#Always remember that the white power structure will NEVER give up anything substantial without a FIGHT

[therebelwrites]

The City, the County and the State each add a tax to the sale of most items. The City will retain its portion of those revenues as usual. New in FY20 will be a 3% tax on the sales of recreational marijuana, and revenues from that tax only will go into the Reparations Fund.  

Projected revenues for 2020 from the tax on sales of recreational marijuana are $250,000. All such tax revenues will go to the Reparations Fund until the City has contributed $10 million to the fund.

Reparations 2019

Several speakers during public comment voiced support for the measure.

Evanston resident and local historian Morris “Dino” Robinson recounted the history of discrimination in Illinois and Evanston, where, he said, “residents had to abide by ‘Black Codes.’” He added that Edwin Jourdain [Evanston’s first black alderman] ran for office for the sole purpose of defeating the Jim Crow laws and attitudes here.

Doug Sharp of Reclaim Evanston said, “We are pleased with and support the City’s intention to begin to address the longstanding theft of wealth and opportunity that has been committed against the African American residents of Evanston.

“We feel that the use of the cannabis tax as a funding source for reparations is a proper and fitting first step in righting the wrongs of past decades, especially when we consider how the arrests for possession of marijuana have been disproportionately used to incarcerate young African Americans.

Fifth Ward Alderman Robin Rue Simmons, along with Eighth Ward Alderman Ann Rainey have been the drivers of this move.

Ald. Simmons reported at the Nov. 25 City Council meeting that she had attended the National League of Cities convention earlier this month and found that many representatives of other municipalities were “in awe” of Evanston’s move toward reparations.

She also said there would be a community town hall meeting – the date as yet unscheduled – co-hosted by the National African American Reparations Commission, at which the “extensive feedback” from reparations meetings held over the summer would be incorporated.

Alderman Peter Braithwaite, 2nd Ward, recalled that his predecessor, Lionel Jean-Baptiste “had wanted to get this thing going. This is a good thing. I want to acknowledge Judge Jean-Baptiste and many other people who attempted to do this. Judge Jean-Baptiste said he’d like to support it now.”

Ald. Braithwaite added, “I think it’s going to be very special for Evanston, and I think it’s going to have one of those ripple effects that create a change in our nation. This is a special moment in the City of Evanston and in the country.”

Ald. Rainey said, “Judge Jean-Baptiste began this in 2002.” She added, “We’ve had offers of counsel as late as Saturday [Nov. 23] from national leaders of the ACLU.”

Ald. Rue Simmons read a statement about the damage done to the black community by institutional racism. “We acknowledge history wrongs in our City are directly responsible for our segregation, wealth divide and overall lesser quality of life. On June 10, we passed a resolution to end structural racism and achieve racial equality.”

She said racist practices have excluded black residents from housing, employment and education, and she noted that the black population of Evanston has “declined to a historical low of 16%.”

Comparing one of the wealthiest census tracts in the City with one of the poorest, she said there is a disparity of about $46,000 in median income and a lowered life expectancy of 13 years between the two.

“It is important that the income from marijuana sales be used toward repairing the community it unfairly policed and damaged,” she said.

Sixth Ward Alderman Thomas Suffredin was the sole “No” vote on creating the Reparations Fund. Although he did not explain his vote at the meeting, he did so in a newsletter to his constituents the next day: “Any revenue that the City of Evanston realizes from recreational cannabis sales will go to the City of Evanston Reparations Fund until funding from that source has reached $10 million. The Reparations Subcommittee is currently working to determine how the Reparations Fund dollars will be utilized in the future.

“I voted no on this, because in a town full of financial needs and obligations, I believe it is bad policy to dedicate tax revenue from a particular source, in unknown annual amounts, to a purpose that has yet to be determined.  

“Individuals and institutions who wish to make contributions to the City of Evanston Reparations Fund may do so. I voted no to funding reparations with recreational cannabis revenue not because I don’t support the City taking responsibility for the role it played in disadvantaging our African American residents, but because it is bad policy.”

Larry Gavin’s article “Developing a Segregated Town, 1900-1960,” which was published in the RoundTable’s November magazine, will soon be posted on this website.

Reparations 2002

The idea of reparations is not a new one to the City Council. The minutes of the May 20, 2002, City Council meeting reflect that during the Call of the Wards, “Alderman Jean-Baptiste reported that on June 3 and June 10, he intended to put before Council a resolution on reparations. He would first go through the Human Services Committee and then come before the Council. He hoped to get information to them in the short term, did not want them to be surprised and that they would approach it with an open mind. He referred to the UN Conference Against Racism, which he had attended in South Africa, where the slave trade and colonialism were declared as crimes against humanity. He noted that the declaration stated as well that it should always have been so. He reported that the declaration further stated that former slave-owning states ought to take up reparations and that it would be on the agenda.”

Ald. Jean-Baptiste brought a resolution, 43-R-02, to the June 10, 2002, City Council meeting, supporting U.S. House of Representatives 40, proposed by Representative John Conyers of Michigan. That resolution called for the establishment of a federal commission to study slavery and its consequences and make recommendations for compensation to black people.

Rep. Conyers first introduced that resolution in the House of Representatives in 1989. On June 19 of this year – Juneteenth – Congress held hearings on reparations for the first time in a decade.

The Evanston City Council unanimously approved Ald. Jean-Baptiste’s resolution, 7-0; the two aldermen who were absent from the meeting had indicated their support for the measure.

RoundTable reporter Mark Berry wrote in the June 19, 2002, edition that Northwestern University Professor Martha Biondi spoke at the Council meeting. She said the failure of civil rights remedies has resulted in greater socio-economic disparities between African Americans and the majority of the population. She said, Mr. Berry wrote, “Eighty percent of African American males will be arrested in their lifetimes, and 13% of African American men have lost the right to vote.

Prof. Biondi attributed the increased push for reconciliation and compensation to the treatment of other groups that sought reparations. “In 1988, Congress apologized and paid $1.2 billion to the relatives of Japanese Americans detained in camps in World War II. The German government and private corporations have paid $65.2 billion to Israel in reparations. In September, 2001, the United Nations World Conference declared slavery a crime against humanity and that reparations be made,” Mr. Berry quoted Prof. Biondi as saying.

Mr. Berry also reported comments from three of the aldermen. He wrote, “Alderman Stephen Engelman, 7th Ward, stated his support of the resolution but hoped that it was not ‘solely about money.’ … I do not believe a social compact can be founded on collective guilt or collective entitlement.’

Alderman Edmund Moran, 6th Ward, reportedly said the “aim of the resolution is to achieve reconciliation and that to some extent it can be accomplished through the means of government, but ultimately it will rest with each of us – individually and collectively – to answer the question, ‘Will we be friends?’”

Fifth Ward Alderman Joseph Kent said, according to Mr. Berry’s article, “The best thing that can happen out of this is education, so we can change some of the old curriculum. Children can’t really achieve if they don’t know who they are.”

During public comment at that June 10, 2002, meeting, several speakers said they supported then- Alderman Jean-Baptiste’s resolution on reparations, which Council approved on the consent agenda that evening.

Below are excerpts of some of the comments from the public, as reflected in the minutes of that meeting.

“Rev. Mark Adams, Hillside Free Methodist Church pastor, spoke on behalf of the Evanston Ecumenical Action Council in support of Resolution 43-R-02; said that support of House Resolution 40 allows the nation to ask questions about reparations. The recommendation is that the U.S. government begin to investigate the issue of reparations by asking the question nationally and getting the facts. He did not know what reparations would look like. ... He suggested they would never know or do the right thing until the nation no longer prohibits them from asking the question. He said if reparations were ever adopted, all would pay. Reparations are not an individual concept, rather national restitution and would be dealt with nationally. He could imagine a nation where brotherhood is a reality. He said it was time to ask the question and engage in the debate that can bring about the American dream for everyone. He hoped Evanston could help encourage the nation to ask questions to start healing.

“Neta Jackson and her husband are authors and recently wrote ‘No Random Act: Behind the Murder of Ricky Byrdsong.’ She stated it was important to stand up and be counted on the issue of reparations. In trying to understand racism, one stumbling block stands out. As a white person she does not have to face the consequences of racism daily, but black people do. She is not always aware of lingering racism because it does not directly affect her choices, but African Americans who are descendants of slaves don’t have that choice. She said the racism that lingers, affects attitudes and practices and, in spite of strides of civil rights laws, is the legacy that affects their lives. She noted that some will say their ancestors were not slave owners so why should they make reparations for something they had nothing to do with. She said the opposite is true and that all living in this country reap the benefit of living in the greatest democracy in the world with benefits provided by people who lived, worked, died and fought for freedom built on the backs of people enslaved for over 246 years.

“Ra Joy, suburban director for U.S. Rep. Jan Schakowsky and lifelong resident, read a letter from Congresswoman Schakowsky on Resolution 43-R-02 to Alderman Jean-Baptiste: ‘I was pleased to learn about the resolution you introduced at the City of Evanston Human Services Committee on Monday June 3. The proposed City Council resolution would call attention to the injustice of slavery and urge our federal government to investigate its negative effects. It has always been difficult for our country to come to grips with the unspeakable cruelty and massive human suffering resulting from slavery. It is estimated that more than four million Africans and their descendants were enslaved in the United States and its colonies from 1619 to 1865. I believe we must acknowledge this terrible chapter in American history and, where possible, make amends. I am proud to co-sponsor H.R. 40, a bill introduced by Representative John Conyers of Michigan. This bill would establish a commission to examine the institution of slavery and subsequent discrimination against African-Americans, study the impact of these forces on living African-Americans and make recommendations on appropriate remedies to Congress. I believe this study will help stimulate public dialogue of significant importance and assist our nation in coming to terms with this unprecedented tragedy. … I wish you much success in moving this resolution forward.”  

“Ayinde Jean-Baptiste, stated that Resolution 43-R-02 represents all movements for social justice in world history. Universally, it will send a message to state and federal governments and communities throughout the nation, including Evanston. Evanston is an inclusive, diverse and welcoming community committed to equity in America and the world. He said in communities such as Evanston, that real people are concerned about justice in America and making amends for the pitfalls of the past.

“Mary Goering said that while reparations may deal with monetary reparations, she thought equally important was the development of a good understanding of the effects of slavery on American society. … Her ancestors are the people who shaped the nation and that means ancestors who were slave traders and slave owners. She suggested that whole history needs to be dealt with. … She suggested this resolution calls national attention to focus on that to come to a fuller understanding.

“Bennett Johnson, president, Evanston branch NAACP, stated national NAACP has a policy supporting reparations. … He stated that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Harold Washington, Elijah Mohammed and Mohammed Ali among others supported reparations in principle. He did not think it was a matter of guilt. He stated there is a social dysfunction in this nation – a cancer on the body politic. Reparations will help heal that wound, help everybody because this is one people and one country. If there is a problem in one section it needs to be taken care of. “

***************

#Of course I gotta LOT to say about this but no time lol #$10 million aint enuf #Not even CLOSE #I say this as a person who worked in Evanston for a few years -- doing what you ask? #Teaching tutoring and mentoring Black and Latinx kids in the hood of course #I can tell you that on my way to teach in the HOOD part of this unrealistically wealthy suburb that houses Northwestern University I passed #blocks where the combined net value of HOUSES on a single block were worth more than $10 million! #That Evanston is just a white and just as racist as you would imagine #That this is a STEP in the right direction--BUT the fact that majority of city officials agreed to this without a FIGHT shows you that it w #was a LOWBALL for BLACKS #Mere COINS off their BACKS #Always remember that the white power structure will NEVER give up anything substantial without a FIGHT #And the fact that so many are ok with this does NOT indicate progress--but that we are deserving of SO MUCH MORE! #Evanston Illinois reparations to Black residents #Not only descendants of enslaved Africans but all Blacks #Did you catch that part?? #ALWAYS THINK CRITICALLY!

[starkerforlife6969]

Starker- Anger

very loosely based on Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington from Stranger things. 

TW: Please be careful! Explicit abuse, parental abuse (tony’s dad, Peter’s step dad), violence, Tony punches Peter in the face once, both peter and tony are being abused by their parents, unhealthy coping mechanisms, brief mentions of homophobic slurs, somehow a happy ending, high school au, just- be careful, my lovelies! 

Tony’s known pretty boys like Peter Parker his whole life.

They aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on, and they are printed on paper: stick thin and flimsy. Two dimensional, boring, shallow, materialistic. They’re a dime a dozen back in Phoenix, and frankly, Tony wasn’t impressed with them there, so here, in this dreary little town where school spirit and pep leaks outside of the school’s hallways and into the streets, where popularity matters deep in the suburbs the same way it does in the classroom, Tony really isn’t impressed.

Pretty boys like Peter Parker are pretty, and that’s all they’re good for. A bit of eye-candy.

The bubbly-blonde, cotton-candy cheerleader who’s been assigned to showing him around the school, does so with an enthusiasm that’s borderline revolting. “There are loads of school clubs, you should totally join, like, all of them! Peter’s on the committee, and he’s so open to new ideas, if you think of a club just run it by him! He’d be so happy to! He also hosts these, like, killer parties! And it’s always open invitation, Peter’s house is totally lush, he has this huge pool and his parents are like, never home-“

Jesus Christ, it’s all so inane. Tony reaches for his cigarettes and the girl stutters to a halt as she watches him light it up right there in the hall. Her eyes are wide with awe- rimmed with arousal and wrongness. Tony resists the urge to smirk. It’s all so easy. Cookie-cutter town like this, where the most popular guy in school is on fuckin’ committees for school clubs, he’s not surprised that dark, slicked back hair, black-rimmed eyes and a cigarette will be enough to rework the social structure.

In fact, he’s sort of banking on it.

“Y-you’re not allowed to smoke in here,” she breathes in amazement, and Tony chuckles, fumes curling around his jaw.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He says around his cigarette, giving her a wink. “You gonna tell on me?”

She shakes her head, hair swishing with her promise, and when the tour ends- she races off, no doubt, to tell the food chain of the cafeteria what she’s witnessed.

* *

Maria cries that night, when Howard kicks Tony’s face so hard he can feel his eye bulge a little.

Tony wants to tell her not to cry. He wants to gather her into his arms and spit blood and say I told you he wouldn’t change just because we’ve moved states. He can’t change, mom. He won’t change.

He loves her for loving him. He hates her for not saving him.

He swallows down putrid blood and sleeps in his car.

When he wakes up, there’s fresh bandages tucked into his glove compartment, a packed lunch, a blanket draped over his shoulders and a post-it note that says (in handwriting that trembles) that maybe he shouldn’t come inside for breakfast. I love you, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Mom xx

* *

The rumour mill has been churning, and when he walks into school with his shiner, it just spins even faster.

People gape, a few, braver ones, flutter over, hovering, but not quite speaking.

Tony feels pretty damn good. It’s nice to feel handsome. Powerful. Nice to know that somewhere, he can exude a little control.

But to be King, there has to be a de-throning.

“You,” he drawls, slamming a locker shut and narrowly missing a freshman’s fingers. “Peter Parker, where is he?”

The freshmen swallows hard, shrinking into his neck. “Uh-uh- p-probably in the a-art rooms, T-Tony.”

Tony grins, and pats him on the cheek. The boy already knows his name. Everyone must.

Without another word, he turns and heads for the art rooms.

When he gets there, his breath catches in his throat.

Dappled in sunlight, twisting spirals of cedar hair, amber eyes and practically drenched in a golden aura, is Peter Parker.

He’s frowning at a canvas, and it makes Tony seethe.

Pretty boys like that are all the same. Oh, is his biggest fucking problem the fact he can’t decide what to paint? He certainly doesn’t have any money issues, not if the expensive shoes are anything to go by. The designer jeans, the pink sweater with the ruffled lace collar.

Tony hates him. Fucking envies him. The sight of him- so beautiful, so serene- so troubleless, he has everything. He has everything. No doubt two parents who adore him, a nice house, money, talent, beauty- a future. And everyone here adores him, fuckin’ thinks he hung the moon in the sky.

“You think you’re worth anything?” Howard sneers, jabbing Tony’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. “You ain’t worth a damn thing, sport. You’re worth shit.”

“Well,” Tony smiles, all mean and sharp at the edges, and feels a vicious sort of victory in the way Peter jumps.

Like he’s not used to be snuck up on. Like he’s not used to being scared. “Oh, you scared me,” the boy laughs, a blush on his cheeks, “you must be Tony-“

“You’re as pretty as they said you were.” Tony continues, because he doesn’t want to hear Peter’s sweet voice. Doesn’t want to hear another word out of his mouth. “Prettier, even. They don’t do you justice.” He trails his fingers across still-wet canvases drying on easels, smudging and ruining the paintings.

“Hey, I think- you’re not supposed to touch those,” Peter points out worriedly, pearly teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. “You might accidentally-“

Tony moves so quickly it must look like he’s teleported. He backhands Peter so fucking hard, it’s so fucking satisfying, and the boy topples to the ground gracelessly.

There’s no movement for a long moment, before the boy lets out a strangled gasp, wrenches himself away.

Not far enough. Goddamn, he’s so weak. How can anyone be this weak? Tony knows to cover his head, to curl up in a ball, but Peter’s splayed out and defenceless.

Tony reaches down to grab him by the designer sweater, lifting him clear off the ground as Peter winces and recoils. The mark on his cheek is darkening rapidly, an ugly scarlet. “You run this school, Parker? You their precious king?”

“What? No! I…” there are tears sparkling in his eyes, he even cries like a Disney character. “I don’t- I don’t understand, please don’t-“

Begging never stops anything. Tony drops him and punches down in one swift motion, right onto Peter’s stomach- forcing all the air out of him, along with a pitiful whimper. “You ain’t king of shit, you get that, Parker?”

He doesn’t stick around for an answer, not that Peter could give one, with the way he’s wheezing, and he strides out; fingers streaked with paint and blood.

* * Peter doesn’t come into school the next day, and all eyes are stuck on Tony.

They’re not all as admiring anymore, but they are intimidated, and that’ll do. The girls still flock to him, the younger students still flee.

It’s easy to dethrone. History makes it look hard, but it isn’t.

“Liam’s throwing a party next week,” Cindy says over lunch. Tony’s sitting at the “popular” table. It looks like all the others, but the people there are substantially more attractive. He’s sitting where Peter usually sits, that much he can gather, and the students (his subjects) whisper with nervous fear. “You should totally come.”

“Maybe,” Tony murmurs, but he will go. Anywhere that isn’t home in the evenings. Anywhere else.

*** Tony feels good on Friday.

His dad is out of town on business, and he and his mom ate take out in front of the tv and didn’t have to worry when they spilt some on the rug.

He parks his beat up car in one of the teacher’s spots, and his entourage rush to greet him and update him on the gossip and prattle on about things he doesn’t give a shit about.

That is, until one of them says-

“Peter’s back in today.”

And that, Tony has to see.

He’s not technically in AP english, but he winks at the receptionist and she buckles like everyone does.

Peter sits at the front of the class, scribbling notes furiously, and looks entirely put together in a white chiffon blouse and green slacks. The bruise along his cheekbone is horrific. Darker and splotchier- there’s a tiny little cut above his left eyebrow- Tony doesn’t remember doing that, but that happens sometimes. He hits a little harder than he means to.

Seeing it is a weird feeling. It makes disgust well up inside him, something horrible and tortured screeches to be let out, and on the other hand-

He’s a king looking down on the enemy wounded.

Peter doesn’t look up at him once during the class, even though he goes out of his way to be annoying and aggravating.

The teacher kicks him out eventually, and when the bell rings, he waits by Peter’s locker.

The boy approaches cautiously. He’s alone. All alone. High school fans, so fickle, Tony tuts.

“Parker,” he grins, watching as Peter twists open the combination lock. “Finally decided to come back.”

“I guess so,” the boy says quietly, demurely, changing out his books. He has hard copies of everything, all brand new and shiny. They don’t look like the torn up, hand-down charity shop copies Tony uses.

Tony waits, but Peter offers nothing else. He feels too sharp around the edges, he feels like he’s shattering. “Well? Aren’t you gonna tell on me or some shit? I haven’t heard a word.”

“You want me to tell someone you attacked me?” Peter clarifies curiously, looking at him with huge, honey eyes. It’s like someone bottled sunlight. Tony’s winded by the sight of them.

“I-“

“What would that achieve?” Peter asks, blatant with honesty and genuine inquisitiveness. “It wouldn’t make you stop. It might get you suspended, maybe expelled, but then what? Not like you couldn’t come and find me outside of school. Then I call the police? Try to get you arrested for assault? You’d be released in a year anyway, and then what?”

Tony snarls, banging his fist against the lockers so loudly the entire hallway falls silent. He leans in and spits into Peter’s face: “How about some fuckin’ gratitude that I didn’t leave a mark, huh, pretty boy? Where’s my thanks?”

Peter doesn’t step away. He looks up and juts out his chin in a way that’s meant to be intimidating but is more endearing than anything. “Thank you.” He whispers. His lower lip shakes. “Thank you for what you did to me.”

“Don’t fuckin- stop cryin- get up! Get up!” Howard yells, hauling Tony to his feet. He stumbles, unable to stand, and Howard shoves him against the wall. “Fuckin’ ingrate, say thank you- thank me for taking the time to fuckin’ teach you!”

“Thank you,” Tony manages around a sob, sliding to the floor and bursting into tears.

Tony staggers back hard.

He’s not-

He’s not.

*** Pretty boy Peter is a bug under his skin.

Tony can’t stop thinking about him. Can’t stop wondering where he is, how he is.

Jefferson High is a huge school, but the fields and playgrounds are bigger, and that’s where students spend their time.

Tony finds Peter every lunch time, curled up in the big chairs in the library, buried in a book.

Sometimes he’s wearing oversized cream sweaters, sometimes when it’s hot, he’s in some fancy lace get up, and Tony eyes the smooth, soft skin on display. Sometimes he’s almost asleep, looks so peaceful and cosy (Tony wants to reach out and gently, gently touch) sometimes his eyes are moving so rapidly, his lips parted in exhilaration, fingers clumsy as they hurriedly turn the page that Tony would give anything to know what he was reading.

For Peter to tell him what interested him so much.

As it is, he doesn’t approach. Just watches from the shadows for as long as he can, before slipping out undetected.

He’s particularly good at that, thank years of practising.

The swarms that once worshipped the boy never hang out with Peter anymore, but oddly enough, Peter doesn’t seem to care, or even notice.

Tony can relate to that. Losing Cindy the air-head might actually be a relief. He’s tried to shake her off, but she latches like a leech.

Instead, Peter spends his time with a dreary-eyed girl. A girl Tony knows gets called dyke by the guys in the shower-room.

Tony doesn’t join in their bantering over jokes like that.

She’s cool, though, and clearly doesn’t give a shit. She’ll be something big when she’s out of here, and Tony wants to her see her succeed. Wants to flip on his television set one day in a few years and see her face.

When he gets home that night, he has the book Peter was reading at lunch tucked under his arm (the librarian too, is a sucker for his eyes).

Howard glares at him, kicks at him when he walks past like he’s a mangy mutt, but he makes it to bed and he flips on the switch, snuggled into threadbare sheets, and he reads.

*** Amidst the thrum of music, the boozy smell of alcohol, and lipstick on the back of playing cards, Peter Parker shows up to Liam’s party.

Tony’s halfway through a keg, but he’s not feeling the effects (so what? He’s built up a bit of a tolerance) and people are chanting King Tony! when he spots wavy brown hair and pretty pink lips.

He follows without even meaning to.

Peter’s face is healed now, back to as beautiful as ever. Tony heals fast too.

“Parker,” he greets, when Peter helps himself to punch. “You showin’ your face here?”

Peter smiles. “I was invited.”

That surprises him. “Really? Who’d wanna be seen with a nobody like you?”

“Liam and I go back.”

Well damn, not as fickle as he’d thought then. Anyway, the sight of Peter is thrilling. It’s troubling. “Get the fuck out,” Tony orders, because a rather large part of him wants to- wants to kiss-

“I was just leaving.” The boy corrects, turning away.

There’s a welt on his back.

It peaks out behind the strappy, vintage style blazer. But only just. It’s been cleverly covered up, if Tony wasn’t so familiar with the sight he’d never have spotted it and-

He reaches out, calls for Peter to stop- wait-

But he’s already gone.

*

It’s an obsession.

But it keeps him from the house. He drives around town slowly, cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth, arm hanging out the window of his car, and he coasts through fancy neighbourhoods, sees wholesome families praying before eating their dinner in their grand dining rooms.

He hates them.

He spots Peter’s pretty red Camaro parked in the driveway of an enormous house.

He parks around the block, comes back, and lingers.

It’s totally normal. The curtains are shut, but Tony can see enough. They have neat hedgerows, cultivated fox gloves, and a bird feeder out front. There are three cars parked neatly, Peter’s, a blue beetle, and a large jeep, all lovingly taken care of and gleaming in the evening light.

The kitchen curtains have charming little frogs on them, the mat out front says welcome.

He can’t have seen a welt on Peter’s back, because that doesn’t fit.

It fits Tony. With his beaten down house, lack of kitchen curtains, lack of prayers, his scratched up, junkyard piece of crap, his bruised knuckles and his split lip.

He’s wrong.

*** His mom’s been saying that Howard’s getting worse.

Tony zones her out. She says stuff like this all the time. Other times she says he’s getting better, then he’s getting worse, but she never does a fuckin’ thing about it.

When he staggers out of the house at three am, bleeding bad, throbbing all over, and he falls into his car- can hear his mother screaming, can hear Howard demanding him to get back inside, he steps on the gas and tails it.

He’s driving to the hospital, hardly able to see through the blood and the pain and the black spots dancing across his vision, when he crashes into a street lamp.

It’s not a bad crash. Another dent in many, he thinks, but he suddenly feels warm all over.

He’s cosy. He could fall asleep.

*** When he wakes up, he’s on a cloud. He’s floating on air.

He blinks and there’s a warm, gold light, and two, beautiful honey eyes.

He’s in heaven.

But that can’t be right, he’s a piece of shit.

“You got that right,” comes a chiding, slightly teasing tone, and he squints against the dimness to see Peter Parker above him, dabbing at him with white cotton buds.

Feeling seems to come back all at once. First, an ache that drags through his whole body, then the blinding sting of whatever hell fire Peter’s putting on his face, third, that Peter’s straddling hm, and it’s a really rather nice hot, weight.

“Mm, baby,” he groans, sliding his coarse hands up Peter’s bare, smooth thighs, “this is a pleasant surprise.” He bucks his hip a little, feels his clothed dick nestle between two plump cheeks. He gets a little burst of pleasure that’s such a fucking relief from the pain that he grinds upwards again.

Peter’s hand is firm on his chest, pressing him down into the bed, not cloud. “You’re hurt, Tony. One problem at a time please.”

Problems. Damn. He has a lot of those.

“Tell me about it,” Peter sighs. “I’ve parked your car at the drive-thru theatre. I left a note at the lamppost. I hope no one minds.”

Tony blinks, dazed, and watches as Peter tends to him. It reminds him of that film his mom used to watch all the time, the fuckin horrible one with the dancing and the singing and the monster.

Beauty and the Beast, his mind supplies.

Peter’s face isn’t pretty. It’s beautiful. Dimples and prominent cheekbones, lovely eyebrows and long lashes. He has freckles and a beauty mark on his jaw, perfect for kissing. His forehead is creased in concentration as he works on Tony’s face, his tongue resting on his lips.

Tony may not be in heaven, but he is looking at an angel.

“Do you really…” he whispers, reaching up a clumsy hand to stroke tenderly at Peter’s face. The boy doesn’t even flinch. “Did you really have a…a belt mark on you…”

Those eyes snap to him, a vulnerability come to light, a hidden truth revealed.

Then they darken, and look away. “You need to get your rest.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Tony croaks, eyes burning, “you’re perfect. It’s not meant to- not meant to happen to perfect people, only- only broken ones, like-“

“Nobody’s perfect,” Peter whispers wisely, dabbing cream onto his fingers, and then onto Tony’s face.

“Who does it to you?”

“Step dad,” Peter shrugs, “he never hits her, though. I think he misses his own son.”

“I’ll kill him for hurtin’ you, I swear,” he slurs, filled with righteous ire. Who could hurt such an angel-

“That’d be hypocritical.” Peter muses, opening a pack of antiseptic wipes and swiping at Tony’s temple. He’s good at this. He must be well-practised.

Tony drowns in self-loathing. “I’m a shit.” He hisses, “I’m a shit, I’m sorry, but my dad-“

“I understand.” Peter nods, fingers stroking through Tony’s hair. “I empathise. I don’t forgive you. Not yet.”

“You might, though?” Tony urges, craning into every touch. “Maybe?”

Peter grinds down once, making Tony’s dick jolt with arousal. “Maybe.” He whispers.

*** Tony hates his anger management counsellor so fucking much.

But Howard hates him going, so Tony always shows up on time.

Peggy is patient and understanding, but no-nonsense.

When he shows up with bleeding knuckles and a jagged cut on his arm, she offers him a lemon sucker and shakes her head.

“He started it.” Tony hisses, taking a sherbet and sucking on it.

She doesn’t say anything.

“It wasn’t Peter, if that’s what you’re thinking. I would never hurt Pe- I haven’t ever hit Peter again.”

She’s silent.

He feels like a kid. He hangs his head on his chest. “I get so angry.” He whispers.

“And does violence make the anger go away?”

He nods, looking at her through tears. He cries so much nowadays. Peggy says it’s a good thing. “It turns it into power.”

Peggy looks at him, urging him to get there on his own.

“It’s not power,” he mumbles, lemon on his tongue, “I feel helpless.”

“We all do sometimes, Tony,” she smiles, and offers him another lemon drop. “I want to talk about your mom today. About the things you think she likes best about you.”

Tony wants to run and hide, but instead he sits and listens.

* Sometimes, when Peter reaches over to hold Tony’s hand, Tony yanks it away, his whole mood sours, and he storms out.

He always comes back though. Shame-faced, small, and he reaches out for a hug and Peter gives it to him.

He yells sometimes too. When he’s trying really hard not to, it slips out. Horrible things, things he doesn’t mean, things he wishes he could take back but he fears are going to hang there in the air forever.

He always cries afterwards, and calls Peggy.

Peter yells too, from time to time, when he’s fracturing a little, when Kurt presses where it hurts.

Tony holds Peter tight when that happens, kisses his hair all soft and gentle in the ways he never thought he could be, and promises that they’ll both do better. They’ll both be better.

Peter sees Stephen Strange, a counsellor on the other side of town.

Peggy thinks it’s a good idea for Peter and Tony to heal independently of each other, just in case they become a support system for one being, rather than two people.

Strange says you shouldn’t feel guilty for lashing out. Peggy says you should apologise if you’re sorry.

Peter kisses the hollow of Tony’s throat and says: “I want to tell you all the things I love about you.”

By the end of the forty-minute list, Tony has to cut Peter off, because he can’t hear him over his own sobs.

After a month of no violence, Tony’s greeted to Peter covered in flour and icing, holding a poorly shaped cake that says one month of peace is groovy baby.

They eat it in an old tent, camped out on the edge of town. The cake is disgusting, and Tony’s new favourite. 

They have sex in the grass and Tony kisses Peter’s new welt, and says that he deserves so much more than this.

That, if he likes, Tony will try to give it to him.

**

They have a modest house in a modest town. They have curtains with kangaroos on them, and no dining table- just a coffee table with bean bags in front of the television.

They have one nice car that they share.

They have friends.

They meet each other in the drive way, both on their way home from work, and Peter blushes when Tony holds out the bouquet of tulips. “Pretty boy,” Tony grins, as Peter buries his face in the petals. “I heard from a little birdie that it was your wedding anniversary.”

“Mm,” Peter giggles, “that’s weird. Me and my husband promised each other no presents.”

“Ah,” Tony sighs, drawing Peter into his arms, kissing him silly for the whole neighbourhood to see (not that they haven’t seen it before. It’s stupid and reckless but it’s a good town). “So, if we go inside, there’ll be no freshly baked cake on the counter, right? You didn’t sneak home on your lunch break to bake me something?”

Peter sighs. “Who told?”

“Becky. She can’t keep a secret, Pete.”

Peter laughs, and they thread their fingers together and head inside.

It’s not a perfect ending, but it’s happy. They fight, sometimes. They tremble. They remember things they wish they could forget. They break down on the side of the road. They spend nights in motels.

But those are fewer and farther between. And in the end, they always come home- to each other.

The cake is terrible. It always is. But Tony eats every single bite.

It’s the same recipe as the one Peter made all those years ago, after one month of no fights.

It’s stale and it brings back so many memories.

“Is it good?” Peter asks worriedly, putting the tulips in water.

Tony takes a huge bite, and shakes his head in wonder. “Yeah, baby,” he whispers, “even after all this time, it’s still really, really good.”

He thinks it always will be. 

#starker #peter x tony #highschool au #violence #abuse #tony hits peter #happy ending #parental abuse #dark howards #dark kurt #peter and tony get abused by their parents #fluff #rich peter #poor tony #stranger things inspired #homophobic slurs

[qqueenofhades]

Do you think society as a whole understands and values history? I don’t think they do. And I don’t understand why.

HoooooWEEEEEE, anon. What follows is a good old Hilary History Rant ™, but let me hasten to assure you that none of it is directed at you. It just means that this is a topic on which I have many feelings, and a lot of frustration, and it gets at the heart of many things which are wrong with our society, and the way in which I try to deal with this as an academic and a teacher. So…. yeah.

In short: you’re absolutely right. Society as a whole could give exactly dick about understanding and valuing history, especially right now. Though let me rephrase that: they could give exactly dick about understanding and valuing any history that does not reinforce and pander to their preferred worldview, belief system, or conception of reality. The human race has always had an amazing ability to not give a shit about huge problems as long as they won’t kill us right now (see: climate change) and in one sense, that has allowed us to survive and evolve and become an advanced species. You have to compartmentalize and solve one problem at a time rather than get stuck in abstracts, so in that way, it is a positive trait. However, we are faced with a 21st century where the planet is actively burning alive, late-stage capitalism has become so functionally embedded in every facet of our society that our public values, civic religion, and moral compass (or lack thereof) is structured around consumerism and who it benefits (the 1% of billionaire CEOs), and any comfortable myths of historical progress have been blown apart by the worldwide backslide into right-wing authoritarianism, xenophobia, nationalism, racism, and other such things. In a way, this was a reaction to 9/11, which changed the complacent late-20th century mindset of the West in ways that we really cannot fathom or overstate. But it’s also a clarion call that something is very, very wrong here, and the structural and systemic explanations that historians provide for these kinds of events are never what anyone wants to hear.

Think about it this way. The world is currently, objectively speaking, producing more material resources, wealth, food, etc than at any point before, thanks to the effects of globalism, the industrial and information revolutions, mass mechanizing, and so on. There really isn’t a “shortage” of things. Except for the fact that the distribution of these resources is so insanely unequal, and wildly disproportionate amounts of wealth have been concentrated in a few private hands, which then use the law (and the law is a tool of the powerful to protect power) to make sure that it’s never redistributed. This is why Reaganism and “supply-side”, aka “trickle-down” economics, is such bullshit: it presupposes that billionaires will, if you enable them to make as many billions as possible without regulation, altruistically sow that largess among the working class. This never happens, because obviously. (Sidenote: remember those extravagant pledges of billions of euros to repair Notre Dame from like 3 or 4 French billionaires? Apparently they have paid… exactly not one cent toward renovations, and the money has come instead from the Friends of Notre Dame funded by private individuals. Yep, not even for the goddamn cause célèbre of the “we don’t give a shit about history” architectural casualties could they actually pay up. Eat! The! Rich!…. anyway.)

However, the fact is that you need to produce narratives to justify this kind of exploitation and inequality, and make them convincing enough that the people who are being fucked over will actively repeat and promote these narratives and be fiercely vested in their protection. Think of the way white American working-class voters will happily blame minorities, immigrants, Non-Murkan People, etc for their struggles, rather than the fact of said rampant economic cronyism and oligarchy. These working-class voters will love the politicians who give them someone to blame (see: Trump), especially when that someone is an Other around whom collective systems of discrimination and oppression have historically operated. Women, people of color, religious minorities/non-Western religions, LGBT people, immigrants, etc, etc…. all these have historically not had such a great time in the capitalist Christian West, which is the predominant paradigm organizing society today. You can’t understand why society doesn’t value history until you realize that the people who benefit from this system aren’t keen on having its flaws pointed out. They don’t want the masses to have a historical education if that historical education is going to actually be used. They would rather teach them the simplistic rah-rah quasi-fictional narrative of the past that makes everyone feel good, and call it a day. 

The classic liberal belief has always been that if you can just teach someone that their facts are wrong, or supply them with better facts, they’ll change their mind. This is not how it works and never has, and that is why in an age with, again, more knowledge of science than ever before and the collected wisdom of humanity available via your smartphone, we have substantial portions of people who believe that vaccines are evil, the Earth is flat, and climate change (and 87 million other things) are fake and/or government conspiracies. As a medievalist, I get really tetchy when the idiocy of modern people is blamed on the stereotypical “Dark Ages!” medieval era (I have written many posts ranting about that, so we’ll keep it to a minimum here), or when everything bad, backward, or wrong is considered to be “medieval” in nature. Trust me, on several things, they were doing a lot better than we are. Other things are not nearly as wildly caricatured as they have been made out to be. Because once again, history is complicated and people are flawed in any era, do good and bad things, but that isn’t as useful as a narrative that flattens out into simplistic black and white.

Basically, people don’t want their identities, comfortable notions, and other ideas about the past challenged, especially since that is directly relevant to how they perceive themselves (and everyone else) in the present. The thing about history, obviously, is that it’s past, it’s done, and until we invent a time machine, which pray God we never fucking do, within a few generations, the entire population of the earth has been replaced. That means it’s awfully fragile as a concept. Before the modern era and the invention of technology and the countless mediums (book, TV, radio, newspaper, internet, etc etc) that serve as sources, it’s only available in a relatively limited corpus of documents. History does not speak for itself. That’s where you get into historiography, or writing history. Even if you have a book or document that serves as a primary source material, you have to do a shit-ton of things with it to turn it into recognizable scholarship. You have to learn the language it’s in. You have to understand the context in which it was produced. You have to figure out what it ignores, forgets, omits, or simply does not know as well as what it does, and recognize it as a limited text produced from a certain perspective or for a social reason that may or may not be explicitly articulated. The training of a historian is to teach you how to do this accurately and more or less fairly, but that is up to the personal ethic of the historian to ensure. When you’re reading a history book, you’re not reading an unmediated, Pure, This Was Definitely How Things Happened The End information download. You are reading something by someone who has made their best guess and has been equipped with the interpretive tools to be reasonably confident in their analysis, but sometimes just doesn’t know, sometimes has an agenda in pushing one opinion over another, or anything else.

History, in other words, is a system of flawed and self-serving collective memory, and power wants only the memory that ensures its survival and replication. You’ve heard of the “history is written by the winners” quote, which basically encapsulates the fact that what we learn and what we take as fact is largely or entirely structured by the narrative of those who can control it. If you’ve heard of the 1970s French philosopher Michel Foucault, his work is basically foundational in understanding how power produces knowledge in each era (what he calls epistemes) and the way in which historical “fact” is subject to the needs of these eras. Foucault has a lot of critics and his work particularly in the history of sexuality has now become dated (plus he can be a slog to read), but I do suggest familiarizing yourself with some of his ideas. 

This is also present in the constant refrain heard by anybody who has ever studied the arts and humanities: “oh, don’t do liberal arts, you’ll never get a job, study something worthwhile,” etc. It’s funny how the “worthwhile” subjects always seem to be science and engineering/software/anything that can support the capitalist military industrial complex, while science is otherwise completely useless to them. It’s also always funny how the humanities are relentlessly de- or under- funded. By labeling these subjects as “worthless,” when they often focus on deep investigation of varied topics, independent critical thought, complex analysis, and otherwise teaching you to think for yourself, we therefore decrease the amount of people who feel compelled to go into them. Since (see again, late-stage capitalism is a nightmare) most people are going to prefer some kind of paycheck to stringing it along on a miniscule arts budget, they will leave those fields and their inherent social criticism behind. Of course, we do have some people – academics, social scientists, artists, creatives, activists, etc – who do this kind of work and dedicate themselves to it, but we (and I include myself in this group) have not reached critical mass and do not have the power to effect actual drastic change on this unfair system. I can guarantee that they will ensure we never will, and the deliberate and chronic underfunding of the humanities is just one of the mechanisms by which late-stage capitalism replicates and protects itself.

I realize that I sound like an old man yelling at a cloud/going off on my paranoid rant, but…. this is just the way we’ve all gotten used to living, and it’s both amazing and horrifying. As long as the underclasses are all beholden to their own Ideas of History, and as long as most people are content to exist within the current ludicrous ideas that we have received down the ages as inherited wisdom and enforced on ourselves and others, there’s not much we can do about it. You are never going to reach agreement on some sweeping Platonic ideal of universal history, since my point throughout this whole screed has always been that history is particular, localized, conditioned by specific factors, and produced to suit the purposes of a very particular set of goals. History doesn’t repeat itself, per se (though it can be Very Fucking Close), but as long as access to a specific set of resources, i.e. power, money, sex, food, land, technology, jobs, etc are at stake, the inherent nature of human beings means that they will always be choosing from within a similar matrix of actions, producing the same kind of justifications for those actions, and transmitting it to the next generation in a way that relatively few people learn how to challenge. We have not figured out how to break that cycle yet. We are an advanced species beyond any doubt, but we’re also still hairless apes on a spinning blue ball on the outer arm of a rural galaxy, and oftentimes we act like it.

I don’t know. I think it’s obvious why society doesn’t understand and value history, because historians are so often the ones pointing out the previous pattern of mistakes and how well that went last time. Power does not want to be dismantled or criticized, and has no interest in empowering the citizens to consider the mechanisms by which they collaborate in its perpetuation. White supremacists don’t want to be educated into an “actual” version of history, even if their view of things is, objectively speaking, wildly inaccurate. They want the version of history which upholds their beliefs and their way of life. Even non-insane people tend to prefer history that validates what they think they already know, and especially in the West, a certain mindset and system of belief is already so well ingrained that it has become almost omniscient. Acquiring the tools to work with this is, as noted, blocked by social disapproval and financial shortfall. Plus it’s a lot of goddamn work. I’m 30 years old and just finished my PhD, representing 12 years of higher education, thousands of dollars, countless hours of work, and so on. This is also why they’ve jacked the price of college through the roof and made it so inaccessible for people who just cannot make that kind of commitment. I’ve worked my ass off, for sure, but I also had support systems that not everyone does. I can’t say I got here All On My Own ™, that enduring myth of pulling yourselves up by your bootstraps. I know I didn’t. I had a lot of help, and again, a lot of people don’t. The academy is weird and cliquish and underpaid as a career. Why would you do that?

I wish I had more overall answers for you about how to fix this. I think about this a lot. I’ll just have to go back to doing what I can, as should we all, since that is really all that is ultimately in our control.

#history #rant #long post #i'm sure i have more to say #but that's enough for now #anonymous #ask

[gideonaceleigh]

Camp NaNoWriMo July 2019

Total Word Count: 61,043

This was one of the most productive months in my writing history. I have approximately 25k words to go and I’ve never been more excited or happy about this WIP!! 

~Week 1 ~ Week 2 ~ Week 3 ~ Week 4~

Tag List: @oscarfuckingwilde​ @minnowf​ @dove-actually​ @dahladahlabills​ @writingwithhotchocolate​

To celebrate the month, here’s the entirety of Chapter Four! :)

CHAPTER FOUR

Iris walks through unfamiliar halls. She has no idea where she is. The structure looks familiar and she has the inexplicable feeling she’s been here before.

Her head is fuzzy, making it difficult to concentrate and figure out what the hell is going on. She manages to find a window and sees an orange tinged planet. This must be a space station of some sort in orbit around the planet. She thinks she can almost recognize a store, or a particularly intriguing mural she passes, but everything has a sort of indistinct blur around it. It’s like trying to find definition in a foggy morning.

So, she walks.

And she walks.

And she continues to walk as anxiety coils around her chest like constricting bands making it difficult to breath. No matter how far she walks she never seems to make any progress, there’s always the same art on the walls, the same rooms, the same furniture.

And no people.

Up to now she’s kept a steady pace on her trek through the station, but at the realization of her isolation her control slips. She begins an awkward half skipping step trying to restrain herself and hurry along at the same time.

The fuzzy edges around her begins to blur like she’s staring out the window of a speeding ship. Her head spins, her eyes won’t, or can’t focus on anything, causing her to stumble. She hits the ground hard and feels the phantom pain of her knees getting scrapped up. It feels significantly less substantial than it should and more like the memory of pain. It’s almost as if her brain knows she should be feeling pain and is trying to feed those impulses to the correct nerves, but nothing is cooperating the way it should.

She looks back up and finds the furniture gone and the walls on either side of her closer than they were before.

“Oh god,” she says. Or at least she tries to. But nothing comes out, not even a squeak. It feels as if there’s something lodged in her throat. The mass doesn’t keep air from getting in but does stops sound from leaving her mouth.

She brings a hand to her throat, rubbing and scratching at it, knowing it won’t do any good but unable to control the impulse. She can feel the skin turning bright red without seeing it.

“Help,” she tries to scream out at the top of her lungs, but again, not a sound sneaks out.

She pushes herself up and falls forward a step.

Then another.

And another, until she’s running full speed toward a door at the end of the hall. She keeps her eyes straight ahead, focused solely on her target, an exit.

No matter how hard she concentrates she can’t ignore the fact that the walls on either side of her are crawling closer. The faster she runs the faster they close in on her. She puts her head down, closes her eyes and pumps her arms hard hurtling towards that door, her only chance of an exit.

If she can’t see it, it isn’t real.

She smacks headfirst into a solid wall and falls on her ass.

Iris lays on her back on the floor, her eyes still tightly shut. This time in an attempt to stem the tears pooling just under the lid and trying to run down her face. She struggles to regain control of her erratic breathing before she passes out, and from the way her head is swimming she doesn’t have long, trying to remember the breathing techniques her mom taught her when she was little.

When she no longer feels like she’s going to black out and the sensation of pain still eludes her, she opens her eyes- and immediately wishes she hadn’t.

The ceiling is, at the most optimistic estimate, half the height it had been before. She spins around on the floor and scrambles backwards until her back is against the wall she’d been desperate to reach. The door is nowhere in sight and she can’t help but wonder if she’d imagined it in the first place. But now is not the time to dwell on it, she has bigger problems to concern herself with.

Looking at the problem before her she tries to find any other possible exits but all she sees are solid white walls on every side of her, above, and even below. They’re only about 50 yards away from her now, with the wall she’s keeping her back to is the only one staying in place.

She blinks. Now they’re only an arms-length away, threatening to crush her. She tries to stop them, shoving her arms out to either side of her to push against the two walls beside her with all her might.

She throws her legs out in front of her, stretching them out as far as they will go, using her back as leverage to brace against the increasing pressure.

The ceiling slides down and she’s forced to bow her head, the weight of it resting on her shoulders.

She cries out, the tears she’s been fighting back now stream freely down her face and drip to the floor. Her knees shove up against her chest, and she’s now elbowing herself in the side. The most horrifying cracking noise comes from her neck and her hands and feet immediately go numb.

Her lungs don’t have enough space to fully inflate, but that doesn’t stop her from hyperventilating. She breathes in uneven, shallow heaves, unable to get enough oxygen into her system. It gives the ever-tightening band wrapped around her ribs even more power.

She can’t concentrate on anything beyond trying to slow her inevitable death by crushing. She’s so intent on her task she almost doesn’t notice the wet feeling pooling around her feet.

Almost.

It completely covers her feet and is halfway up her calves before it registers in her oxygen deprived consciousness. She tries to scream, fully in the throes of desperation now. She uses her back as a battering ram, shoving up against the ceiling and willing it to move upwards even just a few inches as the water reaches her waist.

She strains against the ceiling, little spots forming in her line of vision at the lack of oxygen in her system. She strains and pleads with the universe, begging it to give her this one bit of relief.

The ceiling shifts, upwards this time. Her heart skips a beat, it’s such a tiny change she almost convinces herself it isn’t real. It jerks upwards again, almost a full inch this time. She lets out a sobbing laugh as she’s gradually able to straighten her back.

The relief of being able to take a full breath in is quickly tempered by the feeling of water lapping around her. There’s some relief in the fact that it’s only at mid-thigh now that she’s able to stand almost upright, but it’s filling fast.

The ceiling continues to soar up until it’s barely more than a pinprick in the distance.

The water continues to rise until it’s up to her waist.

She claws at the walls trying to gain purchase on the smooth wall, hoping for even the smallest imperfection and ledge she can wedge her fingers in and lift herself up on. But the wall is smooth as glass and there’s nothing, not even the slightest imperfection along its surface.

The water is up to her armpits. She will only be able to tread water for so long once it gets too high. She’s exhausted already, and she still can’t fully feel her hands or feet.

The water reaches her lips, she tilts her head backwards and starts to bob up and down in the water. She’s contained within a small box at this point but that doesn’t stop waves from forming, seemingly spontaneously.

She’s swept down, forcefully pushing air through her nose.

She’s pushed up and gasps in a quick breath.

Again, again, and again the cycle repeats.

She can’t escape and she’s getting light-headed again. The black spots in her vision start to form again. She’s spending more time with her head below water than above it.

On one of the rare moments she manages to push herself above the water level she feels something, something solid, hit the top of her head. She panics, trying to push it away from her but it becomes entangled with her arm and she can’t get rid of it. Her mind won’t stop screaming snake at her.

Her eyes fly open beneath the water as she thrashes around trying to shake whatever it was, not a snake, off her. Her eyes open she finds the truth, it’s not a snake but a rope. A rope leading up and out of the water. She grasps it between both hands with all of her, rapidly fading, strength, and pulls herself up.

Her head breaks out of the water and she gasps, sucking in as much air as she can into her lungs. She loops the rope around one of her arms a couple of times to secure her hold and lets out a sobbing breath. Her throat is raw, every breath simultaneously painful and joyous.

“Iris,” a voice, familiar enough to send a shiver down her back, but not familiar enough for her to place, calls out. “Iris, climb. I’ve got you; I promise.”

She doesn’t have time to analyze the situation. To figure out the who, the what, the where. The water level has risen again during her brief break, so she lets instinct take over. She does as the disembodied voice orders her to, even though the familiarity of it leaves her with a nagging sense of unease, and she climbs.

One hand over the other. She focuses on the repetition, only thinking one step ahead of her. When she’s far enough up she’s able to add her feet to the pattern, and that gives her one more thing to focus on beyond her impending death.

At one point she tries to look up, to get confirmation on just who is causing the sinking feeling in her gut but is nearly blinded for her trouble. She can no longer see the white ceiling, now there’s only an overpowering yellow light pouring out of some sort of the ceiling.  

She throws a hand over her eyes in an attempt to protect them from the glare and finds herself slipping down a few inches. The hand flies back to the rope and she holds it in a death grip, clinging to it desperately.

“Don’t look up,” says the voice, sounding harsher than before. “Just keep climbing. I promise I’ll help you get up out, but you need to keep climbing first.” It returns to its previous calmer tones.

She nods her head, not even trying to speak anymore. She hauls herself back up the lost few inches with a grunt and pushes onward. Focusing on the journey, not the destination, she doesn’t notice the voice getting louder with its praises the farther she pulls, then pushes, herself up. She syncs her breathing with her movements. A breath in, she pulls up with her arms. A breath out, she pushes up with her legs. She’s a caterpillar inching her way up the stem of a flower seeking out the prize of the petals. And her prize is freedom.

“Stop there,” the voice orders. It’s so close it sounds like he’s right by her ear. It’s so close there was no denying who it belongs to. “Look up. Take my hand and look up,” he urges her.

She rests her forehead against the rope, her soaking wet hair falling in a tangled mess around her face. She takes a few steadying, shuddering breaths before forcing her eyes open, tilting her face up, and looking straight into piercing blue eyes.

“Taylon,” she says. The first word she’s been able to utter during this whole ordeal.

“Iris,” he says. His grin is so large it appears to be splitting his face in half. He brings down a hand and cups her chin, tilting her head back even further. Let’s get you out of here and into so some dry clothes, yes?”

She’s in too much shock to do anything but nod at him, wide-eyed.

“Good. Glad to see you cooperating. Are you ready?” He removes his hand from her face and holds it out to her.

Her eyes dart from his eyes, cold and revealing nothing, to his hand. She falters, just for a moment, but she can feel herself weakening. The muscles in her hand begin to spasm and her calves are tightening up painfully.

Trick or not she won’t be able to last much longer desperately clinging to this rope.

She grinds her teeth together, forces the fingers in her hand to release their strangle hold on the rope, and shoves it into his. He grasps her tightly and starts to pull her up. She flings her other hand to hold onto his wrist. Her legs fall away from the rope and hit the wall, hard enough for her to lose her breath for a second. She scrambles to get a foot hold and try and push herself up, trying to help Taylon help her. She looks back up at him and sees that grin, eerily splitting his face, still in place. He tilts his head to one side, as if contemplating a puzzle.

“After all this time,” he says, shaking his head in wonder. He pulls her up a few more inches and brings his face close to hers. She can feel his breath blowing over her, smell the stale stench of his breath.

             “After all this time what?” She digs her nails into him, she won’t be letting go. No matter what.

“After everything we’ve been through you still think I’m on your side. It would be cute if it wasn’t so,” he pauses for a moment as if searching for the right word, “naive.”

“Taylon, please. Don’t do this,” she says. Tears pour down her face again, though how her body is finding the water in her severally dehydrated body is beyond her comprehension. “Please,” she pleads with him, knowing it’s hopeless. Knowing she’s giving him exactly what he wants. When the only other option is death, she finds herself incapable of stopping herself from playing right into his games.

“Goodbye, Iris.”.

He yanks on the fingers gripping his wrist, nearly breaking them in his attempt to loosen her grip. He releases his hold on her other hand while pushing her out and away from him. He watches her plummet into the darkness. And she watches him watching her free fall into the darkness. She tries to call out to him, but her voice is stolen from her again. Her arms and legs wave futilely against the air currents, trying to find purchase against nothingness as consciousness leaves her.  

#writblr #am writing #camp nano #camp nano 2019 #wip si #silver: excerpt

[blaklthr]

Ten Things a faggot Needs From a Dominant

Found as a repost on http://web.archive.org/web/20170411015220/http://macgayboy.tumblr.com:80/page/20

http://web.archive.org/web/20170511130745/http://transformationintoaslave63.tumblr.com/post/143693070893/ten-things-a-faggot-needs-from-a-dominant

[Used Grammarly for USA Standard English, spelling and grammar and adjusted for BDSM case usage.]

Originally from transformationintoaslave63 [deleted]:

Rules

Structure & Routine

Consequences

Honesty and Trust

Proper Nutrition & Rest

Humiliation & Degradation

Chores & Responsibilities

Goals and Special Projects

Hard Use and Abuse

Assurances (A Second Chance)

Thanks again to fistfuckgaygr for providing valuable insight into a few things a Dominant needs from His submissive creatures.  After reading fistfuckgaygr’s blog posting

[http://web.archive.org/web/20170621004852/http://fistfuckgaygr.tumblr.com/post/140758513186/10-things-a-dominant-needs-from-a-submissive], 

this faggot thought it might be a good idea to compose a similar posting from a faggot’s perspective – this faggot’s perspective anyway.  And while BDSM activities are inherently grounded in a deep, dark sexual nature, this faggot also realizes there is much more to being a Man’s slave than simply serving Him sexually.  It is attempting to remember that important construct as it scribes this post.  Although parts of this writing do resemble sexual content, this posting was composed in a concerted effort and with the express intention to increase its quality of service to the Master.

Rules – As a noun, RULES are “a set of explicit or understood regulations or principles governing conduct”. As a verb, the Master RULES His faggot when He “exercises ultimate power or authority” over that property.  Rules should be clear and understood by both parties. Rules not only define the expected actions of the sub, but they also serve to define the parameters of the relationship between a Dominant and His slave.  It is an important dynamic for the faggot to be given clear and distinct rules which it is then expected to abide by and those rules should always lend themselves to making the Master’s life better.  

Examples of rules may include:

Following proper protocol when addressing a SuperiorKnowing when it may or may not speak freely

Responding immediately to orders and commands Being home and completely available to Him (aside from work responsibilities)

Having to ask permission for anything/everything beyond its normal predefined routine

Without rules, faggots run amuck and gain ego, losing focus on what’s important to both parties.  And that is having the Master in charge – in total Control of the faggot.  This quite simply, is what they both want.  So, the Dominant should always feel comfortable and secure in making Rules for the faggot to follow.  And likewise, the faggot should accept each new rule with a sense of gratitude for a Man who is willing to provide firm control and structure to its life.  The more rules imposed upon the faggot, the better opportunity it has to improve the life of its Master.

Structure and Routine – As rules provide the framework for expected behaviors, the structure is what gives those rules meaning. The structure is the organizational foundation on which a rich and dynamic relationship is built.  And without any structure, a faggot is likely to wander aimlessly throughout the relationship never quite addressing the Master’s needs in an efficient and effective manner that enhances the quality of His life. Routine is the use of structure to develop patterns of (in) behavior that further guide the faggot’s daily actions. Routine equips the faggot with the knowledge and skill set needed to accomplish tasks at various intervals with a consistent degree of quality.  It’s important for the faggot to know what is expected of it and what its daily responsibilities are – structure and routine help the faggot learn the Master’s expectations and the parameters of its responsibilities in the relationship.  Routine (and structure alike) both provide the faggot with ample opportunity to study and learn from the Master and to carefully discern His likes and dislikes and subsequently respond appropriately to His daily needs and desires.

Examples of structured routine might include:

Properly greeting the Master upon (either of T/them) entering a room

Maintaining a clean and orderly household for the Master – without being instructed

Preparing His morning coffee or other meals as He prefers them – without being instructed

Sitting in a particular spot when not directly serving the Master’s needs or desires

Waking up, addressing the Master’s day, going to work, returning home, addressing the Master’s evening, addressing the Master’s night, sleeping, wake up again…

Consequences – For every action… there need not be an equal and opposite reaction.  However, there are (and will be) times when the faggot’s action(s) require some degree of corrective measure.  When the faggot fails to follow the rules set forth by the Master, or when the faggot lacks structure and routine, this could result in the faggot falling short of its true potential.  It would, therefore, necessitate the firm hand of the Master to set the faggot back on the right track.  It may be something as simple as the Master looking down at it and saying “Excuse ME…?” Or it may be something requiring a more substantial reinforcement of the structure and agreed-upon rules. Such as putting the faggot in a particular physical and mental state where it can ponder its actions and why those actions were not appropriate.  Or – it might even be something that requires a more strict and rigid punishment to curb insubordinate behavior.  “Spare the rod, spoil the child.”  A lack of discipline contributes to laziness which in turn leads to a lesser quality of service provided to the Master.  Even good boys need spankings sometimes to help them remember (a) Who is in Charge and (b) what the faggot’s role and purpose truly is in this relationship. And while every act may not require correction, there should be a well thought out Program of Discipline that the Master imposes upon His property.  Perhaps a point system where each violation incurs a certain number of points and when the faggot “earns a certain number of points”, the faggot is disciplined appropriately. Other times – the faggot’s actions may require a more immediate response, based on a multi-tier level of punishment depending upon the severity of the infraction.

Examples:  Level 1, Level 2, and Level 3 Infractions may include (or exceed):

Level 1 – An attention-commanding smack across the face…

Level 2 – An unexpected and surprisingly powerful punch to the gut followed by some corner time for the faggot to reflect upon its indiscretion

Level 3 – Binding the faggot and subjecting it to a more intense, rigorous and long-term beating coupled with repeated affirmations of what it did wrong and why it was wrong and what it will do in the future to improve its quality of service to and for the Master

Whichever level of consequence the Master feels is best suited for the faggot at the time of the infraction and that will bring about the best positive outcome – He will decide. And the faggot knows that He employs punishment and other consequences only to help it become a better faggot for Him and to help it make His life better.  The ultimate goal of both Master and slave.

Honesty and Trust – Honesty and trust are the guiding principles that give the previous three constructs validity.  Much like fistfuckgaygr explained in the original post [http://fistfuckgaygr.tumblr.com/post/137973541551/what-it-really-means-to-be-a-slave [no direct link to fistfuckgaygr’s post, the viewer must scroll down, blame tumblr] from https://powerfulpleasures.wordpress.com/for-slavessubmissives/what-it-really-means-to-be-a-slave/], trust is not earned overnight.  It requires complete and open communication, takes a long time to build and it is most definitely a two-way street.  When it was younger (like a teenager) and worried about getting into trouble, the faggot would sometimes conjure up some mistruths in the hopes it could avoid receiving a punishment.  It soon realized that telling one lie would lead to another and eventually it couldn’t remember any of its stories.  So many years ago, the faggot realized it was simply easier to always tell the truth – no matter what.  And it continues to practice that policy today.  As a faggot who, over the past several months, has been diligently “working to demonstrate its value and dedication and commitment to the Master in the hope that HE will decide to take ownership of it” the faggot has never shared a mistruth with the Master.  Ever.  Furthermore, if the Master is really in charge – He also has no need to lie.  About anything.  Ever.

Trust is absolutely critical in a BDSM situation.  In another similar posting by fistfuckgaygr on what it means to be a slave, this faggot agrees that “Even a simple “white lie” can destroy the trust so necessary to really establish [and maintain] this type of relationship”.  This sense of complete and utter trust is even more critical when the Master wishes to subject His object to various forms of extreme acts of depravity.  Even after months or years of developing a strong sense of trust, one lie or mistruth can cause significant and unfortunate results.  Therefore, even “little white lies” are totally unacceptable.  

Proper Nutrition and Rest – 

In order to fully serve the Master, the faggot should be fairly well nourished and should acquire a fair amount of sleep.  This is not for the comfort of the faggot as much as it is to ensure quality service is delivered to the Master.  You see, when a faggot gets overly hungry its blood sugar may drop.  And before it realizes it, the faggot has become somewhat of a cranky bitch.  The same principle applies to rest.  While everybody likes to sleep, especially on the weekends, a faggot (only) needs a fair amount of sleep in order to provide a level of high-quality service to the Master. If the faggot is deprived of sleep (which by the way – is within the rights of the Master) then it again may become somewhat cranky and as a result, the quality of service and its usefulness is therefore diminished.  It’s really just about finding a balance between acceptable levels of deprivation and the quality of services required by the Master.

Humiliation & Degradation - 

When it comes to subjecting the faggot to humiliation, much of that is conjured up during sexual games. However, the Master should know that in addition to the Dominant fix He gets by humiliating a faggot, the faggot also internalizes much of that action beyond sexual means and accepts that type of treatment as part of the BDSM relationship.  In doing so, the faggot realizes, recognizes and accepts its position within this dynamic and it is because of the humiliating acts that the faggot learns to become submissive and to remain in a subservient position in relation to the Master.  There are many forms of effective humiliation including verbal, sexual, physical, psychological and emotional humiliation.  Any of these types of humiliation can be employed at any time the Master feels like He needs to put the faggot back down in its place.  Faggots realize they innately respond with Respect for the Master when this occurs.

The Master once asked, “I wonder what is the most depraved thing I can do to you…”  Like humiliation, degrading a faggot, whether during sexual acts or other times, helps to put it in its rightful place below the Master. In fact, humiliation and degradation oftentimes go hand-in-hand.  Forcing a faggot to engage in degrading acts (for the Master’s entertainment let’s say) can bring about a significant amount of humiliation upon the faggot.  These two constructs working together are highly effective in pushing the faggot to the depths of its own level of submission and free it to become a slave that follows orders and meets the Master’s expectations with increasing levels of quality.

Chores & Responsibilities –

Faggots need to be kept busy when not engaged in direct service of the Master.  This is important for a couple of reasons.  First, it keeps the faggot out of trouble by not giving it the opportunity to run amuck.  Also, and more importantly, it provides the Master with on-going indirect service that helps to make His life easier.  By taking care of errands, washing the dishes, doing the laundry, grocery shopping (with proper permission to leave the house) maintaining a clean house, tending to other animals in the dwelling, etc., the faggot performs services for the Master much as a maid or personal assistant might provide.  The key difference is that the Master doesn’t have to pay someone else to complete these services.  He owns the faggot and so He simply orders the faggot to take care of these tasks and the faggot does it.  The faggot views this kind of work as meaningful tasks that allow the Master to focus on other more important activities.  Activities which make Him happy.   And isn’t that what this is all about anyway?

Goals and Special Projects - 

In addition to routine chores and other responsibilities, faggots should constantly be working on a set of clearly defined goals as well as being assigned any special projects to work on during their spare time.  This sub-sequently provides the Master with additional pleasure or leisure time since He has passed the assigned task off to His property.  Goals might be physical or intellectual in nature. Things like making the faggot workout in order to tone its belly so it can therefore accept more direct and high impact abuse when the Master wishes to use it as His personal punching bag.  Goals might also include planning a trip for the Master (and slave) and being diligent in its work to ensure the journey will be both relaxing and enjoyable for Him.  Of course, finding new and exciting ways to honor and show Him respect is always a goal the faggot should be working on accomplishing.  Special projects might involve work around the house, preparing for a special event, conducting research on specialized equipment, tools and toys for the Master’s use and entertainment, taking care of any out-of-the-ordinary tasks to help make the Master’s life better and more enjoyable, etc. The length of time spent on special projects can vary depending upon the nature of the assignment as well as the depth to which the Master requires the slave’s services.

Hard Use and Abuse -

It goes without saying that the faggot was born to serve a Man who captures it and to serve Him in all ways that suit His needs and desires.  And of course, that includes being the object of His desire – in other words – what that really means is the faggot is the subject of His abuse.  Whether engaged in a fun Saturday afternoon of sexual deviance or if the faggot simply opens its mouth one too many times when the Master is seeking some quiet solitude, He holds unmitigated Rights to treat the faggot as nicely or as sadistically as He enjoys at any given moment. While the faggot may beg and plead for mercy – and it may even cry out in pain (simply gag it), the faggot requires this significant level of abuse in order to frequently remind it of its true place in the hierarchy of nature.  It is there to serve.  Of course, on the flip side of things, the Master could also decide He wants the faggot around simply to provide Him with meaningful companionship – much like a pet – while allowing Him to continue His regular activities.

Assurances (A Second Chance) -

Even with the best laid out Rules and forms of structure, all faggots fuck-up.  And as a result, all faggots require appropriate punishment and abuse when they do.  And as indicated above, that abuse should be MEANingful.  So, MEANingful that the faggot learns something from each lesson. And therefore it works harder and with more focus to please the Master and satisfy His needs and desires.  This is a very simple, but complex concept and after a good beating, the faggot should know in its heart that it was beaten because the Master cares for it and He wants it to be the very best faggot it can be.  Period. And while the faggot will always strive to do the best job it can, eventually something will occur that the faggot does (or does not do) that is considered a major infraction.  It may be so out of the norm for the faggot, that even the Master is surprised and has temporary fleeting thoughts of discarding the piece of property.  Please, please, please always give the faggot a second chance to demonstrate its adoration, commitment and dedication for the Master.  And if the faggot has been beaten down to a point where it appears mopey, etc., just give it a bit of time to rebound.  Having a temporary mopey attitude is not a sign that the faggot dislikes its place in the relationship.  It simply the faggot’s processing of (a) what it did wrong, (b) how disappointed it is in itself and © how it wants to do better for the Master. Every thought it has – be it good or bad, is always centered on the Master and what makes Him happy.

Opportunity to Worship Him and Honor Him on its own accord - 

Finally, the faggot is in this relationship because it absolutely adores this Man.  It looks up to Him naturally and with such a high degree of respect and gratitude for what He has done and for what He will do in the future. It sometimes may feel the need (or innate faggot desire) to show homage to the Master –even before being ordered to Worship Him.  It is not the faggot’s sexual desire that is the driving motivation steering it to begin touching, rubbing, smelling, kissing or licking or sucking on the Master.  But rather, it is a method the faggot recognizes as a sign of admiration for the Master.  And it sometimes wishes to show that display of affection for Him without being told.  (Unless of course, it goes against the RULES , then see the CONSEQUENCES section of this posting.)  Obviously, the faggot is learning there are also many other ways in which it can show the Master honor, respect, and worship.  And it is working on improving the quality of service in which it demonstrates those characteristics, attitudes, thoughts, and feelings.  And while the faggot has attempted to write this blog posting from a place not centered in sexual activity, it realizes much of this narrative still emerges from sexually-based underpinnings.  It recognizes, realizes, and accepts the fact that it still has a great deal to learn and it is so incredibly appreciative that it has someONE to train it properly.  And it looks forward to a life-long career of serving this Man.

[graphic omitted to keep this blog available]