the softened dessert melted more into the liquid.
“Why’s that?” he asked, trying to conceal the slight disappointment in his voice. He was excited to participate in something that would help raise money for Missy and her friends and the school but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t see this as an opportunity to finally have you on a date night with him.
Just then, a clearing of a throat and a slap to Marcus’ shoulder caused both of your attention to break from one another. “Well, well, well,” Miracle Guy’s voice broke your concentration on Marcus and caused you to turn to look at him. You forced a smile as the blond male continued talking, “Looks like we’ll be in some pretty heavy competition tonight huh Marcus?”
The question seemed playful in nature but Marcus, and you, knew better. Any chance that Steven could show up Marcus, he would absolutely try to. You shook your head slightly and went to the other end of the table, suddenly feeling tension in your shoulders.
You absent-mindedly straightened a stack of napkins that were already pristine and watched as the two men finished their conversation. Was it too much to hope Steven wouldn’t press the subject with you? You watched as Marcus handled the other Heroic smoothly, then Miracle Guy, also known as your older brother Steven, approached you. Again, you molded a wobbly smile onto your face.
“How’ve you been?” The question was ignored as Steve glanced around before casting his imperious gaze on you.
“So, are you and Marcus Moreno going out now?” He said the other man’s name through clenched teeth.
With a shrug you replied, “No. What gave you that idea? Why would you think that?” Inwardly you cringed. You were never very good at hiding your feelings.
Steven picked up a small plate and helped himself to a couple slices of cheese, “I overheard the kids talking. Wheels seemed to think you were interested.” He popped some gouda into his mouth and then, “I just don’t want you to get hurt… and getting your hopes up that a Heroic like Marcus would… well, I’m just worried he’ll get bored, that’s all. I’m looking out for you.”
You scoffed. The way your fists clenched around the napkin you were currently holding, crumpling it should have been a sign that you wanted to punch your brother for being so rude. The guy hadn’t even had a serious relationship and yet he still managed to have a son by a woman he so-called loved. What did he know about love or relationships or even what it was like to be with you in a relationship? He had no right.
His name was called across the room and he gave you a pitiful smile. Your nostrils flared, trying to calm yourself before Miranda came up to remind you that it was just about time to start. You nodded, thankful that she had broken your frustration towards your brother. You walked with her towards one of the front tables as she kept walking to get onto the stage and welcome everyone to the event.
Marcus had watched as you and Miracle Guy talked, narrowing his eyes when you clearly got agitated. But, then Miranda had interrupted and the blonde hero had walked toward the stage. He yearned to go to you and take your hand, to make sure you were okay, but the event was starting and he had to join the other Heroics at the table reserved for them.
Miranda introduced the emcee for the evening, a local newscaster, and joined you at your table while the rules of the date auction were explained. Reaching across the table, she grabbed an open bottle of red wine pouring two glasses, “You look like you could use a drink.” She knew your family history, since she’d been on the interview committee when you’d gotten hired and you appreciated her support now.
Taking the glass, you smiled, “I shouldn’t let him get to me. I’ll be fine.” You glanced over at the Heroics table and saw Marcus looking at you. He smiled and you couldn’t help but smile in return, your heart fluttering in your chest. Your attention was again diverted when you heard the emcee announcing that Miracle Guy had pulled in $870 for the school and then Marcus’ name was being announced. Your stomach turned while the women around you all cheered wildly. You felt jealous of whoever won this date and watched Marcus walk up to the stage.
Marcus fiddled with his tie as he made his way onto the stage. His face felt hot even before he stepped under the hot stage lights. The cheering and hollering didn’t quiet down until the emcee shushed the crowd at least four more times. Marcus was smiling but he felt his palms get a bit sweaty. For a man who was constantly in the news saving the world, being in front of a crowd to be auctioned off for a date seemed to make him nervous.
His eyes squinted as he adjusted to the light and when he scanned the room, his eyes landed on you for a long moment. His breath caught in his throat, secretly hoping that you would bet on a date with him. Everything in his mind was trying to telepathically tell you to bid.
The emcee barely got his words out to start the bidding before the first few hands rose up, shouting $100, then $150 and $200 in rapid succession. There was a murmur of giggles and whistles as the emcee shouted out the bid numbers and kept trying to explain what a date night with Marcus would entail.
Your eyes couldn’t leave Marcus even after he had caught your gaze a few times. Your heart was hammering as you thought about the real possibility of someone else going on a date with him. The bids had gotten up to $700 and it was down to two people. Both of the women in question had been acting especially thirsty when talking to Marcus earlier.
Throwing caution to the wind, you raised your hand, “$750!” Every eye in the room seemed to turn in your direction with varying reactions. Miranda’s eyebrows shot up, but she grinned at you. The two other bidders glared in your direction. Your students all shared happy grins (especially Missy and Wheels). Steven looked disappointed and aggrieved. But, the only person who mattered to you in that moment was Marcus and he looked relieved and happy, a wide grin forming on his face.
There was some more bidding back and forth while you did math in your head trying to figure out how much you could actually afford. You really didn’t want to lose this. Finally, you bid $1390 and everyone in the room waited to see if either of the other two women would raise the stakes yet again. Finally, the emcee announced, “At $1390, the highest bid of the night so far, a date with Marcus Moreno to the lady at Table 4!”
Breathlessly you leaned back in your seat then gasped, “Oh my God… what did I do?” Marcus was just as breathless as he heard the applause and watched your face as he finally stepped down from the stage.
As he approached your table all eyes were on him and subsequently, you. He stood in front of you, towering over your sitting frame and you audibly gulped at the impressive broadness of him. "So a date it is," he said quietly as he sat down in the chair next to you.
His heart was hammering as he placed his hand over yours and patted it gently before looking back to the stage to see Mrs. Vox coming onto the stage to be bid on.
Off to the side, Steven was furrowing his brow at you and Marcus, trying to see if he could study what your lips were saying to each other. His nostrils flared slightly as seeing how relaxed and comfortable Marcus was around you. Almost as if you had been together already.
You could feel your brother’s eyes on you, and you were sure he suspected you’d lied to him about your relationship with Marcus earlier, but you ignored his glares. You had bigger things to worry about right now. Like the fact that you’d just paid an overwhelming amount of money to go on a date with the parent of one of your students. You’d never crossed the line like that before and the fact that you’d done it this time had you reeling.
Not to mention the fact that he was a Heroic! Growing up powerless in a family full of superpowered people had always made you feel like an outsider in your own home. And they hadn’t done anything to dissuade you of that notion. If anything they’d made it worse, amplifying the sense of inadequacy you’d experienced.
Glancing over at Missy, who was trying to hide an enormous grin, you remembered the talk you’d had with Marcus at the Parent/Teacher Conference. She was, essentially in the same place you’d been back then. But, Marcus made her feel loved and accepted for who she was. As you moved your gaze away from your students your eyes met Steven’s and you gave him a determined tilt of your chin before turning back to Marcus.
Leaning forward you whispered, “I can’t wait.” Then kissed him on the cheek.
Perm Tags: @creativekat @sxtansqueen @phoenixhalliwell @gallowsjoker @dindjareen @justanotherblonde23 @n3ssm0nique @autumnleaves1991-blog @aasimarr @lovingramsey @buckysalefty @ladylothlorien @moonlight-prose @crystalized-drumming @stardust-galaxies @flightlessangelwings @Doloreschanal @artsymaddie @agirllovespancakes
Pedro Tags: @heythere-mel @randomness501 @absurdthirst @dindjareen @bel-ppa @general-latino @buckysalefty @jeeperky @coldlilheart @wigwitch @green-socks @pedros-mustache @weasleywinchester @sarahjkl82-blog @eternallyvenus @pretty-brown-eyess @evyiione @strangelittlenobody @lemonlime09 @sleep-tight1
PTC Tags: @fanfic-addict-98 @grandfanficstation @yes-im-your-mom @fandomtrashwhore @mrschiltoncat @literally-anythin @apocalypticwafflekitten
#fic: ptc#ptc#marcus moreno#marcus moreno/reader#marcus moreno x reader#marcus moreno and reader#reader insert#marcus moreno/you#marcus moreno x you#marcus moreno and you#marcus moreno fic#marcus moreno fanfic#marcus moreno fanfiction#marcus moreno story#we can be heroes#we can be heroes fic#we can be heroes fanfic#we can be heroes fanfiction#wcbh#wcbh fic#wcbh fanfic#wcbh fanficiton#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfic#pedro pascal fanfcition#pedro pascal character#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character fic
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jmourning replied to your post “Do you think the negative attitude in the fandom...”
I was and am rather appalled at some "fans" on Twitter before season 2 of GO was announced voicing their displeasure at "old" fans (meaning female fans) shipping "two old men" - I mean, I personally think DT and MS are both quite attractive and as I was late to Fandom had mostly seen positive interactions across the Fandom, most debates about body type and sexual preferences of the characters. I'm still shocked at the ageism.
It really is something, isn’t it? What’s interesting to me is that it seems like there are two types of GO fans unique to Twitter, but on opposite sides: The ones who constantly sexualize Michael and David and talk about their bodies in a “positive” way; and the ones who do not view Michael and David sexually and talk about their bodies in a negative way, even if indirectly.
But what’s not unique to Twitter, sadly, is the ageism. The idea that it’s only okay to ship characters/people if they’re under a certain age. What these fans don’t realize is that life doesn’t stop when you are 30, and neither does love. An entire facet of Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship (almost all of it, it could be argued) is that they didn’t fit in where they were from, and it was through their relationship with each other that they found and accepted who they are. Even though everyone and everything else in the universe had decided it was too late, Aziraphale and Crowley got a second chance with each other. They chose each other, exactly as they are, That is another facet of the show and their relationship--that Aziraphale doesn’t measure up to the “ideal” physical standards for an angel. And despite that--or perhaps because of it--Crowley chooses him.
Going back to the previously mentioned Twitter fans, that type of reaction makes me angry on a different level when thinking of Michael and David. If Michael and David are in a relationship--speaking hypothetically here--wouldn’t that be something that would make them feel reluctant to be public about it? Fearfulness of the potential response, for a number of reasons--both of them already being in “monogamous” relationships with women, the impact on their careers due to homophobia/biphobia in the industry--and particularly fear of judgment from people because they had the unmitigated gall to find each other when they weren’t young and pretty.
The truth be told, neither of those extremes--sexualizing or shaming--are good. Both dehumanize Michael and David and reduce them to a commodity, albeit in different ways. I know they are actors and fans feel this weird sense of ownership over the characters (and them, by extension), but...can’t we just treat Michael and David like people? Can’t fans stop looking at them and seeing exaggerated (positive or negative) versions of Michael and David, and see them as who they actually are? I think that’s all anyone wants, really...
#jmourning#reply post#good omens#michael sheen#welsh seduction machine#david tennant#soft scottish hipster gigolo#aziraphale#crowley#ineffable husbands#fandom woes#ageism#i've seen this issue raised before#with fanart drawing Aziraphale and Crowley as much younger#when them finding each other when they did is such a part of the queer narrative#no one is too old to fall in love#cinematic parallels#i'm just saying#ineffable lovers#good omens rpf#discourse
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