#sure the Nazis rounded us up
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I don’t think most non-Jews understand how disappointed we are in the left right now. How completely abandoned we’ve become. How our contributions to progress for other groups have been erased or disavowed or hidden. How the actual tangible things that Jews have contributed to black rights and civil rights are being ignored. How we’re being told we contribute and have contributed nothing.
How we are being told that the world has been kind to us when it never has. As if my mom didn’t grow up getting called a Kike and getting beat up for being Jewish. How I thought I had friends until I caught them saying “xyz was beautiful until Jews showed up.” How people told me I was pretty “for a Jew.” How I grew up hearing stories about bombs being set off in Israel in buses and markets. How I couldn’t even go two weeks without hearing that and how nobody cared and somehow, every time that happened, the whole world became more hostile to me for some reason.
I just don’t understand. I don’t understand what leftists are doing. Or why. I hate that I have to say—of course, I support a free and self determined Palestine (which I truly do)—in order for you to decide I’m worthy of care and support.
We showed up for you. All of you. And the entire movement is abandoning us at best or targeting us at worst. Celebrating our deaths. Saying we deserved it. How are we supposed to trust you ever again? How are we supposed to feel safe ever again?
A very few select people who are in my life have taken the chance to actually learn about and dismantle their own unconscious antisemitism during this time. And I’m eternally grateful for them. But most people haven’t reached out at all. Most people are still sharing hateful things that could get me hurt and they don’t care. Most people Reblogging my posts are still Jews. Because we are alone. And it sucks. You need to be as loud about antisemitism as you are about Palestine or you’re an antisemite (unless you’re Arab/Muslim/Palestinian—I totally get that these groups are also doing damage control in their own communities just like Jews are).
But we are all in tremendous pain right now.
This moment will pass. And when it does, I will remember how many people let me down. I will remember that when I needed support more than I’ve ever needed it in my life, people fucking vanished. They pretended violence against my people wasn’t happening. They ignored and rewrote the history of Israel to suit their own narratives.
You don’t know what it feels like to be hated this much for opposite things. PoC hate us for being too white. White supremacists hate us for not being white enough. Europeans hate us for being middle eastern. Middle easterners hate us for being western/European. Everyone hates us for being settlers but continually kicks us out of their countries so that we have to settle somewhere else.
I saw a post going around from a Black person who said that the reason he and his fellow black activists go protest for Palestinians instead of fighting antisemitism (as if it’s a binary, which it’s not) is that Jews don’t show up. Muslims and Palestinians do. And honestly? Fuck that guy. Heather Heyer died standing shoulder to shoulder against racism in 2017. [CORRECTION: When I first wrote this post I was under the impression that Heather Heyer was Jewish. I want to correct to avoid spreading misinfo. She was just the first (and incorrect) Jewish civil rights activist I thought of. However there are plenty of other actual Jewish civil rights activists to choose from. If you have reblogged this post from me, please feel free to add a link to the permalink version of this post with my correction to your reblog.]I have devoted substantial time and effort and money that I don’t even get paid a lot of because I don’t get paid a living wage. I have continually reached out to PoC people in my life of all religions to ask how they are doing and what I could be doing to help more—both for them personally and how they would best like me to help their community. I have elevated their voices at every opportunity. And not one person I checked in with has done the same for me or for my community.
And it’s bone chilling. It’s awful. And it’s even worse knowing that when it’s over, people will want to go back to normal. They won’t apologize. They won’t self reflect. They’ll just live their lives, maybe a little more aware of how much they hate us and completely indifferent to the harm they’ve caused us. How disposable they made us feel. And the thing is…it’s not hard for you to know. You just have to ask.
Too many people are cowards. Too many people care about looking good than actually learning something or making the world better. And to those people: you should be ashamed of yourself.
I don’t have any hate in my heart. Truly. Not a drop for any group of people. But I have a tremendous lack of trust that anyone would actually lift a finger to keep me safe.
#antisemitism#leftist antisemitism#anti zionisim#I dare a goy to republic this challenge#goyim ID yourself in the tags if you reblog this#cuz i straight up don’t believe goyisch activists give a shit unless they straight up say they do#i’m not okay#honestly#this is the Nazi stuff I am most scared of#sure the Nazis rounded us up#but you fuckers were the ones who watched and did nothing#you’re the ones who voted the Nazis in#you’re the ones who didn’t stop them#fuck all y’all for real#i/p#israel#palestine#correction issued
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something something, British dystopia that issues a particular color in its symbolism starring primarily teenagers which includes a black male lead and at least one extremely fucked up adult, a kid who turns into a monster, and one child who is way too fucking young to be here and yet is and dies a horrible death, something something, two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's pog that it happened twice
#try and figure out what these 2 series are#bonus round for different fandom: somehting something media about a prison that relies on inhuman guards and a demented warden#with a horrifically large amount of inmates dying frequently and you're not sure how tf the place was not shut down#a character named gary who doesn't really talk and is clearly fucked up#gang violence which affects everyone and yet is surpirisnlgy irrelevant to the primary plot#and uses heavily nazi-based ideas for running the rison and their plans for taking over the world#something something two nickels#have fun lol
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"Fascism and Welsh Nationalism", or "Stop Fawning over the FWA you cont"
This is inspired by things I've been noticing around Aberystwyth lately while out and about.
Some mfer is putting up Free Welsh Army (FWA) stickers and I have to keep on pulling them down. Why? You ask.
Fascism.
Because of the not so subtle links between the FWA and fascist movements (of which those links are quite frankly underdiscussed) this post is necessary.
So, starting with the stickers:
This is just one of three identical stickers I've pulled down this last week in Aberystwyth. They appear more to be car stickers than anything else and must have cost a pretty penny to print and/or purchase. They appear to have been bought directly from a website using FWA imagery and slogans - yet does not claim to be the FWA (that I can see, at least). I'm not going to link to it because they don't need any more web traffic. But we will get onto why this is significant in a bit.
Anyway, returning to the stickers - I pulled down the first one off of an electric box on North Road, opposite Vaynor St in late November. I pulled down the second (pictured) also in late November on Penglais Road off the bus stop near the hospital. And in early December I pulled down the third one off of a wall near the Spar at the end of Vaynor Street. Right off the bat we can assume the guy who wasted a lot of money on these stickers lives local to where the stickers I've found so far were. So they're lazy, for one - not venturing much further than their own front door by the looks of it.
Iconography:
I've written about the iconography of the FWA before here but it bears repeating that if fascists approve of your iconography, then that's a sign your movement is already overrun with fascists.
This is the sticker design which I've been noticing about town. Top to bottom we have "Cymru Rydd/Free Wales" which on its own is fine. No qualms with that. But between the Welsh and English text is a symbol. This one:
Now, this was the symbol of the Free Wales Army. Note that I say *was* because the FWA doesn't exist any more. Yet various actors have tried to resurrect its very unsuccessful corpse over the years. These stickers seem to belong to a new organisation which is the latest to try and capitalise on the ghost of the FWA. Now, if you're like me, you'll have already noticed this design is, for lack of a better word, a bit dogwhistley. The angled, blocky, swastika-like stylisation of what is supposedly an eagle, the black and white void of any other features and the very fact it *is* an eagle depicted all seem a bit *too* similar to the iconography of the Third Reich, don't you think?
Their design choice is no accident. It is a design which appeals to fascists while also has enough Welsh cultural reference for apologists to hide behind with a plausibly deniable reason for why their eagle Looks Like That. The white eagle is a reference to the 13th C. poem Mab Darogan, in which Myrddin prophesises that "a king shall come with heroism from among the Welsh people" and that "generous men shall be reborn of the lineage of the eagles of Snowdonia". The eagle could have literally been drawn in any way. But it rather specifically was drawn like this. That choice is not accidental.
Now this new organisation which is trying to reanimate the corpse of the FWA (we'll call them EW) has incorporated the FWA symbol into their sticker. An endorsement of the failed so-called 'paramilitary' organisation on their part, to be sure. EW also have included a different style of white eagle on their sticker as well - which is blatantly stolen from Wikipedia (the copyright is expired, but 0/10 artistic effort on their part even so). Also not to nitpick but the eagle on the sticker is grey not white so that's also a fail.
Artistic criticisms aside, the sticker is loaded with dogwhistley iconography all round. The Celtic knot border isn't necessarily problematic, however, fascists and/or neo-nazis love to slap Celtic knots onto things because they associate Celticity with whiteness. The colour scheme may also be a coincidence, but it does remind me of the fascist symbol which is the 'Flag of Kekistan" which uses the same colour scheme.
Why does this matter and who were the FWA?:
The FWA were a Welsh nationalist (supposedly 'paramilitary') outfit which formed in Lampeter in 1963 and disbanded in 1969 (just 6 years of activity). They took a lot of their cues from the IRA and were effectively fanboys of them. The group was never really considered a threat and mostly consisted of middle-aged men playing paramilitary dress-up. They did claim to be funded by the IRA and that they had dogs trained to carry explosives. Their claims remain unproven.
HOWEVER - and here's where things get sticky. A lot of the issues the FWA were publicly concerned with were and are actually valid issues (e.g. the drowning of Capel Celyn, the Aberfan Disaster etc.). The problem is that fascists or fanboys of fascists love to get their foot in the door by addressing genuine issues. But what happens is that invariably a minoritised group is blamed for the existence of said issue and naturally that leads to discrimination and violence.
The police started to get a bit antsy with the investiture of then-prince Charles as prince of Wales and the possibility of the FWA doing some terrorism. So some of the FWA's leaders were arrested just prior to this. The group officially ended in 1969.
The nationalism advocated for by the FWA was of the 'blood-and-soil' type. Not just your common or garden nationalism (which still has issues but given context is perfectly able to exist in a non-fashy way). And that's why the idolisation of the FWA in years since is sus. It appeals to romanticised nationalist notions of brave men in uniforms helping free Wales - when in reality they did little terrorism and little to actually further the Welsh nationalist cause. In fact, the leadership of the FWA fell apart after they started to disagree on whether their actions were damaging the cause rather than helping it.
Julian Cayo-Evans founded the FWA and ran it with Dennis Coslett and Gethin ap Gruffydd. Gruffydd went on to found other youth nationalist organisations after he left the FWA due to disagreements with its direction - e.g. he founded the Patriotic Front in 1964 which was later outlawed by Plaid Cymru in 1966. It goes without saying names like 'Patriotic Front' are deliberate nods to other, similarly named fascist organisations like National Front.
Legacy and The Present:
FWA's only legacy is the sycophantic fanclub which ressurects the corpse of the FWA every few years to parade it around and relive the 'glory days' of paramilitary cosplay. But aside from functionally being useless, their iconography and politics are still very much under the fash umbrella and that must be resisted at every opportunity (hence why I'm tearing down their stickers - I don't want fascists to feel welcome here). Part of why people may turn a blind eye to the FWA/sympathise is that they may not be aware of the history of the FWA or see the dogwhistles laden in their work and symbols. Some may even just assume without any other context that they're just another Welsh-language preservation group and may even support them without realising the deeper nature of the organisation beyond just preserving the Welsh language.
Which brings me back to EW. I'm going to put the rest of this under a cut, I do encourage reading the rest though and reblogging to get the word out that
It is always morally okay to tear down fascist propaganda
If you see some in your town, don't hesitate to let fash know they aren't welcome here.
EW:
So, onto the latest in a long line of paramilitary wannabes who idolise a long-dead organisation from the 60s.
The EW website seems... sketch. Lots of banners and sections asking to 'donate now' and 'take action' (with money). So right off the bat this looks like a cash-grab.
Secondly, from their own 'About' section they claim that the Welsh Independence movement has "become inundated with authoritarian Marxist entryists who regard Welsh independence as merely a vehicle for furthering their own political agendas". Which is pretty bold stuff coming from an organisation trying to do The Exact Same. There's also a LOT of emphasis on youth involvement and youth nationalism.
There's also a lot of ahistorical claims in the About section too. E.g. on the prophecy of Myrddin "From this legend derives the very name of Cymru’s greatest mountains, with ‘Eryri’ meaning the ‘Seat of the Eagles’ in Cymraeg." - this is contested as there is no one agreed upon etymology of Eryri. To claim that this is The Etymology suggests that they picked this one just because it conveniently fits the version of the mythology they're presenting. They also claim that "Owain ap Gruffydd, would adopt three such eagles as his royal coat of arms" - this is blatantly incorrect as Owain ap Gruffydd lived before the Age of Heraldry and the three eagles are actually later attributed arms.
In EW's FAQ there's a section on supporting their organisation - with one paragraph saying that you can buy stickers instead "If you aren’t eligible or willing to commit to becoming an activist". Lol at 'if you aren't willing to fully commit to our FWA fanboy club you can put up some stickers instead'. Also the button to buy stickers suggests you pay via paypal "We’ll accept quick payments using PayPal and will have them shipped to you First Class" - which *totally* sounds legit (what do you bet they ask people to pay via 'friends and family instead of through business means?).
And... that's it. There's very little else on their website. It *looks* like they're trying to be a movement, but appear to lack substance (and money, judging from how many different Donate Now buttons are plastered all over the site). A hollow organisation blatantly bending history and mythology to fit their narrative, proudly using symbols designed to appeal to fascists while asking people to trust them with the future of Wales?
Dim diolch.
For further reading on why we should guard against fascism in Welsh language revival and independence, see my other post here.
Reblogs welcome for an antifascist independent Wales.
#cymraeg#cymru#free wales army#fwa#eryri#eryr wen#antifascist#annibyniaeth#welsh independence#welsh#fascism cw#neo nazism cw#white nationalism cw#long post
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As it Comes Back to Me
Natasha Romanoff x WinterSoldier!Reader
Summary: Your whole life you'd been living for a mission, whether it be protecting your family or fighting just to see the next sunrise. If you didn’t slow down though, you stood to lose someone you couldn’t live without.
Takes place during the events of Captain America: Civil War.
Word Count: 8,000
A/N: I spent way too much time writing this instead of studying for class.
“Hey kids,” you said, walking up to wrap your arms around Steve and Bucky. You’d just been promoted to Major and had been sent back to the states to escort a fresh round of recruits to the front. There was a big event tonight though which begged for your attention. Howard Stark was showing some new invention or other of his. You’d never been too interested in what the scientists had to say, but there would be plenty of girls out looking to be asked to a dance.
Steve, your little brother–both in age and stature–looked less than thrilled at your return. “What’s wrong, buddy?” You asked, shaking his shoulder.
“It’s not fair,” he protested, shrugging out of your embrace. “I should be heading out with you and Buck tomorrow. I want to fight. I know I can help.” You felt for Steve. If it was him and Bucky standing in uniform and not you, you’re sure you’d be missing out on a whole lot.
“I know, I know. I’m sure you’d give them Nazis real cause to turn and run,” you said, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hold a rifle properly.
“Yeah,” Bucky added. “Ya know you should’ve seen him earlier today. Fought off some punk in an alleyway with a trash can lid. Kicked his ass real good if you ask me.”
“Bucky,” Steve said. “Ya said you wouldn’t tell.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, what I meant to say was that Steve got beat up and I had to come rescue him.” The soon to be sergeant ruffled your brother’s hair.
“No, I know what you’re really upset about is that I’m stealing your boy here,” you said, nodding at Bucky.
“Yeah, yeah, enough. Now come on, I wanna get a good look at the car. All the posters were sayin’ Stark could make it fly.” Steve began to weave his way through the crowd, giving you no choice but to follow.
“I’m worried about leaving him here all alone, ya know?” Bucky said, a crease forming between his brow.
“He’s tough, and he’s smart. Always has been, you know that. Honestly, if they should be sendin’ anyone to fight they should be sendin’ him instead of us. But spirit’s not gonna win a fight, ya gotta back it up with somethin’. Point is, he’ll be fine on his own. Maybe if we’re lucky when we get back he’ll have found himself a nice girl to care for.” You smirked at Bucky.
He ignored the jab as he waved at a group of nice looking girls. You waved too, flashing a smile and admiring the way their skirts fit. “Hey girls!” He shouted. As they made their way through the bustling crowd, he turned to you again. “I just worry about him. I care about him a lot and I can see how torn up he is about us gettin’ to go when he can’t.” A frown appeared to dim the light on his face. “What if he does something stupid while we’re off?”
You clapped him on the shoulder and said, “You worry too much Barnes. You ought to save some of that for the war.”
Giggling, the girls–the names of which Bucky had supplied earlier and which you had promptly forgotten–siddled up. The one nearest to you was a brunette with a yellow skirt and a white flower in her hair. She took your hand and pulled you right up to the front row. “Come on soldier, the show is startin’.”
You smiled and let yourself get lost among the din and the spectacle.
From beside you, Steve waved at you and said your name.
He said your name again, and again. You finally tore your gaze away from the TV monitor mounted in the corner of the room. Steve was much, much bigger now; even taller than you. You were still adjusting to the change. Although he still had the same kind gaze that came with naturally always wanting to do what was right, and believing others wanted the same. You wondered if you had been like that once too.
“We need to get him out of there,” he said. Your gaze flicked back over to the security footage that showed Bucky restrained in a mobile holding unit reinforced with metal supports and bullet proof glass. You had thought he was dead, and turns out Steve had thought the both of you were long gone. And apparently, fate wasn’t done with any of you yet. Bucky looked drastically different. His hair had grown out to his chin and he had lost the boyish swagger and proud glimmer in his eyes. But beneath the bulk and hardened exterior you still saw your friend.
“I know. Something doesn’t feel right about this,” you said. A year ago you had been similarly detained. But you were held in the Avengers Compound and were surrounded by friendly faces. The people here were not so sympathetic. You could feel the passing judgment not just on the Winter Soldier, but on you as well.
“Maybe we could talk to Tony again,” Steve said.
From his seat across the table Sam shook his head. “Did you not just hear him tell us he was fully committed to kissing the government’s ass? Steve, I understand this whole ‘peace at all costs’ approach, but I have a feeling we’re not going to get our way by talking this time.”
“Sam’s right,” you said, mouth twisting into a defeated frown. Through the glass wall of the office you were sitting in you watched a certain Avenger weave her way through the crowded room. You were torn, but Natasha had made her choice. “We’re going to have to consider punching our way out of this one. I got off lucky, but things are different now. The whole world is watching what will happen to him. Compromise isn’t an option anymore.”
Hands on his hips, Steve sighed. “Well, we aren’t going to be able to grab him and get out of here. And we need our gear back if we have any hopes of not getting locked up in a real cell.”
As if sensing your staring, Natasha looked over. Quickly you averted your eyes and suddenly found the tabletop very interesting. But you knew she had caught you. Just a couple of weeks ago you had been spending your mornings going out on runs with her and your evenings watching her try and fail to play chef. She could go on for hours talking about the world and bringing you up to speed. You didn’t know what was more interesting; that the world had turned upside down or the way her voice sounded as she helped you make sense of it all.
And you both enjoyed the newfound freedom neither of you believed you’d ever see nor deserved. You had thought you knew her well enough to predict which side of the so-called Sokovia Accords she would be on. Turned out maybe you didn’t.
Sharon Carter walked into the sound proofed room, hopefully bringing more news. She seemed to have a soft spot for Steve, and you and Sam by extension. She was also the only person here that seemed to want to communicate with the three of you.
On the screen a man sat down at a table across from Bucky. He shuffled some papers around and faced your friend as if in conversation. You stood with your hands braced on the table and watched intently. A glove covered the shiny metal of your right hand. Under your sleeve, the flexible steel plating melded with flesh just below your elbow.
You knew visual without audio would only get you so far, but you’d be damned if you could figure out how to turn it on.
“The receipt for your gear,” Sharon said, handing a slip of paper to Sam.
He took one look at it and scoffed. “Bird costume? Come on.”
“I didn’t write it,” she said, trying to hide a faint smile. Now was not the time for jokes. Noticing the attention on the TV screen she pushed some buttons on a control panel and the audio switched on.
The camera showed a modestly dressed middle-aged man. “I’m not here to judge you,” he told Bucky. “I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James?.” He glanced down at his notes and removed his glasses amicably. From another angle, part of the screen detailed an uncomfortably close profile of Bucky’s face. After a moment of silence, he went on. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, James.”
“My name is Bucky,” he answered, still not making eye contact with the man.
“Who is that man?” You asked, wary of the stranger who was supposedly the only person authorized to make contact with the Winter Soldier.
“He’s a psychologist sent by the United Nations just to conduct a primary evaluation. I’m not familiar with him personally,” Sharon said.
Steve studied the blurry photograph of Bucky that had been taken after he set the bomb off in Vienna. “Why would the Task Force release this photo to begin with?”
“Get the word out, involve as many eyes as we can?” Sharon supplied.
“Right. It’s a good way to flush a guy out of hiding. Set off a bomb, get your picture taken. Get seven billion people looking for the Winter Soldier.” You could see the gears in his brain turning. Steve had always been the intuitive one.
“You’re saying someone framed him to find him,” Sharon said, catching on.
Sam spoke up, unsure of where your brother was going. “Steve, we looked for the guy for two years and found nothing.”
“Sam has a point,” you said. You were all too familiar with the Winter Soldier program. If you didn’t want to be found, you had the ability to make yourself dead to the world. “We were trained to blend in, to hide in plain sight. Even if he had to run, no one man would ever be able to find him.”
“We didn’t bomb the UN. That turns a lot of heads,” Steve asserted.
“Yeah, but to your point,” Sharon said, nodding at you. “That doesn’t guarantee that whoever framed him would get him. It guarantees that we would.”
“Yeah,” Steve breathed.
So there was a mole in the government, and he was probably in the building. Your gaze narrowed and you watched the people milling about outside your little bubble with a new suspicion. Whoever it was was obviously already ten steps ahead, you would have to wait until he made his next move. Beside you Sam stood from his seat, eyes similarly flicking from the screen to the windows and back. Steve looked like a racehorse ready to spring from its stall.
From the corner of the room, the conversation continued on through the speakers, even if no one was paying much attention any longer. “Tell me, Bucky. You’ve seen a great deal, haven’t you?” The man asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You fear that…if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop. Don’t worry.”
The CIA agent, Captain America, the Falcon, and the Wolf Spider were too busy looking for a threat aimed at themselves to notice what was going on before them.
In the secured, private room five levels below the surface, Helmut Zemo received a message on his phone. A package of his had been delivered. Looking up, he wiped the false pretenses of innocence from his face. “We only have to talk about one.”
For a moment the room was plunged in darkness before emergency lights bathed the building in a red glow. The monitor with the video footage remained black. You looked at Sam. Now was your chance.
Steve looked to Sharon and she spoke without hesitation. “Sub-level five, east wing.”
No sooner than she had finished were the three of you bolting from the office and back the way you had been escorted in. You flew down the stairwell, concerned only for Bucky and getting to him before it was too late. But even super soldiers could only descend a dozen floors so fast. Heart racing, you jumped down the last flight, only to be met with a sign on the wall that read ‘Sub-Level 5; West.’
Without pause you pushed through the nearest doorway and wound your way through the maze of hallways. “This way!” Sam shouted. You and Steve rounded on your heels and went sprinting after him down a narrow corridor that served as a connection between the two wings of the building. The soft glow of emergency lighting lit the way, but between flashes the basement levels were pitch black. In the final stretch you overtook him and spilled out into another landing.
The doors to the room on your right were destroyed. A dozen guards lay spread out on the floor unconscious. The chamber was completely silent, but you doubted the chase truly ended here. You knelt and checked the pulse of the agent at your feet. He was alive.
“Help me. Help,” a voice cried out from further in the room. You picked up a discarded pistol and tucked it into the back of your waistband.
Steve was closer to the man than you and wasted no time picking him up and pinning him against the wall by his jacket collar. “Get up.” You’d never heard him sound so furious. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“To see an empire fall,” the man replied vaguely. After staring down Steve he turned to face you with the gleam of a predator in his eyes.Your heart pounded in your chest.
“Steve, we need to find Bucky,” you said.
The echo of footsteps rang down the hall as Sam caught up. Right as he stepped through the door Bucky came lunging out of the shadows, metal fist swinging for Sam’s face. Sam ducked just in time to avoid getting his teeth knocked out. Instead, a fist-sized chunk of the concrete wall blew away into pulverized chunks. But by the time he righted himself Bucky had already launched another attack. This time he grabbed him by the jaw and threw him all the way across the room to crash into the holding unit. The impact was enough to knock him out cold.
Steve looked torn between chasing after Bucky, checking on Sam, and further interrogating the psychologist.
“Go,” you said, nodding toward Bucky. “I got him.”
Steve launched himself at Bucky and pushed him back out into the hall.
You pulled the gun and trained it on the guilty party. Outside the exaggerated sound of two super soldiers fighting reverberated back to you. The shuffle of quick footwork followed by the concerning crash of a metal fist colliding with a wall at inhuman speed.
“Your name. Now,” you demanded.
“My full title is Baron Helmut Zemo. But I think the more important question is, who are you?”
The brawl in the hallway had stopped, and the renewed silence made you uneasy. “Enough with the games.” You flicked the pistol toward the exit. “Move. I’m taking you upstairs.”
He began to pick his way slowly across the room. “Okay, you’ve got me beat. But I just need to know one thing. Steve seems to think you’ve miraculously been returned to him the same as before he became Captain America.” It bothered you, how Zemo felt he had the right to use your brother’s name. “Show me what you hide from them, Wolf Spider. Show me who you really are.”
“Shut up,” you said, annoyed with his riddled speech. But before you could make another move, Bucky came ramming back into the holding room, kicking right at your stomach. The impact forced you to take a knee and as you scrambled to stand up, Zemo pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and began to speak. “Мрамор.”
Even over the rushes of blood pumping through your veins and the stomp of Bucky’s boots on the ground, you still heard it. Like a heat-seeking missile the word wormed its way into your brain and you faltered.
Panic seized you. You needed to get to Zemo. “Bucky, stop!” You yelled, desperate for any way to get around him for even a second. As you tried to stand he planted a foot and your chest and pushed you to the floor. The air left your lungs in a gust as your back slammed into the cement. The gun went flying from your grip and skittering across the floor. “Dick move, Barnes,” you said in a strained whisper.
“Восемь,” Zemo said, sounding closer now even though you couldn’t see him. You clamped your hands over your ears and screamed. Taking a chance you bashed your metal fist into Bucky’s knee and charged for Zemo. “Жжение.” His voice sent you careening off course as if repelled by his words. Fighting for any last scrap of control you punched the wall until your knuckles left bloody streaks. You counted back from ten in your head, jaw clenched so tight it was close to shattering.
Your defenses broken, Bucky reengaged the fight. You scrambled, narrowly blocking his punches from beating your face in and counting you out. You reassessed and went on the offensive. You’d have to take him out before going for his handler.
Easier said than done.
“Рекрут.” You fought even harder, even as a fog crept up the back of your mind. Where was Steve?
“Снегопад.” Another nail in the coffin. He landed a punch to your face and a deep split opened on your cheek. You barely felt the blood run down to your chin.
“Пять.” You managed to land a right hook on Bucky’s weak side. You capitalized on the small victory. Seizing him by the shoulders you grappled with him for a moment before sweeping his leg from under him. He fell with a thud and you lined up a kick to the side of his head. You’d apologize later.
“Увядший.” The Wolf Spider crawled up the back of your spine, jaws gnashing at your brain for control. Your attention slipped for a fraction of a second. But that was all the time the Winter Soldier needed. He seized your ankle and pulled you to the ground. Before you could get your bearings he clamped his fist around your neck and threw you against the wall.
“послушный.” The Soldier rammed his knee into your stomach and you doubled over in an attempt to suck air back into your lungs. The room spun and the lights blurred together. A male Sokovian accented voice was all you could hear above the ringing in your ears.
An arm snaked around your throat from behind and forced you to stand.
“An impressive attempt to be sure. But I’ve found that dogs can always be tamed.”
A fading voice in the back of your mind yelled at you to fight. Halfheartedly you tried to twist out of the Soldier’s hold.
“Одиннадцать.” A dam had cemented itself and separated you from your body.
“Пекин.” Your breathing became even and you looked to the man before you for instruction.
“Солдат?” He asked.
“Я готов отвечать.”
—
Natasha Romanoff walked through the chaos-ridden office, catching up to Tony Stark. Your swift absence hadn’t escaped her notice. She had almost chased after you herself. She’d desperately been wanting to talk to you since the Accords had been dropped in the team’s lap, but you had made yourself scarce since. She could tell that her decision had upset you, even if you were as unlikely to tell her so as you were to turn your back on Steve and Bucky.
“Please tell me you brought a suit,” she said. Because a fight against three super soldiers would be much easier won with a trick of their own.
“Sure did,” the Iron Man replied. “It’s a lovely Tom Ford, three-piece, two-button.” He stopped his nervous rant. “I’m an active-duty non-combatant.” Fancy speak for the government not being comfortable with his access to the greatest weapon’s system on the planet.
Sharon Carter ran up to them, an earpiece providing information Natasha nor Tony were privy to. “Follow me,” she told them.
They made their way downstairs onto the ground level. “The Winter Soldier has been unleashed,” Agent Carter said. “He’s on this floor in the lobby, probably trying to escape.”
“That’s a no-can-do from Agent Ross. We need a plan. Nat?” Tony looked expectantly toward the Black Widow.
“Why is it always up to me?” She asked, even as a plan formed in her mind.
“Because everyone knows my job is to look good and provide charity for you free loaders.”
Natasha narrowed her gaze at Tony’s watch. “Which outfit is that a part of?”
“It is as practical as it is fashionable. Glasses too,” he said.
“Tony, you’ll come up on him from behind. Get his attention, and try to disarm him if you can. Carter and I will be right behind.”
“I don’t remember volunteering to be the bait, Romanoff.”
Natasha motioned for Sharon and they picked their way around the edge of the sun-lit lobby. Civilian workers fleeing for their lives rushed around them in a current, but the women stood as solid as stone. The sound of combat reached her ears before she was able to see into the main lobby. A metal fist pounded against flesh and man after man crumpled to the floor. The snap of a bone being broken and the subsequent screams.
Natasha rounded the corner into the foyer just as a terrible supersonic blast flooded the area. Tony had stunned the attacker if only for a moment. To her horror it wasn’t Barnes standing there, but you. She couldn’t see your face as you moved to pummel Tony, but she knew what she’d see. A figure of a ghost from the Red Room flashed before her eyes.
A gunshot shook her out of her stupor and she ran after Sharon into the fray. You elbowed Tony in the face before punching him in the gut hard enough to send him flying into a table several feet away.
Before you could finish the job Sharon ran at you, forcing you to block a kick and a jab. You wound up an answering punch that would’ve cracked her sternum but she ducked away and you missed. As you recovered, Natasha lodged a knee into your stomach before crouching down to jab you in the groin. She didn’t want to fight you, but she would. All it took was one look into your eyes to separate the Wolf Spider from the person she knew you were.
Sharon landed a roundhouse kick to the head but as she wound up for a second assault you caught her leg and hurled her down onto a table. The legs broke underneath with a clatter.
As you were turned around, Natasha took the opportunity to seize you from behind and flip herself up onto your shoulders. With anyone else she would’ve been able to floor them from this position. But the Wolf Spider intimately knew all of the Black Widow’s moves. All those years ago, you had taught her much of the combat she still used today.
She rained down blows on your head as you crossed the lobby. She grunted as she threw her fists down over and over in a vain attempt to get you to drop her. Instead you carried her to a table and slammed her down. Before she could recover, you clamped your hand around her neck and choked her out.
Scrabbling at your metal forearm, Natasha’s face burned red. She felt her windpipe being crushed under your grip. But even under the eclipse of death’s shadow, the scariest thing was what they’d done to you. She knew you’d tear yourself up about it later, and worse she knew no one here would understand.
On the verge of passing out, she managed one last choked whisper. “You could at least recognize me.” Maybe, as Natasha’s heart was shattered in two, she could pass some of that anguish onto you.
If anything you only squeezed harder and she felt the strength waste away from her muscles.
Seemingly out of nowhere you were shoved off of her. She gasped and pulled as much air in as she could through her bruised throat. All she could manage was to stare up at the ceiling and blink away the spots from her vision.
Rallying, Natasha pushed herself up and saw Tony standing over you with his mechanical gloved hand extended. She coughed and asked, “How?”
You were on your knees, hands clamped tightly over your ears and fingers digging into the back of your head.
“Lucky guess,” Tony said. “Think of it like a dog whistle, but for super soldiers. And also like blow your head off levels of loud. Had to estimate the frequency after getting beaten half to death. But it looks like I’ve outwitted the killing machine.”
Natasha was frozen. You’d just about suffocated her, but a large part of her still wanted to yell at Tony and tell him to cut it out. “Does it hurt?”
“Well, it’s no symphony, I can tell you that.”
She threw a glare in his direction.
“I don’t know. Ballpark? Somewhere between a migraine and an ice pick through the ear.”
A dozen more security personnel came flooding in. They rounded in a circle around you and half of them readied their guns. The rest assaulted you with tasers. You fell to the floor in a series of violent spasms and Natasha looked away.
“Let’s get this one ready for transport,” one barked.
“Natasha, are you okay?” Tony asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, voice still raw.
“That psycho almost killed you.” He always got assertive when he was worried. “You see, this is why we need the Accords. To keep chaos from breaking out in refuges of peace for godsake.”
Natasha looked back at where your limp body was being dragged away. She wished she could go back to before any of this started. She was terrified that she had missed her chance to tell you how she felt. “He’s not a psycho.”
“Then you and I have very different definitions of the word.”
“Stark.” The disappointed voice of Secretary Ross called.
“We have the Wolf Spider in custody sir.” Tony adjusted his tie.
“And Barnes, Wilson, and the other Rogers are all in the wind. One out of four is three less than I expected of you.”
But Natasha had had enough of Thadeus Ross for a lifetime. She walked away wishing that you were by her side instead. Isolated from the beaurucrats and politicians and the bridge with Steve having been thoroughly burned, she felt lost. All around her the pieces of the life she had worked so hard to build lay scattered. The overwhelming urge to hit something surged. How did she get here?
—
You sat by Natasha under a tree in the forest behind the Avengers’ Compound. The chirping birds and the rustle of wind through the leaves were the only sounds that broke the silence out here. Everything at the compound was a blur of light and rush of movement all the time. You couldn’t get two seconds without someone needing something from you. So you had developed the habit of sneaking out and picking a random direction to pass an afternoon.
Natasha had a book in her hands. Today her hair was pulled back in a braid and thrown over her shoulder. You liked when she put it up because you could see her face more clearly.
“He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy,” she read. You ran your hand through the grass and dirt absentmindedly. “Are you listening?”
“Yeah, of course.” You had been listening, but not to what she said, but how she spoke it. “It’s just I’ve read Gatsby before. Jay is a dreamer, but he still loses everything. It’s not fair. He didn’t know any better but to follow his heart.”
“That’s not how I see it,” she replied. “Listen. ‘His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was’.” She shifted closer, leg almost bumping your own. Uncomfortable with the proximity bordering on affection you subtly moved away. “Jay is chasing a life that he can no longer have. And in the process he ruins himself, and the woman he loves. He should’ve known better.”
Overhead the branches had become indistinguishable from one another and instead blended together as one entrapment. The fading orange glow cast by the setting sun reminded you to start heading back. The woods would be near impossible to navigate without the light. You stood and reached a hand out to help Natasha up. She grasped it tightly and instead pulled you down to her.
“You should’ve known better.” A haunted despair paled her features.
“What?”
The crack of fracturing bones echoed throughout the lonely clearing and Natasha cried out. Your hand had begun to squeeze hers tight enough to crush it. You willed yourself to let go but your stubborn metal fist refused to obey.
“You destroy everything you love, even if you never say the words out loud.”
A bullet hole slowly materialized in the middle of her forehead. Blood seeped down her face and she smiled a bloody smile.
“You should’ve stayed dead.”
You jerked yourself awake with a gasp. The dream faded from your mind almost immediately, as had the once before where you’d been stuck in a cave, and the one before that where you’d slaughtered an entire family.
You took a second to examine the unfamiliar environment. The cell you were in was bright and clean, and the camera assured there was no privacy. Across from you was an identical unit. In fact, the entire room was just an octagon of prison cells.
You rubbed at your face, only for the movement to be followed by a metallic clanking. Both of your wrists were manacled with thick iron cuffs which were anchored to the wall with a chain. Your left wrist was chaffed and dried blood coated your hand. Alarm surged through you.
No, you would rather die than play prisoner and puppet for anyone else again.
You stood up, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. But when you tried to step away from the wall you were yanked back, not by your wrists, but by a chain around your neck. Coughing, you fell back against the wall and pulled at the tight restraint. All you succeeded in doing was irritating the inflamed skin underneath.
“Hey buddy, are you okay?”
You snapped your attention to the voice. You didn’t recognize the guy who had spoken, but the man in the cell next to him looked familiar. Your head throbbed as you tried to remember. He had short brown hair and sat hunched over on a bench, just watching.
“Fine,” you said. Your voice sounded about as shitty as the rest of your body felt. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Scott. You actually don’t know me cause we haven’t met, but I fought with your brother. He’s a really nice guy. Of course you know that.” You shot him a glare. “You know what, I’m just going to shut up now.”
Confusion spun your battered brain around even further. Your brother. You had a brother named Steve. Steve was small so you had to–wait, that wasn’t quite right. Steve’s strength had caught up to the size of his will. He was a soldier. The Soldier. Солдат. A fresh pang wracked your head. No. A captain. Captain America.
The room felt cold but your hand was clammy. Sweat dampened your hair as if you had caught a fever. You squeezed your eyes shut. Why were these lights so damn bright? Where were you?
“Hey, what’s going on? I can’t see into the cell. Is he back?”
You knew that voice. You trusted it as well as you may trust anyone. If only you could think harder. You opened your eyes and again saw the familiar-looking man. The name came to you this time. “Clint,” you said.
Hope cleared some of the melancholic fog that had marred his features.
“Where are we? What happened? Where’s Steve?”
When he spoke, it was reserved, but you could tell he was holding back. “Steve called me. The Avengers fought. Some of them are picking up the mess. The rest of us landed our asses in here. You though…you were already here when they brought us in. I wish I could tell you why.”
“It’s Sam,” the man in the unit directly to the right of yours said. He banged on the wall for effect. “You were with me and Steve back in Berlin. Bucky was controlled and he went after us. He knocked me out and by the time I woke everyone was gone. I met up with Steve and Bucky outside, but you were gone. I’m sorry. If we would have known…”
“It’ll come back eventually.” Even if you could barely remember your own name now, somehow you knew this. The memories always came back, especially the bad ones.
“I should tell you, this isn’t the first time you’ve woken up,” Clint said. Scott looked away. “The first two times you didn’t say anything or acknowledge us. You just pulled away as hard as you could until you made yourself pass out.”
“Great,” you muttered under your breath. So they had all received a front row view of the mindless monster you were. “What is this place, anyway?”
“They call it the Raft. It’s an American prison unit that they dropped into the middle of the Atlantic.” Barton’s voice had taken on an undercurrent of anger. “It’s where they stick the worst of the worst.”
“Is anyone else here?” You asked.
“Wanda. Probably. I don’t know, they put her in a separate transport.” Your heart dropped. Why would they bring her into this? She was just a kid. And with her powers, you could only imagine what they were doing to keep her locked up.
You didn’t ask if there was a plan. The atmosphere here wasn’t exactly revolutionary. You drew your knees up to your chest and rested as best as you could.
Sometime later–you were sure the room had been built to be purposefully disorienting–the door slid open with a whir. In walked Tony Stark, his left arm in a sling and sporting a terrible black eye.
Clint stood up and began to slowclap, finally finding a target to take his anger out on. “The Futurist, gentlemen! The Futurist is here! He sees all! He sknows what’s best for you, whether you like it or not.”
The goading worked, drawing Tony’s attention away from you. “Give me a break, Barton. I had no idea they would put you here. Come on.”
He spit on the ground in defiance. “Yeah, well, you knew they’d put us somewhere, Tony.”
“Yeah, but not some super-max floating ocean pokey.” Stark gestured at the barred cells, gaze catching on you for a moment. “You know, this place is for maniacs. This is a place for…”
“Criminals?” Clint walked closer to the glass of his cage. “Criminals, Tony. Think that’s the word you’re looking for. Right?” The two estranged teammates stood eye to eye. “That didn’t used to mean me. Or Sam, or Wanda. But here we are.” A long time ago that didn’t used to mean you either.
“Because you broke the law.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t make you.”
Clint turned his back on Tony. “La, la, la, la, la…”
“Alright, you’re all grown up, you got a wife and kids. I don’t understand, why didn’t you think about them before you chose the wrong side?” Realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Clint he walked away.
Barton rounded on him. “You gotta watch your back with this guy. There’s a chance he’s gonna break it,” he said, slamming on the glass.
“Hank Pym always said, you never can trust a Stark,” Scott said with as much menace in his voice as he could conjure. You wondered how a civilian like him had gotten wrapped up in this fight.
“Who are you?” Stark walked right past him and onto Sam’s unit.
“Come on, man.”
“How’s Rhodes?” Wilson asked, not as willing to bite as Clint had been.
“They’re flying him to Columbia Medical tomrrow. So…fingers crossed. What do you need? They feed you yet?”
You couldn’t see Sam from your cell, but you hoped that he’d tell Stark off too.
“You’re the good cop now?” He asked sarcastically.
“I’m just the guy who needs to know where Steve went.”
“Well, you better go get a bad cop, because you’re gonna have to go Mark Fuhrman on my ass to get information out of me.”
Stark messed with his watch. “Oh, I just knocked the ‘A’ out of their ‘AV’. We got about thirty seconds before they realize it’s not their equipment.” You looked up at the security camera in the corner of your cell. Could he really do that? “Just look,” he went on. “Because that is the fellow who was supposed to interrogate Barnes.” A little picture of a clearly dead man appeared out of thin air. “Clealy, I made a mistake. Sam, I was wrong.”
“That’s a first.”
“Cap is definitely off the reservation but he’s about to need all the help he can get. We don’t know each other very well. You don’t have to…”
“Hey, it’s alright,” Sam interrupted. You wished you were in his eyeline so you could shake your head no in silent protest. But you didn’t have the energy or mental capacity to pick a verbal fight right now so you stayed quiet. “Look, I’ll tell you…but you have to go alone and as a friend.”
“Easy.”
Sam spoke so quietly you were sure without super hearing you wouldn’t have heard. “They went to an old Soviet-HYDRA bunker in Siberia. The fake doctor is going to unleash five more Winter Soldiers.”
“Okay. Wilson, I won’t forget this,” he said with fake malice in his voice to impress the cameras.
He turned to you next. “Rogers.” He saluted. Shame burned your face. You felt like a wild animal on display. And Tony Stark’s presence wasn’t exactly a comforting one since you presumed he was largely at fault for the team’s current predicament. “You’re not going to go all Terminator on me again, are you?”
You stared at him blankly, not moving from your place on the floor in the middle of the cell.
“Really? Nothing. I just came up with that one. Any messages from you to your brother I can deliver when I find him?”
“Tell him after all this he needs to get his ass as far from trouble as possible. Tell him I’m right where I should be.”
“How about I just say you’ll send him a postcard?” He quipped, walking away.
“Stark,” you called. “Lay a hand on Steve and I will find you.”
He didn’t turn back, but he gave a thumbs up on his way out.
—
You don’t think you could ever tire of the view before you. For most of your life you never believed you’d travel outside New York City, but here you were on the other side of the world. The waters below the ship were as blue and clean as great artists imagined in their scenes. The current lapped gently at the hull and you let the sound wash through you. Ahead, snow-capped mountains rose into the cloudy sky. The buildings and streets you were so used to being surrounded by in the city were replaced by miles of undisturbed woodland. The sky was overcast, but calm for now. Mist hung in the air and clung to your jacket. Maybe it would storm later, maybe it wouldn’t. You found peace in the apprehension.
“Hey,” Natasha said. You hadn’t heard her come up. She joined you at the railing and pushed a phone into the water.
“How’s the Good Secretary?”
“I’ve got him chasing his tail in D.C. We are officially in the wind.”
Steve and Natasha had broken you out of the Raft three days ago. Since then you’d decided to split up while the heat died down. He had wanted you to go with him, but you couldn’t look at your brother without feeling crushed by six decades worth of guilt. You still thought he would be safer without you, but you couldn’t escape the disappointed look on his face. Hurting him was like kicking a little puppy.
“Steve would love this place,” you said. Natasha took in the view while you admired her. Her hair was down and flowed past her shoulders. The wind blew strands of it about in a way that told you God indeed played favorites. “He loved to draw. And he was damn good at it too. Kid used to draw everything. Our old apartment, back alleys, the sky. He wouldn’t know what to do if he saw all of this.”
“You’re worried about him.”
“Really? Was I being that obvious?” You were tired, but you smiled anyway.
“The first time I met Steve he couldn’t make heads or tails of the shirt on his back, much less anything else humanity had changed. Yesterday, he was piloting the most advanced jet on the planet. Sounds like he’s the same resilient kid you grew up with. Except now he can throw a man a couple dozen yards.”
“I think he could literally be invincible and I’d still worry,” you admitted.
“I think that’s how family is supposed to work. And if it helps, he’s got Sam to watch his back.”
“Why did you volunteer to come with me?” You asked. You bit your lip nervously and scanned the grayish-blue horizon. “I almost killed you. I mean I would have killed you if Stark hadn’t…” You’d opened Pandora’s Box and couldn’t stop all of the guilt from pouring out. “And all those years ago in the Red Room, what I did to you. Why don’t you hate me?”
“Because I know who you really are. And that wasn’t you. Never was.” She said it so fervently that you almost believed her.
“But that’s just the thing. It was me. All of that blood is on my hands. If something happened to you, that would be on me.” And I don’t think I would survive without you. You left the rest unsaid, but it hung in the air just out of reach. “All he had to do was say the goddamn words and I lost it.”
“And you came back.” You found your mind wandering off into the mountains afar. “Hey look at me.” She laid a hand on your shoulder and brought you back from your reverie. Her warm breath fanned across your cheek. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”
“I can’t shake this feeling, Nat.” You heaved a shuddering breath. “That horrible voice is always in the back of my head. I’m so scared that one day it’ll drown me out.” Your eyes hurt from the force of holding back tears. “Please don’t let it drown me.”
Natasha wrapped her arms around you in a supportive hug. “I’ll never give up on you,” she said. “You can always come back to me.” You cautiously hugged her back and draped yourself over her. You concentrated on what was around you. The smell of the sea-salted air, the warmth of her body, the churn of the boat's engine.
You let her go and cleared your throat, rubbing harshly at your eyes. “Me too,” you said. “I mean, I’m here for you. ‘Til kingdom come.” You’d always fight for her. Truth is you had been for a long time now, you just didn’t realize it.
“You’re not the only one who’s done unspeakable things,” she whispered, as if preoccupied with reliving some awful memory. You weren’t the only one with demons intent on ruining any scrap of peace.
“Aren’t we quite the pair?” You inspected her hoodie and all of its familiarity. “Is that my sweatshirt?”
“No,” she lied, even as she messed with the ends of the sleeves that went well past her hands.
“Mhm. So did you bring any of my clothes for me or…?”
“I didn’t know if I was ever going to see you again,” Natasha said. Her voice was shaky with frustration and pent-up anxiety. “I was so worried. I thought that this would be all I had left to remember you by. I kept thinking that we would get into the Raft and you wouldn’t be there.”
“I’m sorry,” you said. The week and a half you were locked up for you hadn’t thought about where she might be. You told yourself you were too preoccupied with Steve and Bucky to otherwise focus. But you knew to think about Natasha was to admit you cared deeply for her. That was a battle you weren’t ready to surrender. “I didn’t know.” But maybe now was the time to lay down arms.
“That’s right you didn’t know. You didn’t think. That’s the problem you think you’re invincible and you run headfirst into danger time and time again.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Except it’s not just you anymore, Rogers. There are people that care about you and how you act affects them. When you make a stupid move it’s not just you who suffers the consequences.” Her voice cracked under the weight of the words.
“I can’t just sit around when something goes bad. You can’t ask me to do that.” You had so much time, so many lives to make up for. And that came about by means of action.
“I thought that you were dead. Don’t you understand that?” Natasha’s eyes were full of sorrow and accusation. Your cheeks flushed and you stared into the icy waters. She had every right to be mad. “When they dragged you away I was sure they were going to execute you. Again.”
The reference stung. When the Red Room found out you’d broken your programming they’d practically beaten you to death in front of Natasha before shipping you back to HYDRA. The scars still burned in your dreams.
An apology formed on your lips. “I know,” she said. The bitterness had burned itself out of her tone. What was left you couldn’t describe. A profound understanding, edges brightened by the hope of a fresh start.
An unspoken something lingered in the cool morning air.
Natasha grabbed your gloved hand and intertwined her fingers with yours. She leaned over and rested her head on your shoulder. A warmth bloomed in your chest.
You thought that, just maybe, you’d found where you were supposed to be.
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A massive problem with how fandom - particularly queer rep - is going right now on this website is how quick people are to jump ship onto the next thing and then immediately start trashing the everliving shit out of the old thing.
Steven Universe (not a perfect show by any means) while it was coming out was celebrated constantly. The Garnet reveal? Pearl being in love with Rose? The Rupphire wedding? SU was revolutionary and has been quoted by cartoon creators now for being a big reason people are allowed to bring their stories to life. Say what you want about the show, but it broke boundaries and set precedents for a lot of the shows that you now love. And the show's plot lines regarding the diamonds has been taken in completely bad faith - do yall really think the half Jewish queer person meant for you to get "Let's all forgive Nazis" from the Diamonds redemption arcs??
After Steven Universe ended a large majority of people jumped to She Ra and the Princesses of Power and when they mentioned SU at all it was to put it down as a show with terrible representation and all round bad writing.
During SPOP's run it was massively popular, with a lot of buzz around the main ship, Catradora. I know this is gonna be taken in bad faith so a quick note - while I do like Catradora, I do feel that there should have been another season for Catra to properly acknowledge the harm she did to Adora and actually grow as a person before entering into a relationship. Catra was forgiven too easily, but that was in part due to Netflix not wanting to give the show another season to properly flesh out the redemption arc. The final season was rushed as all hell, and so many story points would have been better with another season to flesh them out further.
But I digress - during the show's run it was constantly talked about for it's representation, having multiple queer characters, including a nonbinary character.
The show ends and again, the fanbase jumps. This time, it's to the Owl House. People start talking about how SPOP was actually horrible representation and, my personal favourite, they "added gay people as a cash grab."
Yeah okay guys, I'm sure a queer nonbinary creator is writing about queer people because they actually dislike the gays and want to wring money out of us. That is definitely the situation here.
And now I'm worried that in a year or two we'll have the next big queer cartoon and the posts will start popping up -
"Amity Blight is the mean lesbian stereotype."
"Raine and Eda's relationship is problematic because-"
"Amity and Luz started out as rivals, which is toxic because-"
"The romance didn't start until later in the show, it was added at the end for a cash grab."
Again, I'm certain there's gonna be bad faith takes on this -- I'm not saying these shows are perfect. They all have flaws somewhere. No media is completely without it's faults and its good to recognise those faults, that what critical reading is. But calling someone an abuser for enjoying SPOP, or a Nazi sympathiser for liking SU (actual accusations I have seen on tumblr.com) is frankly a little ridiculous.
As for the bad rep argument - every show on this list has one thing in common: a queer creator. No one experiences queerness the exact same way - the only thing that harassing queer creators for not showing your experience does is make other queer creators... not want to write queer characters. No one wants to receive death threats because, for example, they based a character with their sexuality off of how that actually affected them and someone on the Internet decided they were feeding into a harmful stereotype.
#wrenposting#toh#the owl house#eda clawthorne#amity blight#raine whispers#luz noceda#lumity#spop#Catradora#Catradora spop#catra spop#double trouble#she ra and the princess of power fanart#she ra#adora spop#netossa#spinnerella#steven universe#garnet#ruby su#sapphire su#rupphire#pearl su#rose quartz su#queer media#queer cartoons
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SKIN NEIGHBOUR
Dave was sad to see his neighbour, old Mrs.Dawson leaving for the Rest Home. She had been a good neighbour but been fairly bedridden for a while and Dave had been good at going in to help cook and clean. That was why he had a set of keys for the apartment and it was only after she had left that he realised he had not handed over the keys. Still when the new people arrived he could drop them off.
That Saturday as he was quietly listening to some music he heard raised voices outside and looked through his spyhole. Standing outside were three skinheads in full gear opening up Mrs. Dawson’s front door laden with boxes
Fucking great place you got here mate. It’ll be a fucking great party place. Before we do anything to unpack you let’s open a few bottles to celebrate. You’ll sure waken up the neighbours here. Bet they are all a bunch of tossers. We’ll show them what fucking skins are eh?
It was clear which was the new occupant and the other two were smaller but chunky in build, with thick necks both covered in tattoos. Their legs looked as if they had been poured into their bleachers and both had them held high with braces showing off meaty bulges.
With that the three went inside and banged the door shut. In minutes Dave could hear the music being switched on and the guys shouting at each other always with expletives
‘Christ this is going to be awful. I’ll have to complain to the authorities if this gets out of control. And for now I certainly am not knocking on that door to give the keys back. They’d probably let loose at me and I’m not risking that.’
The music continued as did the shouting until mid evening when Dave heard two policeman at the opposite door. Shortly after they left the music was switched off and two of the skinheads came out to leave. One of the two crossed the hall and shouted through Dave’s letterbox
“It fucking well better not be you or else we’ll get you’
‘Thank God they have left and not all three are living there.’
Next morning as Dave was getting ready for work he heard the door opposite open and he looked through his spyhole.
The skin was the same height, perhaps a bit broader, still in full gear with oxblood boots, yellow laces, tight fitting bleachers that stuck to a good sized arse, a Fred Perry black T shirt and a black bomber jacket. As he looked at the back view Dave could see the word Skinhead heavily tattooed on the back of his neck. The guy turned round as if he almost knew he was being watched and gave a finger up sign at Dave’s door.
The guy looked a pure thug with his shaved head and slightly bulbous nose as if he had had it broken in a fight plus a good solid neck. On the one hand Dave was terrified but on the other seeing such a real thuggish man was also turning him on to the point that he could feel his cock inching down his trouser leg. As he rubbed his semi hard dick he thought perhaps I should just put the keys through the letterbox but then the guy would know who Dave was. On the other hand as he had the keys perhaps he could go and have a quick look as it was clear the guy had gone off to work. The temptation was too much. He wanted to see what had once been a really nice tidy apartment.
Opening the front door he could smell stale cigarette smoke as well as left over beer. In the kitchen apart from pizza boxes empty cans were scattered across the work top. In the living room an ashtray was full of ciggie butts. What took Dave’s breath away was the huge Nazi flag that had been pinned up and took over one wall. When he then checked out the bedroom a large black rubber sheet covered the bed. However this room was much tidier with a selection of boots and heights and differing laces on the floor. On a rail several pairs of bleachers hung, various colours of Fred Perry shirts and a few bomber backets in black, green and brown. The guy was obviously proud of his clothes. Lying on the floor scrunched up was a jockstrap, clearly used.
As Dave looked at the jockstrap he started to imagine what the guy must look like wearing it and when he gingerly picked it up he could see the well formed bulge that the guy’ cock had stuffed into it. He wanted to sniff it but it was too dangerous to do there so quickly he left the apartment with the jock strap. Sitting on his own sofa he studied it and could see heavy piss marks but sections were crusty where the guy had obviously had the remnants of cum from sex sessions. Dave ran his one hand over the pouch feeling the crust, his other hand starting to massage his own dick. He needed to sniff and take in the full odour of the piss and cum. At first he just lightly smelt but the strong stench of a good week old jockstrap was too over powerful and he needed to get his nose right into the pouch. He wanted to feel the guy’s cum all over his face as he rubbed it over his cheeks and stuffing it up his nose savouring every part of the stench. He could imagine the guy pissing and not getting rid of the final dribbles so the piss could soak into the jockstrap. Also if the guy had had sex, why wash when his jockstrap could take the last parts to ooze out. Thinking of the guy, Dave was so bloody horny and unzipped his trouser to take out his now fully erect 7inch dick. It was a good thick piece of meat and the little sex Dave had had, his quickie partners had always remarked on the girth and heavy knob head. Now stroking his dick he needed to taste the cum and piss mix and slowly let the jockstrap slip into his mouth.
‘Shit what a taste, this is so bloody amazing. I can just see the guy now.’
By now his hand was fully rubbing the entire length of his cock and he pushed the jockstrap fully into his mouth down the back of his throat letting his saliva take the full taste. He was almost gagging but the groaning started to increase as he felt his cock so rigid that the precum was oozing out the tip. Dave leant back on his sofa arching his back, his head raised with the jockstrap firmly down his throat, his hand now pummelling his dick. With one final jerk his cock erupted load after load of white cum over the floor and sofa.
As Dave pulled out the soaking wet jockstrap he thought
‘This is one of the best orgasms I’ve had in ages. I’ve never thought much about Skins in the past but thinking of the neighbour messing this up and looking so aggressive and butch is too much. I’m so glad he lives next door and that I still have the keys. I’ll let it dry out and carefully put in back tomorrow when he is out.’
Sure enough next day when he heard the Skin leave he waited a short time and then let himself in to return the now dry jockstrap and place at the side of the bed., just tucked under the rubber sheet so he might think he had kicked it out the way. Standing there looking at all the gear made him horny and made him wonder what he might look dressed in in it all after all the two were about the same size
‘I would so like to see me in all that, and feel what its like to be powerful, a yobbo a skin. I’d never dare go to a skin pub or pick a guy up like that but part of me would love to look like one. This is too good an opportunity to let pass. I know I just have to do this.’
Dave pulled out a pair of bleachers, a white Fred Perry, yellow braces and black Ranger boots with yellow laces and finally a green bomber. Standing there naked his cock was fully erect as he tried to stuff it into the bleachers. It made a huge outline down the leg and he moved his big balls behind his cock pushing his dick even further out to accentuate the hard line. It took him some time to lace up the boots but by looking at posters of skins around the room he could see how it was done. He loved the weight of the soles and how they encased his legs making him almost feel like a hardened yob. Next the Fred Perry and braces and finally the Mac bomber which had a set on wings embroidered on the back. This was better than he could have imagined. He felt transformed. He opened a couple of drawers and on the top of one was a lycra black hood with eye and mouth cut outs.
‘Bet he wears this on the prowl when he’s looking to beat up guys. It will make him feel more aggressive and dominant.’
As he slipped it on over his head he felt himself more a man, more ready to fight. In the corner of the room was a baseball bat. ‘Christ the guy really did like trouble. I wouldn’t stand a chance meeting him.’
Clutching the bat he stood in front of the full length mirror.
Dave could not recognise himself. Gone was the wimpy college boy and instead was a skin in full gear holding a bat with a stiff cock bursting out of bleachers. He felt himself empowered staring at the mirror. He looked like a skin and now he felt like one staring at this rough vision of someone he’d love to be
‘I’m a fucking skin, don’t fucking mess with me, I’ll fucking lay you, fucking bat you to bits. Us skins dominate I’ll fuck you to bits till your arse aches.Us skins only fuck skins.’
Putting on his working class accent Dave shouted at the mirror with one hand waving the bat and the other rubbing his cock through his bleachers. He had never felt like this and already a small patch of precum was showing through the bleachers. He had never felt so horny as he unzipped his fly and plunging his hand deep inside he pulled out his thick cock the head now glistening with cum.
‘I’m gonna fucking shoot this skin cum straight at you, you bastard, get ready Im a fucking skin. No one messes with me. Skin. Skin, skin. Oi Oi Oi’
His hand was now sliding up and down his shaft as he stared at his alter ego. ‘Fucking cum now. See how much cum a skin has’
And with that he shot a heavy load of thick white cum over the mirror.
As soon as he had cum he realised he needed to get out of the gear and get back to his real life but more importantly put everything back as it was and clean the mirror of the cum that was now running down the glass. He had to leave the place exactly as it was. He carefully put the clothes back exactly as he had found them, set the bat as it was and the boots in the same line up. By the time he got into his own flat he was exhausted from his orgasm but on a such a high seeing himself as never before.
‘Christ I would love to be like that instead of my weak pathetic self that I am.’
For the rest of the day he could think of little else and even in his dreams he saw a fierce looking skin coming towards him. All he wanted to do was go back the next day and repeat. He so wanted to see his vision changed and to cum in such shedloads
Sure enough the Skin went off to work and an hour later Dave let himself in. He decided to wear a different assortment of skin gear so put on the Oxblood rangers just like he had seen his neighbour wear and he chose a very bleached pair of jeans which showed off his erect cock even more as there was a little more space to allow the bulge look even more obvious. A navy T shirt and the brown bomber jacket which had SKINHEAD emblazoned on the back. He loved how he looked like another skinhead and would act out the part again to make himself so bloody horny it was painful to hold back coming. He found the hood but not the baseball bat which for Dave was all part of the aggro he wanted to create for himself.
‘It must be in the sitting room’ he thought and he opened the door to go in and check.
As he walked in the two Skinheads from last week were sitting on the sofa beer and ciggies in hand with their booted feet up on a table.
‘Well who the fuck do we have here?’
As Dave froze in the doorway a strong arm suddenly came round his neck in a stranglehold and he felt a thick metal collar being locked into place around his neck and padlocked. He was terrified as he felt a low sneering voice in his ear saying
‘So you’re the wimp from next door who has been breaking in to my pad. I don’t fucking taking kindly to the likes of you and no doubt you’ve been jerking off in my clothes.’
Suddenly one of the other skins shouted.
‘Fucking hell, Rick, the bloke’s pissing himself and in your fucking bleachers.’
Sure enough the terror had been too much and what started off as a small damp patch appearing at Dave’s crotch was now showing a long line of piss running down one leg all the way down to the boot. He was pissing so much it was also now running down the front of the bleachers having completely soaked through.
Rick yanked the chain attached to the collar forcing Dave’s head back, and with Rick staring at him spat out a huge gob of spit into his face and took one hand and rubbed it well in, gobbing a second time.
‘You fucking little shit. You’re gonna pay for this. You think you can piss in my best bleachers so you can fucking drink the stuff. Joe go and get the special hood for this little wanker but drink up those beers so you give him a real golden shower.
Joe came back with the hood and rubbing his dick with excitement.
‘This is gonna be fucking great. Serves the bastard right ruining your bleachers. We’ll make him pay.’
‘Lets see what the bugger looks like first’ and with that Rick pulled off the lycra hood
‘What a poncy little wimp we have here. ‘Ill tell you now you bastard you will not be leaving here looking like this. Now let me get this hood on you. ‘
The hood was made of leather straps and buckles which Rick secured into place and on the strap that went over Dave’ mouth was a hole with a rubber tube. ‘Breath in for the moment mate but there’s one final piece to be added and with that he rammed a funnel into the other end.
‘There we are so who’s first to let him know what piss really tastes like. He’s already gobbled my dirty jockstrap. Yeah mate did you think I hadn’t noticed? So you’re big on piss? Go on Joe get that rancid cock of yours out and see how much he likes it.’ As Rick said this he tied Dave’s hands firmly in rope behind his back.
Suddenly Dave seemed to realise what was happening
‘Please don’t do this, I am really sorry. I know I’m wrong and I’ll pay for your new jeans and anything else but not this.
‘Not this? You’re the one who drank the piss from my Jocktrap, you’re the one who has pissed himself in my best bleachers. So piss it is and loads of it, so start to swallow
With his hand ensuring the tube was well into Dave’s mouth Rick shouted at Joe.
‘Go on let him have it. Let me see that piss of yours go all the way down.’
‘Do what Rick fucking well tells you, you slob because you’re doing my boots next, as he emptied his piss in to the funnel. Joe let his cock hang into the funnel and with one large belch his piss started pouring out of the cock and into the funnel.
‘ Shit Rick he’s trying not to swallow. The funnel is filling up.’
‘You little bastard’ and with that Rock slapped Dave across the face. The jolt and shock made Dave open his mouth wide and the piss poured down and Joe’s cock kept releasing more and more beer piss.
‘Right enough Joe, let Fred have a go and he can taste each of your piss.’
Joe stood back flipping his dribble cock into his bleachers and Fred took aim into the funnel his long thin cock being set into the funnel.
‘Christ I love this, seeing a guy take my piss’
With that Fred started stroking his cock as he emptied his piss into the funnel.
‘Keep that knob on for later. You’ll get the chance soon enough’
‘Christ the guy can’t get enough the way he is slurping it down.’
At first Dave felt he wanted to retch as the acid burned in his throat and even though he was tied with Rick holding by the neck and chain, there was something about the beery flavour as well as seeing two skin heads in front of him opening their flies and letting him see two rancid cocks release their piss especially Fred’s erect cock which had to aim so carefully so as to make the funnel. Dave’s own cock was almost involuntarily reacting and he could feel his dick lengthening down the wet piss stained bleachers. Two skins bearing over him making him feel subservient was in truth what he had wanted.
‘Now put yer cock away Fred time for the next stage. So now you bastard with all that saliva and piss we need our boots cleaned. My turn first’
Rick pulled Dave off the chair by the metal collar and chain.
‘Get down on the fucking floor and start licking’.
As Dave went down on his knees he looked up at Rick and could see the skin was getting excited. There was a thick outline of a rigid cock down one leg. The guy sure had a good sized 8” prick.
As Dave bent to start licking so Rick firmly placed his other booted foot on Dave’s head forcing it hard down his mouth being crushed against the boot
‘Get yer fucking tongue out of yer mouth and start. I wanna see these boots sparkling with yer spit.’
‘Do what Rick fucking tells you as you’re doing my boots next’
‘And then mine’
Rick bent over taking hold of Dave’s head and yanked it up and down his boot watching Dave spit all across the toe caps.
‘That’s better boi. Us Skins like our boots shining. Now do the other’
Dave continued to let his spit and piss mix spread over the boots until Rick pulled him up by the chain and moved him over to Joe who bent down and gobbed into Dave’s face.
‘Now use some of my spit to make em more shiny, got it’.
There was no point Dave saying anything. He was completely under their control and if he complained he would only be mugged big time.
‘You’re good at this boi. Well need to get you do this more often.
‘Make sure he still has some spit for my boots’ Fred shouted. He also bent down and whacked Dave across the face.
‘You make me so fucking annoyed boi for breaking into Ricks pad. Lick my boots and soles I want to see my face in them.’
Dave was being forced down against the boots his arse up showing his good sized round cheeks tight against the bleachers.
‘Shit Rick the boi’s got a brill arse. We ain’t leaving that alone Just looking at that ripe ass is making me cock nice and hard he said stroking the enlarged length. Ain’t got me jock on so nice an easy to whip me dick out.’
Rick said ‘Well boys the next move is for you. Do as you like.’ Joe placed his hand over Fred’s dick outline and rubbed it.
‘Always luv that cock of yours Joe. This boi needs it.’ And with that he took his heavy hand and whacked it across Dave’s cheeks making him wince in pain. Seeing him react Fred decided a few more slaps would warm up his cheeks ready for entry. Fred bent down and put his hands around Dave’s waist to unbutton his flies
‘Fucking hell boys, the lad’s luving this . His cock is like a metal pole and a thick one to. He must luv his cock being soaked in his own piss and us skins on top of him. No bloody wonder he loves our gear.’
Fred eased the jeans down to expose Dave’s arse. ‘Nice and red now boi! You like a slap. Let’s get you ready.’
He put one finger in and started to move it around
‘Plenty of space there for a good fuck mate’
He then put in a second and a third and finally a fourth
Rather than screaming Dave felt good with the fingers in him and moved his arse up.
‘Christ you’d take a whole fist mate by the looks of things.’
Taking his fingers out he put the hand around Daves face and smeared any shit off them
‘If you can piss yerself like that boi then you can take yer own shit’
‘Time for my cock to get inside that arse of yours.’ Fred said unzipping his bleachers and pulling out his erect dick with the red head pulled back and nicely exposed.
‘What you looking at Joe, get that cock of your ready, were a couple so we fuck together right. Get on yer knees beside me. I go first and then you.’
Both Fred and Joe knelt behind Dave’s arse. Fred put one hand around Joe’s shaft and with the other opened up Dave’s crack to ease in his cock.
‘It may not be the thickest but I’ll give you a good length. What did I say you could take a bloody ship up there boi.’
Fred slipped his dick in and moved it further up, Dave letting out a groan
‘You fucking love this boi eh? Well let’s see how you like two dicks up you.’ Fred then widened Dave’s cheeks to make his hole more exposed. ‘Right Joe get in from the side but put a gob on it first to help our young friend.’
Fred put one arm around Joe and with the other took his dick and pushed it into the side.
‘Open up that fucking arse of your boi Joe wants in. Push it Joe’
With one sharp push Joe’s cock slipped in alongside Fred’s
Dave yelped with pain as his hole had to expand to take two cocks but once past the entry he felt pleasure and the need for them to push their dicks up further.
‘Christ Rick stop rubbing that prick of yours. I know you get a real knob on watching Fred and I fuck together but the boi can give you a good blow job. Hoist his head up with that chain of yours.’
‘Too fucking right Joe I need to shed a load of cum from watching you’
And with that he hoisted Dave’s head up in the steel collar so Dave was looking straight at the 8 inch dick now bursting against the bleachers. Rick pulled Dave’s head in to him
‘Suck my dick through me bleachers boi.’
Dave could not wait to feel the cock in his mouth with the bleachers between.
‘Please take it out Sir so I can get it all the way down my throat.’
‘Jesus boi what a horny bugger you are. Two cocks up yer arse and all you want my by whopping great prick down yer throat. It ain’t gonna be easy prising this monster out of my bleachers.’ He said with his hand firmly down one leg trying to pull his rigid cock out. Suddenly it sprang out of the bleachers and hit Dave in the face.
‘Like that cock of mine hitting you? Well let’s hit you a few more times’. As he whacked it across Dave’s face leaving a smear of precum
‘Now open that mouth of yours wide.’ Already the saliva was dribbling out of Dave’s mouth in readiness. He wanted to choke on Rick’s cock and feel the cum being forced down the back of his throat.
As Ricks cock entered Dave’s mouth so Dave started to push his arse back to let in both cock further up his hole.
‘Christ’ he thought ‘I’m serving 3 Skins. It is like a dream’.
Joe and Fred turned to one another and started deep throat kissing , both so fired up being up the same arse and also seeing Rick so horny as his cock slipped further and further into Dave’s mouth.
‘That’s it boi take it all Let me feel my pubes against yer mouth.’ As Rick shoved his cock deeper into Dave’s mouth so Joe and Fed pushed their dicks further up their lips still glued together.
‘Christ boys I am really getting off watching you two fuck. This fucking prick is gonna get a river of spunk down his throat.’
As Fred and Joe stopped mouthing Fred looked up and said
‘Bloody hell Rick I didn’t think the lad would be able to take that big dick of yours. I’ve never managed the whole length. Shit you are the whole way down. Come on Joe its time for us to let him have it. A few more pushes and I’ll come.’
The two skins worked the arse together and with one wail they let their loads shoot up Dave’s arse, groaning loudly. Rick seeing his mates spunk found it all too much and firmly grabbing Dave’s head said
‘Take the whole fucking lot boy. As he shot his spunk there was so much Dave could not swallow and it started to ooze out his mouth and down on to his Fred Perry, a long line of white cum. Rick kept shoving his cock against Dave’s mouth
‘Christ boi what a fucking throat. This is the best blow job Ive had in a long while.’
‘Jesus that was fucking amazing Rick. This kid loves a good fuck. Looked as if you made him swallow a shedload of cum.’
Rick wiped the remaining cum across Dave’s face
‘Now use your tongue to lick that up boi.’
Dave was no longer frightened. He was with 3 skins and they all had shot a load either inside his arse or down his throat. He almost felt like one of them.
‘Right guys, now fuck off I have the last bit of work to do with Dave boi. But first bring me the razors and shaving foam. I don’t want you here for that otherwise you both become too fucking horny again.’
Joe and Fred did as told
‘Now fuck off. Right Dave boi bend you head forwards and lets get this fuzz off that head of yours. You can’t wear skin gear with all that hair. Why the fuck do you think we are called Skinheads eh? Now you wont need to wear a mask to imagine yerself as a skin.’
Rick took the razor over Dave’s head initially giving him a number one so he only had tufts left and Dave watched his locks fell to the ground almost relieved this was happening. Rick covered his head with shaving foam and started from the back moving the razor up from the neck and over the top. As he moved around Dave he could feel Ricks cock pressing against his shoulder and it was not soft, far from it. He had a bloddy great knob on.
‘So you like feeling my knob against you whilst you get shaved eh?’
‘That’s some dick there. Can you please rub it a bit more.’
‘Right fucking little poofta. I can see your own cock stiffening nicely.. Lets get this job done.’ Rick continued with more foam and kept on shaving until he pressed his hand over Dave’s head and was able to feel its smoothness.
Then taking a hot cloth he cleaned Dave up and stood back rubbing his dick with satisfaction.
‘Now the important bit.’
He went out the room and came back in with a full leather hood with no eye or mouth holes. Coming out from various parts it looked almost like electrodes.
‘Lets get this on you,’ he unzipped the back part and slid it over Dave’s head, it sliding on nicely now he was totally bald.
‘A perfect size’ Rick said as he zipped it up. ‘Now smell the leather, good ain’t it.’
Dave nodded not knowing what was going to happen next
‘You’re gonna feel a few sensations but it only takes a few minutes and then you will feel more like us, as it’s what you really want.’
Again Dave nodded.
‘Right I’m switching on now.’
A sudden current made Dave jerk, he felt a heat wave running through his head, a thumping he’d never experienced. It was as if a light was trying to remove everything in his brain and he was totally unable to fight it. He did not want to fight it. It was almost a comfort to feel nothing. There was a pause and nothing happened for what seemed ages and then suddenly his whole head felt as if it was going to explode. He started to feel angry, aggressive even his thoughts were basic and he was sure he could feel his voice going through a change as he groaned with the impact of the charge. He wanted out of this he wanted to take charge.
Rick unzipped and took off the leather mask.
‘Fucking hell, I love it, you have SKIN tattooed across yer scalp. Brill. Now I am gonna untie you and take off the neck shackle so you can see yerself in the mirror.’
Dave silently stood up and looked at himself in the piss stained bleachers, boots and bomber jacket but now gone were the locks of hair Instead he stood looking at a full bodied skin with a scar running down one cheek and SKIN tattooed over his head.
‘Right mate’ Dave barked in a deeper rough voice ‘you and yer mates have fucking put me through all this and if you think that dick of mine is not gonna cum now you’re fucking wrong.’
And with that Dave attacked Rick with a full punch into the stomach winding him and as he collapsed forward so Dave moved in. and put Rick into a stranglehold
‘You made me a fucking skin so now you’re gonna get fucked by a skin and I can see that dick of yours waiting to burst out of yer bleachers. Did you not think I could see that rear arse zip in yer bleachers. So much for big tough guy. Ye love a big cock up that arse of yours.’
Dave pulled down the rear zip and put his hand into Ricks crack.
‘Nice little hairy bum you have there Rick boi. By the time I’ve fucked you my cum will be stuck to all these hairs as I pull out.’ As Dave’s hand explored the crack and put two fingers up exploring the space.
‘Fucking nice hole boi’ he said taking his fingers out and smearing them across Ricks mouth. ‘Now taste yer own fucking shit, good ain’t it?’
Rick was in such a stranglehold he could not reply but he was suddenly aware of Dave’s fat cock pushing its way in to his craqck.
‘Don’t worry mate I let a good gob onto my cock so it’ll slide in nicely.’ As Dave pushed so Rick instinctively moved his arse back to meet Dave’s shaft.
‘That’s it boy you are fucking desperate for this. Its sliding in a treat. Now lets feel that cock of yours’
Rick was pushing himself into Dave’s shaft so he could feel it going right up to the hilt and Dave put his hand in and unleashed a good thick and long dick.
‘Shit you’re hard man. Lets make sure we come together.’ As Dave started to pummel Ricks arse he put his mouth against Rick’s neck and started kissing almost sinking his teeth into the neck. Rick was groaning with pleasure.
‘Not so much a tough guy now, eh Rick with my dick stuffed up yer arse and that cock of yours in my hand is just luvin it all. That’s it push yer arse all the way back into my prick
‘Shit Dave boi that cock of yours feels so good and your hand rubbing up and down my cock you sure know how to wank a guy. Christ my balls are ready to burst. Go on keep ramming that dick into me, fucking well take me. I can feel your precum oozing into me but I want all you can give. Go on give my tits a good nip.’
‘So you like yer tits worked on, you should have said mate.’
Dave moved his free hand up Ricks chest and gently rubbed his fingers over Ricks left nipple rubbing it through his Fred Perry
‘You don’t want a rub do you mate? More like this.’
And with that he pinched the tit hard.
‘Fucking hell man that hurts’
‘It’s what you want so stop being such a babe’, Dave barked as he continued to tweak.
‘Not so bad now is it the way your moving about. You just love my cock up you, my hand wanking your prick and now having your tit worked on. It’s sure got me so fucking horny I am ready to let rip up yer arse.’
‘Fuck man let me have it I’m also ready to shoot. Wank me harder, that’s it Shit I’m cumin’
‘Take all my cum Rick boi’
And with that Dave let loose spurt after spurt up Rick’s arse and Rick with final groan shot his load with Daves hand firmly around his shaft
‘Fucking hell man, I haven’t had an orgasm like that for ages. Thank God you let yerself into my pad and decided you love us skins.’
Dave gave his final shot up Ricks arse and as he pulled out he swung Rick round and kissed him roughly putting his tongue well down Ricks throat.
‘Yeah mate thank you. I’m so fucking glad I’m no longer that pathetic jerk and now I know I’m one of you bois. I’m a Skin’
Rick took hold of Dave face as they kissed and said
‘You are my Skin’.
‘Too fucking right babe’
‘You can keep that set of keys but I want a set of yours and its time we got out and got your yer own skin gear though having you wear my stuff makes me feel so horny.’
‘Right let’s get out pick up some gear and then go to the skin pub for a few beers with the blokes and you can show me off and then its back here as I want to feel that 8 incher of your up my arse’.
‘I was think the same bro. Its gonna be a long night.’
‘Not just the night mate’
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How to Be a Guntuber
Hit the Gym. Nobody wants to hear about guns from fat people. 75% of your audience is looking to buy a magic talisman that will make them feel strong, and you need to lean into that. You're basically trying to be an Influencer, so work on that Instagram game.
Be Kinda Horny. Pepper your description of the experience of shooting the gun with as many sexual metaphors as possible, e.g. "shoots faster than you did the first time a girl touched your Special Area." If you're feeling extra creative, imagine a Kind Of Girl and compare the gun to her. Yes, just create a "___ GF" meme to compare to the gun. It's that easy! Don't worry about accidentally saying more about yourself than the gun in the process, your audience will never notice.
Use Dogwhistles. They attract a loyal audience, and any attempts to call you out on it will only stir up engagement. Sell your soul and game that algorithm, baby! Be sure to wink at the camera when you're dressed as a Nazi (totally ironically) and say something about how "They will try to cancel me for this one!"
Get Close-Ups of Rapid Fire. What are you shooting at? Are you even hitting anything? Nobody cares, it just looks cool.
Create an Obnoxious Gimmick or Catchphrase. This one can be surprisingly tricky, so if you can't come up with one right away, you can always limp along with random slow-motion footage set to license free dramatic music until you figure out your Brand.
Remember: You Can Always Lie. Not enough cash to burn through 3,000 rounds of the finest Swiss match ammo to run with the big dogs? Fuck it, just say you did anyway! If anyone even questions it, there's absolutely no way to prove you wrong!
Be Shameless, Copy Anything. When you're out of ideas, there's always more room for more "how many rubber dog turds can progressively bigger guns penetrate" videos.
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The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Fourteen
[Masterlist]
Warnings: Language, Smut, World on Fire spoilers
Word Count: 4.3K
Notes: Angst and horniness, coming right up.
June 1940
No matter how hard he kicked, Tom couldn’t get his legs loose of the damn sheet.
“Calm down, calm down!” Tom had come round to find himself crammed into a corridor lined with other injured men, his shoulder bound with gauze strapped to his chest. The accent of the man shouting at him told him everything he needed to know. Still in bloody France. The man, a doctor judging by the white coat he wore, held Tom’s shoulders and pushed him down. Tom hissed as the touch aggravated his wound.
“Get your dirty, grubby hands off me now!” He kicked his leg and caught the man holding down his legs. “Let go of me and I’ll take my chance!”
“Listen! If you leave now, you will die!”
“Oh, so I just stay here and surrender like you lot?” Tom spat in the man’s face as another doctor and nurse arrived. “Paris has fallen. She just told me,” he indicated to the woman. “And not a shot fired. How’s a bunch of cowards going to keep me safe?”
“Pardon?” The doctor holding his shoulders lunged at Tom, who squared up to him from his position on the bed.
“Jacques,” the nurse grabbed him. “Jacques!”
The doctor at the end of the bed spoke. An American. “Before you say another word about French cowardice, just remember it was a French ambulance crew who rescued you.”
Tom relaxed his shoulders and pushed out his chin. “Christ. You think you rescued me?” His temper was rising. “Thanks to you I’m in a city crawling with Nazis. And where are my clothes?”
“Incinerated.” Said the nurse.
“You fucking what?” He panicked. The only thing keeping him sane was gone.
“I assume you are after this?” Jacques, the doctor, picked something up from Tom’s bedside table. Tom snatched the photograph from his grip and rolled onto his good shoulder, Bess safely tucked beneath his pillow.
“Now piss off and let me die in peace.” His voice was final, and the medics left him. Certain that they were gone, Tom took out Bess’ photograph and traced her face with his finger. The letters were surely gone, and there was no way that he could get one to her while Nazis lurked around every corner. He had to get home, and soon.
✼ ✼ ✼ ✼ ✼ ✼
Distantly, Bess heard the ring of the telephone in the ground floor hallway. Manchester was warming as sun gleamed off the stone buildings and rose into the smog strewn sky. Every door in Carver Mills was open. Other girls’ laughter fluttered through the stairwell and, occasionally, so too did the warble of a record being played. Bess was lounging on her bed, watching white bed linen flutter on the washing line beyond the window. A rare day off and a chance to relax. She was just closing her eyes when Mrs Russo’s voice called up to her.
“Bess! Phone for you, darling.”
No-one ever telephoned Bess. The only people who would were Cora, Dot and Dadda, and they’d have to borrow Mrs Mason’s telephone or else use the phone box on Plymouth Street. Trying to ease her rapidly rising nerves, Bess swung her legs from the bed and hurried barefoot down the cold stone steps. Mrs Russo was stood by the front door, apron on, phone tucked beneath her ear as she dusted the hallway cabinet. She smiled when she saw Bess coming down the stairs.
“Here she is, love,” she said to whoever was on the other end of the phone and passed the receiver to Bess. “Your sister,” she mouthed, before striding into the bright light of the day armed with a mop and can.
Bess held the receiver to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hi honey,” It was Cora, her voice unnaturally bright. “How’s the day off?”
“Yeah, it’s fine.” Cora never called. “What’s happened?” There was a sniffle on the other end of the line and Bess’ heart lurched.
“Oh, Bess,” Cora’s voice wobbled.
“What’s happened?” No reply. “Cora? Is it Dadda?”
“No, it’s not Dadda-” Her voice was small, defeated.
“Oh darling,” realisation dawned on Bess. “Has something happened to Roger? Do you want me to come ho-”
Cora spoke over her. “It’s not Roger.” Her voice was firming up, and before the words left her sister’s mouth, Bess swayed where she stood. This was the sound of someone readying themself to deliver bad news. Having heard their friend’s raised voice, Helen and Joan appeared on the stairs. Bess looked up at them wide-eyed as she waited for Cora to deliver the devastating blow.
“Bess, it’s Tom.”
“What about him?” Bess’ voice was sharp, steel walls rising to avoid any pain.
“Douglas got a telegram this morning. Darling, Tom’s missing.”
The soft flesh of her knees split as she hit the floor, though she didn’t feel it. A hand groped for the receiver, now dangling from its wire, and Bess vaguely saw that it wasn’t hers.
“Hello? Cora? Yes, it’s Helen-”
Bess’ body was pulled sideways and her arms trapped at her sides. Joan had wrapped her arms about her and was holding her tight. Bess lay there silently, pressed into Joan’s chest as Helen spoke lowly into the telephone. A minute later, she joined them on the floor and covered Bess’ body with her own. Joan whispered gently in her ear, though what she was saying, Bess couldn’t tell. When Helen reached out an arm to grip Bess’ hand, it was then that she realised she was shaking. Quaking with paroxysms of despair.
“Come on, little love,” Joan brushed some hair out of Bess’ face. “Let’s get you upstairs.” Together, Helen and Joan hauled Bess to her room, patched up her knees and laid her own the bed.
“Dry your eyes,” Helen passed Bess a tissue. She’d been crying? All Bess knew was that in the time Cora had telephoned, she had seen nothing but Tom. Tom, trapped in a prisoner of war camp. Tom, lost in the wilderness of battle-scarred Europe. Tom, lying unfound in ditch. Tom, in a shallow grave next to the rotting body of her brother.
She stared at her bedroom wall. The light turned from egg-yolk yellow to bitter plum, the only indication that the day had faded into evening. Helen and Joan left few hours ago. Or was in ten minutes? Bess was beyond the world of noticing. When a knock came at the door, she did nothing, only continued to stare at the cold wall and peeling wallpaper.
“Bess, love?” Mrs Russo stood at the door to Bess’ bedroom. “Some post came for you.” When Bess didn’t move, the older woman stepped into the room and placed the letters on the bedside table in front of where she lay. “You’ll catch your death lying here,” Mrs Russo leant over Bess’ lifeless form and shut the window. “Come down later, if you feel up to it. I’ve made soup.” She kissed Bess’ head and left, the click of the door and her retreating footsteps the only sound.
When all was quiet again, Bess sighed. Before the war, she had been content, and that was all a working-class girl from the north of England could hope for. She would never open her own fashion house. Never marry a rich man. Likely never leave Manchester. But Bess did have her work, her family, her pride. She’d heard Dot speak about her fear of never achieving anything. Looking back at her life when she is an old woman and seeing nothing but duty and boredom. When did greatness and notoriety become the measures of a good life? Bess always told her, is it not enough to be joyful and love and be loved? To be content and happy. What now, then, when contentment and happiness had gone from her life? Albie alone in France, buried God knows where. Tom with him, or soon to join him? An older sister who would never know first love without fear. A younger sister whose remaining years of childhood were defiled by war, and a father wounded by grief.
Bess’ eyes drifted the letters Mrs Russo left. Her name was smudged a little, and for a fleeting moment, she thought it was Tom’s handwriting. The address, however, proved her excitement wrong and she stilled. Who was left to write? She took the letter and ripped open the envelope.
“I know what you’re trying to do. Telling me all about your little date in the hopes it will make me jealous. Would it make you smile, love, if I told you it was working?”
Bess dropped the letter like hot coal. She ran to the bedroom door and slammed it shut. Leant against the doorframe, she clutched her heart and felt it hammer against her chest. Even missing, Tom Bennett could still make her weak. Tentatively, as though it would scold to touch it, Bess padded to the bed and picked up the letter once more.
“Does he know you like I do? Does he know that you collected feathers and eggshells when you were small, or that you write secret letters to a criminal like me?”
With every word, her breath quickened and pulse raced.
“Can he read you like I can? That you only smoke as a means to avoid speaking?”
Her mouth went dry.
“That when your eyes darken and those perfect lips of yours part, when you blush and it spreads right across your nose, it means you desperately want fucking?”
Bess’ head hit the pillow.
“It means you desperately want fucking”
Despite her terror. Despite the grief of the day, Bess laughed. He wanted her. Until the moment he went missing, he wanted her. If he was alive, perhaps he still did. She reached for the photograph of Tom, propped against her lamp, and held it behind the letter. The other hand ran down the buttons of her loose shirt and ruched the hem of her skirt. Over the edge of the letter, Tom’s eyes watched her.
“Can he satisfy you like I can, Bess? Are his fingers long? Have they been inside you yet? I know I could do it, Bess, if you’d let me.”
Heat welled between her legs as she pressed a palm against her sex.
“If I try, I can hear you moaning my name. I can feel your cunt against me. If your family hadn’t come home I’d have ravished you, Bess. I’d have fucked you with my mouth, my fingers, my cock.”
Bess’ fingers dipped into the warmth of her folds, and with half-lidded eyes she committed Tom’s photograph to memory.
“Made love to you until your mind could think of nothing but me. Can this James boy do that for you? Can he satisfy you like I could?”
Over and over she read the letter, over and over her nimble fingers worked her arousal undone.
“I’m mad with wanting you, love. I’ll kill any man that gets in my way to you. You’re mine, Bess.”
With a shudder and moan of his name, Bess unravelled to the image of Tom on her tailor’s stand. Tom beating Walter Watson to a pulp. Tom between her legs. Weak from her release, the letter fluttered to the ground and for a few blissful moments Bess forgot her heartache. Tom Bennett still wanted her. She giggled and reached for the letter, desperate to read his words once more. As she leant over the bed, she saw the mess of paper on the ground. Tom’s photograph, his letter, and the second envelope. She must have knocked it to the ground in her haste to be rid of the first.
She froze. It was him. Again. The smudged scrawl. It was definitely him. Abandoning her attempt to retrieve the first letter, Bess once again ripped open the envelope. Would it be a repeat of the first? In a perverse way, she hoped it was.
“Your letters are the best thing that happens to me at sea, but I couldn’t bear being the cause of more pain.”
In direct opposition to his first letter, the second caused Bess’ heart to stop.
“We’re going into something big, Bess, and I’m scared I won’t come back.”
“Oh, Tom.” Bess stood from the bed and hurried her way through the tiny flat.
“If I don’t, know that I think of you every second of every day.”
She opened the door, eyes never leaving the page.
“I’ll spend the rest of my days regretting what I did to you but know this, I adore you.”
Tears were falling now, and she could feel them. Angry, heartbroken, elated, fearful tears.
“Think of me, as I’m forever thinking of you.”
Her feet brought her to a door on the second floor of the boarding house. She knocked twice and brushed some tears form her red cheeks. The door swung open, and Joan stood before her, cigarette in hand and hair in curlers.
“Bess?”
Bess could do nothing but hold up the letter and laugh sadly.
“He adored me.”
✼ ✼ ✼ ✼ ✼ ✼
Tom watched as Webster’s blood funnelled through the tube and into his veins. What with the pain in his shoulder, the city heat and his growing unease at the Nazis walking the halls of the hospital, the sight did nothing to settle his stomach and he looked to the ceiling.
Webster, while admiring Tom’s spirit, was himself growing annoyed at the man’s impatient recklessness. He understood as much as any other his desperation to be away from Paris with the one he loved, but the reality was not as easy as their imaginations would wish.
“What are you going to do with out help?” Webster whispered quietly. “All these men need my help. You’re prisoners of war now.”
“I’ll head for the coast.” Even agitated, Tom seemed a cocksure and certain man. If not for the war, Webster would have liked a drink with Tom Bennett.
“And which way is that, hm?”
Tom paused. “I’ll think of something.”
“Listen,” Webster sat up a little, careful not to disturb the needle in his arm. “I’ve talked to a couple of French guys who are setting up an escape route. They can help you.” Tom’s eyebrows rose and he waited for Webster to continue. “You can go across the Pyrenees into Spain, Spain to Gibraltar then home from there.”
Tom smirked. “I get lost walking home from Belle-Vue, mate.” Exasperated and having reached the end of his capacity to cope with the Mancunian, Webster rested his head against the bedframe with a sigh. “What? You’ve never heard of Belle-Vue? You don’t know what you’re missing.” Bright lights flashed before his eyes and he could see Bess on the carousel, head tipped back with laughter. Tom smiled.
“First, you need to get registered as an injured prisoner of war,” Webster’s voice was hurried, eager to test out his plan.
“Yeah, then what?”
“Then you die.”
Tom looked at Webster flatly. “Well I hate to be picky-” Webster ignored him.
“Once you’re declared dead it makes it easier for you to escape. They won’t be looking for you.”
Tom spotted a flaw in the plan. “Won’t they want to see a corpse?”
“We’ve got no shortages of corpses, buddy.”
“And this’ll work, will it?”
“You’ll know before I do.” Tom stared at Webster, disbelieving. “We’ve never actually tried it before.”
Tom scoffed nervously. “Great.”
“The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be reunited with your girl-”
“She’s not my girl anymore.” Tom snapped, and the two watched in silence as the dark blood ran between them.
✼ ✼ ✼ ✼ ✼ ✼
“And Bess, thank you for the clothes. Douglas brought them over on his last visit.”
Despite herself, Bess felt a pang of jealousy. Douglas has clearly made a new friend since her move to the city. She’d have to drop in soon.
“Of course, Albie would’ve been glad to see them go to a good home.”
Robina Chase nodded awkwardly, caught somewhere between giving thanks and condolences. She turned away and began to dress as Bess packed away her tools. Summer meant preparing for autumn fashions. Or, in wartime Britain, autumn tailoring.
The front door opened and shut with a thud, and Robina sighed. “Will you stay for a cup of tea, Bess? What’s one more person, hm?” Bess smiled and followed the woman downstairs, where she saw Harry, Jan and a man that could only be Demba; Mrs Chase had already told Bess all about the Senegalese soldier Harry had brought home.
Harry kissed his mother’s cheek, and then Bess’. “I’m so sorry about Albie, Bess. We’ll miss his face at the dances.”
“And he’d miss the dancing!” Bess smiled to ease the sadness rapidly descending on the entrance hall. “You must be Demba.” She held out a hand to shake the stranger’s. His smile was warm when he shook her hand, and Bess could see why Harry liked him so.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He said.
“Miss!” Bess teased with mock offence.
“Pardon,” Demba held is hands to his heart and the three of them laughed. Mrs Chase clicked her tongue and hurried away to fetch the tea.
“Hello, Miss Bess,” A little voice said from behind Harry.
“Hello, Master Jan.” Bess held out a hand to him, which he took, and she led him into the sitting room where Robina was setting out the china. He perched himself on an armchair, and Bess took the seat next to Demba. Harry stood somewhat agitatedly behind them and watched as his mother picked up her newspaper.
PARIS HAS FALLEN
The headline was accompanied by an image of the Luftwaffe flying over Paris. Noticing the silence, Robina lowered the newspaper.
“Harry tells me you saved him.” She addressed Demba. He smiled graciously before replying.
“He saved a lot of men.” A true gentleman. Bess smiled before Robina could ruin the moment.
“How very reassuring,” she gave her son a pointed look.
“Like his mother and father perhaps?” Demba seemed unaware of the bump in the conversation. “His courage?”
“Harry’s father had many qualities, but it transpires that courage wasn’t one of them.”
“Can we talk about something else?” Harry’s tone was terse.
Robina bristled and picked up her newspaper. Bess wanted the plush settee to swallow her whole. She took a sip of her tea.
“The Germans didn’t bomb Paris,” Robina’s voice was hopeful. The three young people opposite stared at her. “That surely is a good sign.”
“Of what exactly?” Bess could hear Harry trying to restrain is frustration.
“That when all is said and done, at least they are a civilised people-”
“Je suis désolée,” Demba and Bess turned to look at Harry as he spoke. “Ma mère ne sait pas de quoi elle parle.”
KNOCK KNOCK KOCK
Thank Christ. Bess and Demba relaxed in their seats. Jan saw and giggled. The same could not be said of Robina, who sighed and threw her newspaper on the couch. “Surely this week can’t get any more surprising.” She strode towards the front door. The four left in the sitting room said nothing, and Bess stuck her tongue out at Jan to make him smile.
When Robina returned with Lois Bennett, Harry jolted forwards and, struck by a similar awkwardness to his mother, abruptly stopped whatever motion his body had been about to enact.
“Lois!”
“Bess?”
“Bess has been tailoring some clothes for me.” Lois sat next to Robina, and Harry plonked himself next to Bess, causing her to shuffle sideways into Demba. Silence reigned once more, until little Jan spoke up.
“Is Douglas coming?”
Robina laughed.
“No, sorry. But he sent you this,” Lois leant over her now enormous bump and picked up a package wrapped in brown paper. “It isn’t brand new. It’s the same one Tom had when he was your age.” She locked eyes with Bess, who suddenly found a loose thread on her trousers to fuss with. “Dad says next time you play, you can wear it.” Jan smiled, unaware of Lois and Bess’ sorrow.
“I feel rather as though I’ve arrived late at the theatre and need someone to explain the plot to me.” Robina look to Bess and Demba for agreement.
“I am sorry,” Lois said sincerely. “I had no idea you had so many people here.” She stood up and Harry did the same so suddenly it nearly caused Bess to spill her tea. He was pleading with Lois.
“Lois, wait. I…”
Sensing that she was intruding on familial politics far more complicated than she first assumed to know, Bess jumped from her seat. “Come on Jan, let’s see if Tom’s shirt improves your aim.” The little boy laughed and followed her into the garden, the red football jersey trailing behind him.
“She’s an odd girl, Demba.” Robina said as the four remaining in the house watched Bess and Jan play. “Would be ever so charming if she only sorted her hair and wore rouge. There’s a spinster in the making.”
“Mother, please.”
From the garden, Bess kept one eye on Jan and one on the people in the sitting room. When Demba was the only person left sitting, she ran inside.
“Harry?” She was a little out of breath. “Do you have a camera? I want to get a photo of Jan in his jersey.”
“Just a minute.” Clearly glad of an excuse to leave, Harry left the room. No-one spoke, and Bess saw Robina’s eyes follow the path of Harry’s footsteps on the ceiling above. He returned a minute later with a camera and handed it to Bess. “Keep it,” Robina opened her mouth to protest but Harry silenced her with a look. “I never used it.”
“Thank you,” Bess squeezed his hand and ran back outside.
“Jan!” The boy stopped kicking the football against the wall and looked at her. She held up the camera. “Give us your best pose.” The little boy placed his arms against his hips and foot atop the ball. Bess laughed and clicked the camera. “Very good!”
Lois put her head into the garden. “Harry is taking me home, Bess. Do you want a lift?”
“No, you’re alright, I’m going to stay with Jan for a bit.” She beamed at the boy and he smiled back, thinking of his older sister as he did. “And if you need help, when the time comes,” Bess nodded to Lois’ bump. “You let me know.”
“Thanks, love.” Bess and Jan watched as she retreated into the house.
“Right then, young man,” Bess clapped the little boy on the shoulder. “Show us what you’ve got.” She ran into the makeshift goal and Jan lined up the football.
✼ ✼ ✼ ✼ ✼ ✼
That night, after her dinner with Mrs Russo and the other girls, Bess made her way to her room. Switching on the wireless, she tuned it to some music and covered her windows with the blackouts. From her bedside table, she retrieved the stack of Tom’s letters she had gathered over the nine months since the war began. All but one, which she left tucked beneath her pillow. Rereading it had become a common occurrence in her night-time routine. And morning routine, come to think of it.
Sat at the kitchen table, under the soft lamplight, Bess twiddled a pen between her fingers as she read over his last letter.
“I adore you.”
Tom was right, he knew her better than anyone. All those years of stolen conversations and silent glances. And just as Bess had found her voice, found herself opening her heart to him in her letters he was gone. Tom might never come back, but Bess wasn’t ready to let go of him yet. Contentment and love could still be hers if she tried.
Retrieving a leaf of paper, Bess unscrewed the cap of her pen and began to write.
Tom,
Your letter arrived the same day I found out you are missing, and you broke my heart for the third time. Your letters could never hurt me, and I only wish I could look forward to more.
She stopped to hastily wipe away a tear. Looking at Tom’s letter, she answered each of his admission in turn.
If I never see you again, I hope you are resting now in the knowledge that I too, think of you every single day and will never stop.
If, by some miracle, you come back home to us, know that I will spend the rest of my life regretting the night we fought and that day at the train station. I’ll never stop telling you how much I adore you.
Dream of me, wherever you are, as I am forever dreaming of you.
Yours, as I always have been,
Bess.
She placed the sheet of paper in an envelope, writing Tom’s name and date on the fore. With nowhere to send it, nowhere to send her love, Bess rested her head against the table and wept.
Notes: Jan and Demba deserve the world! I changed the order of some of the TV scenes just to make it flow a little better. We’re with Tom more for the next chapter, which will probably be up sometime mid-next week as I’m heading home for a hen do. Will try to get some writing done on the dismally long journey. Want to really get inside his head and his feelings!
Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 '@exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @anditsmywholeheart @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring
#ewan mitchell#tom bennett#tom bennett x ofc#ewan mitchell x reader#world on fire#the seamstress & the sailor
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Gamer’s rage; Rocket raccoon x gn! reader
*Author’s note*
Okay so this is a combined request for an anon and @itsscromp but first I must apologize because I no ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about video games, I did some minor research for Call of Duty so if there are any COD fans out there and I’ve f-ed it up about what the first game does, I’m sorry because I’ve never played it and nor any real video games for that matter (my last video game was Bratz Rock Angels).
Not really any warnings just gamer rage, swearing, and gun violence (both video game and in the story. C’mon it’s Rocket guys what’d you expect?)
Taglist:
@plethora-of-things
@waddles03
@psychosupernatural
@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels
@queen-paladin
@queensdivas
@gay-and-ready-to-cry
@austynparksandpizza
____________________________________________________________
Rocket and I sat a few feet apart from each other but refused to look at the other while Peter was pacing in front of us and the rest of the Guardians were scattered throughout the ship.
“Okay, can you please tell me why the hell the ship looks like a bomb went off in the southern deck?”
“As him!” I snapped.
“Ask me! You’re the one who had the blasters in your hand!” Rocket yelled at me.
“Well I wasn’t the one who threw the actual bomb!”
“Well how else was I gonna stop you from acting like a psycho!”
“You know what?!”
“What!?”
“ALRIGHT ENOUGH!!” Peter screamed at us to stop. “I don’t care who started it or who used what, I just want to know why the hell you guys blew up my ship!?”
“I am Groot.” Said Groot.
“Wait what?” Peter asked.
“I am Groot.”
“It wasn’t that big of a deal.” Said Rocket. I laughed sarcastically as Rocket snarled at me baring his teeth.
“I let you take one round and then when I start winning, you go ballistic!”
“Oh bull!”
“Hold on, you mean to tell me the reason you guys nearly destroyed my ship and aren’t speaking to each other is over a stupid video game?!”
“Not just any game Quill, it was a battle for one’s right to destroy the villainous monsters that were the pansies.” Drax said in awe.
“Nazis, Drax. They were called Nazis.” I corrected him.
“Like the ones Steve fought.” Mantis added.
“Well he mostly fought off Hydra officers but I guess they’re the same thing. They were both douchebags of history.” I said. I guess you’re wondering just what the hell is going on, well let me take you back to how this whole mess began.
*Flashback*
On our base at Nowhere I was going through the itinerary supplies for the Nowhere Trading Company (or NTC as I called it). I was going through the black market goods we managed to swipe from some pirates just 4 quadrants from reaching Xandar’s atmosphere.
I opened up the crate and looked inside to see that it was filled with some classic video games back on Earth.
“Holy shit.” I reached in and grabbed a Spyro the Dragon (yep the first ever Spyro game). “God I hadn’t seen this game since I was a kid.” I continued to dig through and found Crash Bandicoot: The Huge Adventure. “Oh my god, they got almost everything in here.”
The first Mass effect games, the original Super Mario Bros, Mario cart, Sonic the Hedgehog, but I let out a gasp as I quickly dug through the games and pulled out my all time favorite game and felt my arms shaking with excitement.
I ran across Nowhere with the game in my bag, I just had to find him there’s no way he’d ever refuse a game like this.
“Rocket! Rocket! Yo Rocket answer me! Rocket! ROCKET!!”
“Geez I’m right here what’d you blow a gasket or something kid?” Rocket said. I quickly turned to see him remodeling one of the buildings into our storage units, he lifted his goggles over his head and set the blow torch down. I bounded on the balls of my feet excitedly. “You sure you don’t need to use the bathroom kid?”
“You’re not gonna believe what I found.” I sung out. He sighed and came down from the building and walked up to me.
“Alright I’ll bite. What’d you find?” I reached into my bag and handed him the game still bouncing excitedly. “Call of Duty?”
“The first Call of Duty game ever made. No other game could beat out the overrated game that is Halo but this game doubled not only in sale ratings but graphics and story as well.”
“It’s another mind-numbing game. I swear you and Groot are cut from the same cloth when it comes to video games.”
“Come on! I’ve got a feeling you’re really gonna like this one.”
“Not interested, now if you don’t mind I gotta get back to work before Quill gets on my back about finishing this storage unit.” He handed me the case back and climbed back up the stairs. That’s when I said.
“You get to shot at people and blow things up.” He stopped midway up the stairs and turned back to me and said lowly.
“I’m listening.”
“Like Halo, this is a first person shooter game. That’s when you become the character, not just you controlling a character like most video games are. And this takes place during a real life war that happened in my world, the one that Captain Rogers fought in, and you get to shot and kill all the Nazi soldiers you want.”
“What about the blowing things up? You said I could do that right?”
“Oh yeah. Trust me Rocket, this was the first Mature rated game I played at my friend’s house and my god did we blow some shit up.”
“Well screw Quill then! If he wants this storage unit done, he can do it himself. Now uhh—how do we play this thing exactly?”
“There’s gotta be a game station in one of the other boxes where I found this along with a bunch of other games. C’mon.” we raced back to my station and we looked through a couple of more crates until Rocket game across the one that was filled with a bunch of various gaming stations. “Ah-ha! Here it is, PlayStation. Just what we need!”
“Think I might have the perfect place for that.” I followed Rocket back to our ship and that’s where we had set up the game console in the Southern levels of the ship where we had all the monitors and TV/Radio transmitters.
Rocket hooked up the PlayStation to the monitors and after a few switches and wire sparks (better not to ask about that part), once I turned on the game the PlayStation opening rang off and showed off its logo.
“Oh yeah! Alright Rocket hop and squat and prepare to get your virtual ass kicked.”
“Please, I’ve been firing guns since you were in diapers.” He said as he grabbed his controller and I took mine and went through the menu to choose our battlefield.
“Well shooting people in real life vs. virtual works a little differently. But I’ll take that bet there Rocket.” Once the menu showed our options and the title card of the game, I selected my character while Rocket chose his. Next I chose our mission and once we were ready, I scrolled down to the BEGIN MISSION option and the screen went black as it began to load.
The first round of our mission obviously I won but it gave Rocket a chance to learn the ropes of the game and how it worked. So when the next round came in, he got the upper hand and killed me.
“Alright kid, final round is mine for the taking!” Rocket exclaimed.
“Don’t get cocky Rocket just cause you won this round.”
“Please I got this game in the bag.” He selected our final mission and we began our mission. Guns were fired and each side of our screens went red with blood until I came out on top and won the final round. “WHAT THE—”
“HA! In your face Rocket! I am the winner! I am the winner!” I said doing my little victory dance.
“No fair you cheated!”
“Yeah right you just can’t admit that when it comes to virtual shooting you suck at it.”
“I’ll show you who sucks at shooting!” he soon pulled out his gun and fired a warning shot right at me. I flipped over the shot and ducked down.
“What the fuck man!”
“You wanna say I suck again!? Go ahead and say it.” He challenged me. I took out my own gun and fired it at him as he jumped out of the way.
“Warning shot. Next one wont miss.” I warned him.
“You better hope not.” Next thing I knew, the two of us were shooting at each other trying to kill the other, throwing insults at the other for a terrible shot.
Which leads us back to the present.
*Flashback ends*
At the end of our story, Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head disappointedly.
“So can you tell a certain Terran that they’re an arrogant asshole and shouldn’t mess with a true professional?” Rocket said.
“Only if a certain rodent knows that real life shooting and virtual shooting aren’t the same. And that they’re a sore loser and should just suck it up and put on his bog boy pants and accept that someone else can be as good as he is.”
“Like I’d ever admit that!”
“You know you are such a pest you know that!?” I snapped.
“Takes one to know one don’t you think Flea!?”
“I told you to never call me that again!”
“I’ll call yah whatever I want and right now you’re a flea!” I roared as I pounced on him and the two of us began to rumble with each other. Growling and screaming at each other until Peter forced us apart.
“ALRIGHT! I’M CALLING A TIME OUT!!”
“No Quill. I was placing all my money on (Y/n) to win.” Drax said.
“Drax what have we said about placing bets on each other to die whenever a fight breaks out?” Peter said.
“You really suck the joy out of everything. Groot do not take my money, the bet is on halt.”
“I am Groot.”
“After these two, I’m having a talk with the both of you.” Quill released us and began his reprimanding. “You two wanna act like children? Okay then. Go to your room and I don’t wanna see the two of you until you learn to make up and be friends again.”
“As if.” We both said as he still refused to look at each other.
“If not I could always use some target practice dummies.” Nebula suggested.
“We’re not dummies!” we both exclaimed.
“Then it’s your choice. An hour or so in isolation together, or one of you is going to be holding this on top of your heads.” She pulled out a crushed piece of tin and held it out to us. With no other choice we grumbled as we walked away. Shoving each other nonchalantly as we grumbled insults at one another.
*3rd Person POV*
“Ugh I swear those two. Being as good friends as they are, when they fight oh god. It’s literally like trying to separate two dogs who want to kill each other. But thanks for that reverse psychology move on them Nebula, I appreciate it.”
“That wasn’t a psychological move.” She said. Everyone went silent before one by one each decided they needed to be somewhere other than where they were right at that moment.
*My POV*
One bad thing about sharing a room with your (ex) best friend, is having an intense argument and having to be in that same room with your (ex) best friend. Rocket and I sat back to back of each other with our arms crossed and a permanent scowl on our faces in dead silence. The air so think with our anger it could be cut with a knife. But after a while of cooling down, I uncrossed my arms and said.
“I’ve heard how the video games have turned people crazy, but I didn’t think it’d ever happen to me.”
“So you finally admit it?”
“What I’m trying to say asshole, is that I don’t want our lifelong friendship to end over something so stupid. We were both in the wrong.”
“Yeah. Guess you’re right kid.” Finally we turned and looked at each other and I said to him.
“Maybe it was better I didn’t find those stupid games.”
“Now don’t go blaming yourself kid. You were hit with uhh—what did you call it again, nausea?”
“Nostalgia.”
“Right yeah that. Hell if I had a life like yours before I was made, I’d be doing the same thing.”
“I’m sorry Rocket, for nearly trying to shoot your brains out.”
“And I’m sorry (Y/n). For calling yah flea and for…..being a sore loser.” We smiled softly at each other before I hugged him. He tensed up at first but relaxed and I felt his arms wrap around me.
#guardians of the galaxy fanfiction#Guardians of the Galaxy#guardians of the galaxy imagines#guardians of the galaxy fanfic#guardians of the galaxy fandom#gotg imagines#rocket raccoon#rocket racoon x reader#rocket racoon imagine#rocket racoon imagines#gotg imagine#gotg fanfic#gotg fafiction#rocket racoon x gn reader#peter quill imagine#peter quill imagines#peter quill x reader#peter quill#Drax#nebula#mantis#guardians of the galaxy imagine
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Cap-IM Rec Week - Cap-IM Monday Extra
Last day of @cap-ironman's rec week event! Thanks so much to them for organizing this event, and all the other events that inspired the following fics!
The Highwayman's Baronet by mariana_oconnor, orphan_account (@mariana-oconnor) (MCU | Teen And Up Audiences | No Archive Warnings Apply | 125,525 words)
Written for: 2020 Captain America/Iron Man Big Bang
Summary: Steve Rogers has returned from the war. He has made his fortune, but lost everything in return. He is reeling from grief and at a loss of what to do with himself when the son of an old friend writes to offer him a home. He takes up the offer, but finds himself embroiled in a plot to bring down the country and raise Hydra from the grave. Can he uncover the traitor, save the handsome baronet, and avoid being hanged as a highwayman?
A Regency AU featuring highwayman!Steve, Baronet!Tony, treason, nefarious plots and a dash of magic.
The Laird in the Water by jellybeanforest (@jellybeanforest-a-go-go) (MCU | Mature | Graphic Depictions Of Violence | 17,920 words)
Written for: Cap-IronMan Bingo
Summary: In 14th century Scotland, Steve is a child with an imaginary friend that lives in a nearby river, the site of many drownings and horrific discoveries. His Nan claims it to be the work of a kelpie. Steve doesn’t believe her of course. Kelpies are a myth, old wives tales to keep children from playing near swiftly-moving streams and young women from entertaining the company of handsome strangers. However, as he grows, Steve realizes that the young man in the water may not be quite as imaginary nor as innocuous as he once believed.
For the Cap-IronMan Bingo 2019 Round 2 – AU: Fairy Tale Creatures.
Bugfuck Crazy (In Love With You) by Sadisticsparkle (sadisticsparkle) (616 | Explicit | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | 7,912 words)
Written for: Cap-IronMan Bingo
Summary: It's the Avengers' first mission in a long time. Everything is familiar but awkward, but Steve is sure they'll find their groove.
And then Tony is turned into a giant bug.
Things get a little out of hand after that.
More below the cut!
Eigengrau by vorkosigan (@the-vorkosigan) (MCU | Teen And Up Audiences | No Archive Warnings Apply | 16,811 words)
Written for: 2017 Captain America/Iron Man Holiday Exchange
Summary: Tony is captured; he doesn't know by whom, or why. He doesn't know how much time has passed since. What he knows is, he can now hear something in the adjacent cell, and that 'something' sounds a lot like Steve Rogers.
Let Us Not Forget This by citsiurtlanu (@citsiurtlanu) (Iron Man Noir | General Audiences | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | 36,040 words)
Written for: Captain America/Iron Man Reverse Bang 2017
Summary: Steve Rogers knew, knows, will know Tony Stark, the adventurer, the scientist, the futurist. And Tony Stark - well, he's not really fond of the idea of this Captain America fellow being assigned to tag along as he, Rhodey, Pepper, and Jarvis race to find a powerful relic before the Nazis do, but he just has to go with it. What he doesn't - and can't - realize is how deeply Cap is tied into his life in ways he can barely even understand.
Also available as a podfic read by DuendeVerde4 (@duendeverde4)
Before the Darkness Swallows You by Veldeia (@veldeia) (616 | Mature | Graphic Depictions Of Violence | 30,837 words)
Written for: Captain America/Iron Man Reverse Bang 2016
Summary: Steve was gone.
Tony was all alone in the dark, the blackness of the damp, rock-walled corridor only occasionally broken by the fluttering fluorescent lamps in the ceiling.
He wasn’t afraid of the dark. An abandoned mine was by no means the scariest environment he’d ended up in. Still, he’d have been crazy not to be afraid of what lurked in these shadows.
The Unlikely Wingman by Sineala (@sineala) (616 | General Audiences | No Archive Warnings Apply | 1,074 words)
Written for: Cap-IronMan Bingo
Summary: Clint doesn't see why he should have to follow Captain America's orders. But he also doesn't see why Captain America should have to sit around looking miserably lonely, either.
Think of This as Solving Problems (That Should Never Have Occurred) by Sineala (@sineala) (616 | Teen And Up Audiences | No Archive Warnings Apply | 35,216 words)
Written for: 2015 Captain America/Iron Man Holiday Exchange
Summary: No one knows Tony is Iron Man. Then Tony gets amnesia, and literally no one knows Tony is Iron Man.
Got You Under My Skin by BlossomsintheMist (@blossomsinthemist) (Ults | Explicit | No Archive Warnings Apply | 26,115 words)
Written for: Captain America/Iron Man Reverse Bang 2014
Summary: “I’d be happy to show you a good time,” Tony said, smiling a little obscurely, Steve thought, as if to himself, but still with that warm, knowing look, affectionate and oddly fond, “any time you want.”
Steve Rogers goes to Tony Stark's birthday party. Things progress from there, with a lot of flirtiness leading to propositions, and propositions leading to, well, what comes next, and Steve isn't even sure what he wants after that.
Set in the Marvel Ultimate Universe, and written for the 2014 Cap_Ironman Reverse Big Bang. Art by wiredoll, here.
#capimrecweek#stony#marvel fic rec#steve rogers#tony stark#also thank you to the authors who added the event name to their freeform tags#because my elaborate bookmark spreadsheet doesn't have a column for event or collection information#making works created for specific events very hard to identify
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Again, I've studied this academically, and these people are spitting the same kind of rhetoric and using the same tactics as 1930s-1940s Nazis. That's an indisputable fact, as anyone who has studied 1930s-1940s Germany will attest. Some of these people even proudly wave the swastika and proclaim themselves to be neo-Nazis, so saying no one should make comparisons is ridiculous.
And if we wait until they get to their endgame before we say, "Okay, we can now acknowledge what's happening," it'll be too late to stop it.
So yeah, both as someone who has studied the topic AND is part of a group the original Nazis targeted (although that second part shouldn't matter), I will, in fact, point out the similarities between the beginning of that genocide and what's happening now.
Hell, I saw this sort of thing coming about a decade ago--it's a big part of why I finally managed to get out of the US in 2018-- but very few people believed my warnings. I should have seen it sooner, honestly.
(I wasn't sure exactly what group the first modern "round 'em up and kill 'em" laws would be passed against, but in retrospect, I should have known they'd go after queer folks first.)
A big part of the reason for pointing out the similarities between then and now is that these same tactics and rhetoric WORKED before, and led to over fifty million deaths, including six million Jews, and about four million Romani, neurodiverse, queer, and simply dissenting folk, among others.
Another reason it's important to point out the similarities is that people KNOW the kinds of horrors the Holocaust inflicted, and they need to understand that the people pushing these laws are the ideological descendants of those who perpetrated those horrors.
Is it a one for one comparison? Of course not; it's been nearly ninety years since the Nazis started out. No organization or ideology remains exactly the same for that long.
But I'll tell you seriously that anyone who tells you not to point out the similarities in rhetoric and tactics, or not to point out that the US far right has allied themselves with literal flag-waving neo-Nazis, is someone you should be very suspicious of, no matter what their identity--especially anyone who tells you that "no one is allowed to raise the alarm, not even members of groups the earlier Nazis targeted, unless they're a member of MY group."
Because who exactly benefits from pretending the similarities don't exist? Who benefits from not pointing out that the people working towards this genocide share ideology and tactics with the engineers of the Holocaust, and in some cases self-identify with them?
The fact that I'm part of a group the Nazis rounded up and slaughtered doesn't make me qualified to make comparisons and raise the alarm; the fact that I've studied the matter does. And I'm not gonna play "oppression olympics" with anyone, but I mean, if I have to play that one card this ine time to be heard, okay.
Again, the Nazis didn't START with death camps. They started by demonizing already-targeted demographics, and claiming only they had the will to protect "good, honest citizens," by passing laws to persecute thise demographics, and linking them in the mind of the public to others that they wanted to eliminate, so that when they went after those other groups, a significant portion of the citizenry would not object.
It's the domino effect as propaganda strategy. If you can convince the public that queer folks are a danger to children, then associate Jews with queer folks--like the original Nazis did, and like the American GOP is going to do eventually--that makes it easier to exploit existing antisemitism and tip people over who might be on the fence. (It was not the only, or even the primary strategy they used, but they did use it.)
The modern US GOP are going after all the same groups that the original Nazis did.
They've been demonizing Jews for decades (witness the "lizard people" dog-whistles, the allegations that Soros funds the "anti-American" left, all the "jokes" about how Jews control the world.
Hell, even their "support" for Israel is rooted in anti-Semitism, because the religious component of the far right believe that practcally all Jews have to return to Israel and die there in order for Jesus to return). They just can't get away with publicly passing laws against Jews... YET. But they will, if they're not stopped.
So they're going after softer targets for now. Casting queer folk as pedophiles (which has been a long-standing accusation), associating neurodiverse people with those "child-grooming" queers (see Missouri's recent legal moves setting the stage for that), Muslims (and by extension everyone who might look vaguely Middle-Eastern) as terrorists, black and brown folks (especially immigrants) as criminals, associating intellectualism and education with being "anti-American," and...
It just goes on and on.
Don't just take my word for it. Please dont just take my word for it. Read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. Read They Thought They Were Free. Read Mein Kampf (if you can do so without throwing up). There are a lot of sources, but if you just read those three books, and look at current patterns, you'll see the similarities, too.
Or maybe you'll think I'm being an alarmist. Like the "alarmists" who spoke up in 1930s Germany.
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I’m not a registered democrat, I have campaigned for a progressive before, but I’m gonna be real with you. If democrats are “pro-Democracy” and republicans are the “fascists” than why the fuck do the democrats not have debates this year but do have superdelegates? But the repubs don’t have superdelegates and do have debates (even when RFK Jr and Marianne Williamson are both doing better in the polls against Biden then any of the republicans other than DeSantis are doing against trump)? You can make the case he’s an incumbent but half the democrats want someone new. I can’t be the only one who sees this nonsense
fascism(n.)
fas·cism ˈfa-ˌshi-zəm
a political philosophy, movement, or regime (such as that of the Fascisti) that
exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader
severe economic and social regimentation
and forcible suppression of opposition
I can't post more than 10 links on a post anymore so I can't provide sources proving that the USA has met all-if not most- of these check marks. But it has. And it has for a long time, before Trump and before Obama. Regardless of party.
Because fascism is fascism. Just like democracy is democracy regardless of which party you align with. Why would which fascist party you like matter? Its fascism.
Like when was the last time any of us Genuinely had a say in anything? We're just now coming out of centuries of genocide, slavery, and systematic abuses against minorities. We all just got human rights within the last generation and not even all of them. And we had to fight tooth and nail, lose family for the ones we do have.
And that's not even talking about how long it took us to get our right to vote and it's still actively & shamelessly suppressed every election.
And we're slipping backwards? Already?
Does our "democracy" think the people suddenly lost interest in the rights and protections our previous generations fought for? Funny that while also adding more laws to make protesting illegal and more funding and protections to police. Did you know Biden labeled people protesting specifically against fascism as terrorists part of a terror group (antifa)?
Why?
Who does it benefit to strip us of rights?
Why do it when that's Not what we want?
What could They want for us?
Why are they censoring protests critiquing capitalism?
Do you want people deciding which rights you should have For you when they think you shouldn't have less?
Is the way this country is functioning right now a healthy democracy?
This is something that someone just made in contrast to the above images I'm sure. I can't find any indication online this is a genuine list.
But it does make a very strong point about the political leanings of the US political climate. And it's certainly not leaning towards any of these things. Always seems to be justifying attacking them or not supporting them instead...which goes back to the scapegoats checkpoint.
The first thing Nazis did was blame minorities for the state of the country. As soon as they had enough support, they started rounding us up.
Kinda like how Mexicans are stealing jobs, Black people steal cuz they don't work, queers are perverting our youth and welfare queens are stealing from taxpayers.
And what are the Dems doing about this rhetoric?
Pushing you right every chance. Like using the pied piper strategy for their nationwide campaigning. Like having superdelegates and not letting progressives participate.... But yeah Republicans will.
At least they listen, right? At least they're honest.
Makes that step right seem way easier than you thought before. Funny, innit?
Democrats are truly personifying the ratchet effect but not just by allowing republicans to pass awful policy while doing Nothing in return. They're also doing nothing at best while the right recruits more and more people (and helping at worst).
I think there are a lot of people in our government who are there for good reason and with good intentions and are "pro-democracy."
I think very few of them are aware enough of the bigger picture to realize they're cogs in a well oiled fascist machine.
That is to say only fascists work in fascist governments.
They're all fash. Not just repubs. Not just Dems.
The only people I have any hope for are progressives and leftists willing to throw a wrench in it.
I'd happily vote for Marianne or Bernie or Andrew Yang if it meant giving fascists a run for their money.
Nothing would scare them more than the people having spare money and time to organize. And we'd have that with higher wages or ubi or universal healthcare.
Voting for a socialist is the best way to beat a fascist. Socialists fundamentally believe everyone deserves rights. There is no greater challenger to fascism than that.
It's why Democrats refuse to push Bernie and Marianne and Andrew Yang. It's why candidates like them with campaigns focused on social programs and increasing life quality are reduced to clowns and radicals nobody should take seriously.
It's all propaganda. All of it.
As long as we still have the ability to vote we should be voting for people like them.
Who cares if they aren't perfect, you know? We're living in the setup stages of another genocide.
Who cares if we lose when we lose either fucking way at this point. Biden is the fucking president and he can't stop what Desantis is doing???? Won't challenge it???
We need someone who will. And WE, together, need to stop settling and putting up with less when we can have So Much More.
Anyone telling you to vote for Biden is a psyop for fascists and I stand by that.
Voting for parties like green party or independents or whatever is not "fascism" because it's splitting the vote. I don't care what Democrats and liberals tell you. It's just you exercising your right to vote for a representative that represents you. Which is what a healthy democracy is supposed function like.
If they call you a fascist/psyop/Russian/bot it's time to start really analyzing what principles and beliefs Democrats stand for in 2023. Do they want you to vote with their beliefs and principles or have they shaped their nationalism to align with their political party which they want you to support without question?
And if they start pressuring you because "the fascists" will win without a unified vote on a democratic candidate then it's time to start considering more aggressive approaches to fascism if we are ONLY ever one election away from it.
If we are One vote away then voting isn't enough to keep it away anyway. And this "warning" coming from the same party year after year that's ALSO promised to "address (voter sticking point) after we win the votes we need" for decades in a row now.
They didn't. In fact we don't have Roe v Wade over it. We're losing human rights over it.
And now Democrats are the Only ones who can stop fascists, huh?
#asked#answered#damn I kinda went off huh#politics#voting#electoral politics#leftist#anarchist#us politics#us elections#Democrats#liberals#vote#capitalism#biden
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hey, sorry to bug you with this, but im not sure who else to ask or how to even begin researching it for myself-- im a bit of an analog audio collector, and i recently picked up an bunch of cassette tapes from a local record shop. and one of them's got, like, runes(?) etched into the side? like someone physically took a knife to it? i have enough knowledge to identify them as nordic, but not much else. and its def an indie band selling their tapes to a local shop, so its not anything i can google. but my main concern is that i know that nazis and other alt righters use nordic runes to identify themselves sometimes, so i guess i was wondering if you could point me in the direction of somewhere i could go about identifying them/somewhere where i can research which runes the fascists use? thanks.
uh, bonus round for this question: is it possible for me to get cursed off of nordic runes carved into the side of my cassette tape. should i be worried lol?
I'd have to see the runes but yeah I could probably find someone who can decipher em
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Round 1 - Side B
Propaganda below ⬇️
Father Anderson
He’s probably on some kind of crack during the entirety of the series, I literally don't remember any aspects of him other than the fact that he just goes “AMENNNN” sometimes and has a habit of stabbing the shit out if anything that isn’t catholic. He’s the founder of deranged catholic bastard gaming, he has to be.
Semi immortal scottish priest who works for the vatican's secret vampire killing order. He can carry an absurd number of bayonets on his person and teleport using bible pages. Hates the protestants and has beef with Dracula at the point that while they are both fighting against the army of nazi vampires who are invading London he tries to kill him because Dracula makes himself vulnerabile. He's more than ready to lead a crusade against England but when his boss (who Anderson himself raised) admits that it's for a personal power grab and not for any kind of religious reason he dosen't hesitate to kill him in cold blood. Eventually dies after becoming an holy abomination by stabbing his hearth whit a piece of the cross
He’s so out of his mind he battles jacked up twink Count Dracula, AKA Alucard with bayonets. Not a rifle, just bayonets. He’s merciless, constantly spouting off bible quotes and speaking of his hate for Protestants. He’s a member of the Judas Iscariot Organization, Vatican Section XIII, within the Irish Catholic Church. He becomes so obsessed with his desire to kill the Vampire Alucard, formerly Dracula, he impales himself through the heart with the Nail of Helena in order to transform into a humanoid monster of holy thorns. Though his attempts fail, as Alucard rips his heart out and returns him to dust, Anderson is described as “his beloved rival”. He is complex, badass and wickedly devout.
Since Integra is a dirty protestant, i'm adding the actual catholics in the mix instead.
I’m sure you’ve gotten him by now but just so you know, this man fights Dracula on the regular for the Catholic Church and says “Amen” like a lunatic.
He’s probably on some kind of crack during the entirety of the series, I literally don't remember any aspects of him other than the fact that he just goes “AMENNNN” sometimes and has a habit of stabbing the shit out if anything that isn’t catholic. He’s the founder of deranged catholic bastard gaming, he has to be.
Quasimodo
My mans endured it all and remained faithful
#Quasimodo#the hunchback of notre dame#father anderson#alexander anderson#hellsing#hellsing ultimate#cct polls#tumblr tournament#tumblr bracket#tumblr polls
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Do you really and genuinely believe that nazis and feminists agree and have the same ideology
I'm not sure where you got this from, but I've never expressed that idea. Ever.
Feminists, the real ones, not the ones that brand themselves as "Gender Critical" or "TERF", believe that a womans' body, her biology, does not define her capabilities and position in society. There is nothing a man can do that a woman can't. Any restrictions placed on women by society about what they can and can't do are arbitrary and constructed. There are biological differences between all sexes, but none of these differences are the grounds or basis to build a social or class structure upon. A woman does not need to be married to a man to be successful.
Nazi's, like my great grandfather, believed in "Kinder, Küche, Kirche", which were the three responsibilities of women: Children, Kitchen, Church. This firmly put most women, save those the fascist regime couldn't easily or effectively replace, at home and out of the work force. It defined women broadly by their biology as child bearers and wives of straight men. This same regime also defined women by their biology, and tied their societal their capabilities to it not only to hold power over women but also to deny queer women, even transgender women, equal status or standing. This later helped form the many reasons for the pink triangle and the rounding up of queer individuals as the regime had criminalized what it deemed was 'sexual deviancy'.
If we take a look at the "Gender Critical" and "TERF" groups who like to try and associate themselves with feminism, their very reasoning for denying transgender women and transgender men their identity is based on the same ideals held by the Nazi regime. That a womans body, her biology, DOES define her as a woman. Furthermore those same two groups will additionally not only point out biology, but behaviours that aren't "traditionally feminine" as reasons why transgender women aren't women. Things like being loud, being gaudy, being outspoken, and even strongly opinionated and emotionally passionate, or dominant. As if to say women are supposed to be quiet, modest, reserved, and submissive. Yet when a transgender woman abides by these supposedly "traditionally feminine" behaviours, she's ridiculed for being stereotypical. Which is the same tactics used by oppressive governments and oppressive political movements, like the Nazi Party, to be contradictory to their own rhetoric for the expressed purpose of simply pressing down on those they don't see as equal.
So the short, is no. Feminism is in direct opposition to Nazi ideology.
However, "Gender Critical" and "TERF" groups that like to try and co-opt feminism to try and lend themselves an air of legitimacy (a similar tactic used by Nazis via the appropriation of symbolism and ideals, ie, Nazi's were grossly Capitalistic but painted themselves as Socialist) despite being closer to the ideals of the fascist Nazi regime. After all, why do you think Nazi's showed up in support of the "Gender Critical" and "TERF" rally held by Posie Parker in Melbourn Australia in 2023? Their ideals are remarkably similar if not identical in a lot of areas. Nazi's just take that rhetoric a half-step further and use it to justify the removal of rights from all women, not just transgender.
Glad we could have this talk. I love that we're still trying to paint me as some kind of conspiracy theorist or something. I've spent my whole life learning my families fucked up and aweful history of violence, abuse, and genocide with the expressed purpose of doing my best to make sure no one else becomes a victim of their bigotry and hatred. If you want a more modern example of what the hatred behind genocide looks like, go take a look at what the Israeli government is saying about Palestinians to justify bombing hospitals and murdering children. That is bigotry at it's climax. Mass extermination with a complete lack of empathy for the individual. And if the United States of America keeps going they way it is, you'll get to see the genocide against transgender people reach it's bloody stage too.
Feminism is an Egalitarian movement. Naziism, "Gender Critical" and "TERF" ideology, and Zionism is exclusionism.
#talisidekick#talisidekick things#transgender#trans#2slgbtqia+#lgbtqia+#lgbtq+#lgbt+#talisidekicks asks
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Ryu Number: Risto Mejide
Risto Mejide is a Spanish music producer, known also for his appearance as a judge on a number of reality talent shows. He's known for his harsh and caustic criticism, making him something like a Spanish Simon Cowell—
Okay, listen. I'm going to cop to this: I didn't know who Risto Mejide was a week ago and I still mostly have no idea. Everything in that last paragraph I got off a couple of Wikipedia pages. No, the reason you're seeing this Ryu Number post is because I played History Warriors, and by gum, I am going to wring this utterly minuscule drop of value out of that arid desert stone. I can't have suffered for nothing, right?
History Warriors is not a good game.
History Warriors is a fighting game in the sense that I Spy is a competitive activity—yes, that's true, but if it's the highlight of your local tourney it's a sign that something has gone terribly wrong.
The plot of the game is as follows: After the fall of Nazi Germany, Hitler was secretly tucked away into some sort of suspended storage. Now he's awake, and he's gotten access to time travel technology, which he's used to pull a number of famous historical characters (William Shakespeare, Cleopatra, Abraham Lincoln, Joan of Arc, Che Guevara, Shaka, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Napoleon) to the present day with the end goal of irreversibly mucking up the timeline. Not exactly high lit, but as far as an excuse to get a bunch of disparate characters at each other's throats, it's at least more creative than another martial arts tournament.
Unfortunately, History Warriors—and I've said this already but it bears repeating—is not a good game. It's a bunch of free-to-low-cost assets compressed into a weeping mass by a developer, "Clipstories, Inc.," which is almost certainly just a handful of folks in Spain who know each other. Characters all have the same standard attacks—a high punch, a low punch, a high kick, and a low kick. There are special projectile moves but attempting to view the manual from the Steam page redirects to the game's official site (as much as anything about this game can be called "official"), which... doesn't exist anymore.
The computer-controlled characters do know how to use the projectiles, of course. The projectiles are, incidentally, completely unavoidable, too large to jump and too low to duck. Can you block? You can block. The input for blocking is also the input for backing up, which is a fighting game norm, except that in History Warriors when your character is moving backward they aren't automatically blocking, as far as I can tell, so effectively what happens when you press back is that your characters blocks for a second and then starts walking backward defenselessly.
(I freely admit I might be slightly wrong there, but like hell I'm going to go back and analyze the mechanics.)
When two characters' attacks meet—two characters hit each other at the same time, in other words—rather than the attacks canceling each other out, they both go through. This means that the victor of the round is essentially decided by which character has the longest limbs (balance is a thing that happens to other fighting games). A further hampering comes in the form of hitboxes that have been placed, to put it charitably, unpredictably. Often floating an appreciatable length off from the end of a fighter's limb, in fact.
My main strategy in beating this game was to get in my opponent's space first thing before they could start throwing their impossible-to-avoid projectiles and spam a kicking to the shins. It barely worked, but it worked enough that I could get through each playable characters' lineup of opponents... after a lot of game overs, anyway (you don't have to start from the beginning if you lose—thank goodness for small favors).
The worst offense, though, after all this, is that the game isn't even entertainingly bad. Sure, on the surface—and especially with its awfully silly concept—History Warriors seems like the type of Bad Video Game that'd be perfect for some streamer to make fun of playing for a couple hours. But with every character essentially an identical fighter save for reach and the quickness with which strategy devolves into slurry, the whole damn thing is just a slog.
To wrap up this thesis: History Warriors is a bad game, and I think I've made that as clear as I can. But this is the internet, and the internet is chock full of productions of terrible quality that don't deserve a critical haranguing, stories and games and songs and videos that might accurately be called flawed or even subpar, but which were put together by creators who, for what skill they lacked, worked with sincerity and a motivation sourced from the joy of creation. I firmly believe that that's admirable in its own way—that it's behavior that ought to be encouraged, even through the stinkers.
That said—
There is no universe where this was worth fifteen dollars.
...Oh, right, Ryu Numbers. Uh, when you beat the game with a character it turns out they can't go back to their original time, so you get a still image showing what they're up to in the present day. Lincoln runs for President again, Napoleon streams video games, Che's at Occupy Wall Street—it's all very uninspired. When you beat the game as Mozart, he ends up on a talent show with an MS Paint mic.
Copyright infringement is a thing that happens to other developers, so the judges are clearly identifiable as being from Got Talent España, the Spanish version in the Got Talent franchise. From the fourth season, it seems.
See? Same digs.
Admittedly, my knowledge of the Spanish language begins and ends at "biblioteca," but Wikipedia tells me that this judge lineup consisted of Risto Mejide, Edurne, Eva Isanta, and Paz Padilla, so barring it turning out, I don't know, this particular episode had a guest replacing him and I couldn't tell because I'm garbage at facial recognition or something, Risto Mejide has a Ryu Number of 2, or 3 if you don't like Minecraft.
You know what's worse? This is probably the quickest way to get to Che Guevara, too.
#Ryu Number#minecraft#minecraft (bedrock ed.)#cleopatra#history warriors#risto mejide#super smash bros. ultimate#mario#mario's time machine#mario's time machine (pc ver.)#wolfgang amadeus mozart
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