#and UN is definitely the latter

[bigskyandthecoldgun]

based off this post i made a couple days ago lmao

words: 2.1k

Generally speaking, Steve Harrington is a pretty good boyfriend.

He takes Eddie out, never lets him pay for stuff if he can help it—hell, he’s even bought Eddie flowers before. And Eddie’s not complaining, because it’s hard enough to find another queer man in Hawkins, let alone one willing to date him. So Steve is his first boyfriend, and Eddie hasn’t had much (read: any) experience with dating.

But he’s pretty damn sure by the time they hit the three-month mark that Steve’s staunch refusal to hold his hand is unusual.

It’s not like Steve isn’t affectionate. More often than not, Steve’s arm will be around his shoulders or his waist, and there are no shortages of kisses anywhere and everywhere. But Steve won’t hold his hand. And he hasn’t let Eddie give him a handjob. Which—the latter isn’t as much of an issue, because maybe Steve’s just not a fan of handjobs, and that’s fine, Eddie’s not an asshole, Steve’s more than entitled to say no to stuff like that.

Though, Steve’s got no problem putting his hands to work, so what is it about the idea of holding hands or Eddie touching him in the same way that makes Steve so weirdly uncomfortable?

Eddie’s first thought had been that Steve might just not like holding hands. That the clamminess of another palm in his gives him the same kind of sensory ick that Eddie gets from getting adhesive residue on his hands. But Steve holds hands with Robin all the time with no problem, so it can’t be that.

His second thought is that Steve might be so used to being the ‘man in the relationship,’ so to speak, that he doesn’t think Eddie would want to be as handsy. But, again—doesn’t explain the hand holding thing. Because Steve had definitely held hands with girls he’d dated in the past, if Eddie’s high school memories aren’t failing him.

So what the hell is it?

What’s so unthinkable about being touched by Eddie?

And Eddie tries not to read too much into it, because he’s more than aware that both he and Steve have some internalized stuff about being queer, and maybe Steve’s just working through that. He tries not to read too much into it because Steve is a good boyfriend, save for this one weird thing, and maybe they’ll get to a point where Steve will tell him why he doesn’t want to hold hands or have Eddie’s hands on his bare skin for more than a minute or two.

They’re making out on Steve’s couch one night, Eddie’s hands on Steve’s waist and Steve’s hands already halfway through undoing the button on Eddie’s jeans. Eddie starts to tug at Steve’s shirt to get it untucked from his jeans. “C’mere, wait, lemme touch you,” Eddie breathes, and Steve grins against his mouth before backing away. Eddie blinks, utterly confused. “What? What is it?”

Steve just laughs, shakes his head, and dives back in for another kiss. “You’re funny,” he murmurs against Eddie’s lips, and Eddie feels a weird tug in his gut, because something’s wrong, and Steve’s acting weird again about Eddie touching him.

He thinks it’s funny.

Thinks it’s funny that Eddie wants to touch him.

Well, firstly, ouch. Secondly, that’s a real jerk move, but he’s torn between telling Steve off and getting off. He ends up going with the better option, because Steve might be acting like a jerk, but he’s a jerk that’s jerking Eddie off, so…better than nothing, Eddie supposes.

He doesn’t bring it up again for another three months, resigning himself to have his hands redirected from Steve’s bare skin and remaining steadfastly un-handheld. And, sure, y’know, he might be able to attribute it to the fact that they spend a lot of time with people who don’t know they’re together yet, but that possibility is quickly eradicated when Steve suggests that they tell the rest of the Party about them.

“You sure you wanna do that?” Eddie asks, brows raised skeptically, because for a guy who won’t hold Eddie’s hand, Steve’s pretty gung-ho about airing their business to the rest of the group.

Steve just tilts his head, a cute little look of confusion on his face. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, like the idea of him not wanting people to know about him and Eddie is crazy. Steve blinks, the confusion turning to concern. “I mean, unless you’re not ready. I don’t want to pressure you—”

“You can tell them,” Eddie cuts in, fidgeting with his rings. “I’m—yeah. Yeah, you can tell them.”

Maybe this will finally give Steve the push he needs to get over himself and hold Eddie’s goddamn hand before Eddie goes crazy and gets shipped off to Pennhurst.

Or…maybe not.

Because Steve still won’t hold his hand. Or let Eddie touch him.

The one time Eddie had managed to get his hands on Steve’s bare skin, he’d spotted Steve itching at the spots Eddie had touched in the bathroom later that night, the door only open a crack. Which is pretty dramatic, even for Eddie’s taste. Is the feeling of Eddie’s hands on him really so awful? Christ, Eddie’s getting sick and tired of this shit.

Eventually, nine months into their relationship, Steve blatantly moves a hand away from Eddie’s during a movie night when Eddie tries to take hold of it. In front of their friends. Eddie sucks up his wounded pride and corners Nancy in the kitchen later, after the first movie is over and they’ve been sent to get snacks while Steve and Robin argue over what movie to play next, wondering if he should even be asking her.

“Something on your mind?” she asks, because he hasn’t come up with anything to start with yet, and Eddie sighs.

“Is—okay, did Steve ever—when you guys were dating, did he ever, like, not hold your hand?” he asks, and Nancy tilts her head.

“I mean, sometimes…? It was only because I was wearing rings, though,” she says, like that makes perfect sense, like Steve just has some ring-phobia or something, and Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. Nancy gives him a little smile. “You wear yours all the time, so I don’t know why you’re so surprised.”

Okay, so, weird ring-phobia it is.

That’s the new working theory, and when he and Steve bunk in Steve’s room for the night, Eddie makes a show of carefully pulling his rings off and setting them on the bedside table. There’s a couple of green marks on his fingers where the clear nail polish he’d coated the interiors in has chipped away, and he rubs at his bare fingers absentmindedly as he climbs under the covers. He takes a deep breath and laces his fingers with Steve’s, ready to have Steve pull his hand away for the umpteenth time.

Instead, he’s met with a surprised, pleased little hum. “You took your rings off,” Steve notes, relief clear in his voice, and Eddie nods, trying not to let the feeling of triumph show on his face too much. Steve grins at him and presses a kiss to Eddie’s cheek. “That’s a nice surprise.”

“What, you don’t like my rings?” Eddie teases, keeping the genuine curiosity in his voice to a minimum, and Steve’s brows furrow.

“What? No, no, I love your rings, Eds,” Steve tells him. He lowers his voice. “I think they’re pretty hot, actually.”

Okay. Okay, so a wrench has been thrown into the ring-phobia theory.

“What, are they too cheap for his majesty’s royal fingers?” Eddie jokes, putting on a goofy, poorly-done British accent, and Steve’s nose wrinkles slightly.

“I mean, they are costume jewelry,” Steve says. “Nickel-plated, right?”

Ah.

So…it’s that Eddie looks, or even feels, too cheap.

Jesus. He hadn’t thought Steve would be that shallow.

Eddie swallows. “Uh, yeah, they—they are. I can stop wearing them, if you…” he trails off, not really sure what to do with this new information. Cheap to the touch, apparently enough to make Steve wrinkle his nose at the thought of Eddie touching him with his rings on.

“What? No, no, you don’t have to. I’m good, I can deal with it,” Steve says, like it’s supposed to be reassuring, like it’s such a big sacrifice for him to deal with how inexpensive Eddie’s taste in jewelry is, like their relationship isn’t serious enough for Steve to get over himself.

It’s just his rich boy upbringing, Eddie reminds himself. Even Wheeler’s upper-middle-class jewelry wasn’t enough to beat that expensive taste.

Evidently, the conversation had stuck in his boyfriend’s brain, because on the morning of their first anniversary, Eddie is given a long, velvety black box with four Sterling silver rings. They’re exact replicas, design-wise, of their nickel-plated counterparts, and Steve looks so proud of himself, so pleased with his gift idea, and Eddie barely stops himself from frowning.

“Oh,” Eddie says, a little hollow, “um, thank you.”

“You like ’em?” Steve asks, and there’s such a hopeful look on his face that it just pisses Eddie off more. “I just figure—y’know, because, I mean, I can’t hold your hand if you’re wearing costume jewelry, so—”

“Yeah, no, I, uh—I got that,” Eddie says with a strained smile. “Thanks, Steve.”

Steve’s brows furrow. “I feel like you’re mad at me,” he says, and he says it with humor, but there’s genuine worry behind it. “Did I screw up your present that bad? Were you dropping hints and hoping for something else?”

Eddie’s jaw clenches. “It’s…the present is fine, Steve,” he says.

“You don’t like them,” Steve mumbles, gnawing on his bottom lip. “I mean, it might take me a lot longer to save up, but is—would you, like, prefer titanium or steel or something? I didn’t really think you were a gold kind of guy, but it’s fine if you are, I just didn’t know—”

“Why do I have to prefer anything?” Eddie snaps. Steve blinks at him. The look of pure confusion on his face is a little infuriating, like he can’t even fathom why Eddie might be upset, and Eddie’s eye twitches. “Look, just because you’re all high and mighty about what jewelry is worthy of being seen near you—”

“Woah, woah, what are you talking about?” Steve asks, alarmed.

Letting out a frustrated groan, Eddie slams the box down on the coffee table and stands up to stomp around the living room, pacing back and forth. “You won’t let me hold your hand o-or even touch you, like you’re so above cheap shit that you can’t bear to let it touch you, and I’m so sorry that I’ve offended the sensibilities of his highness with my ‘costume jewelry,’ but Jesus, Steve, you can’t even get over yourself on our anniversary? I’ve seen you act like me touching you with my rings on gives you hives or some shit, like it’s just so terrible that it makes your skin crawl—”

“It does,” Steve says, a little subdued, eyes wide with shock, lips parted, “I’m allergic to nickel.”

Eddie pauses mid-stomp.

“You’re what?” he squeaks.

Steve blinks, and a long silence stretches between them. “I’m allergic to nickel, Eds, everybody knows I am,” he says. “I can’t hold your hand if you’re wearing nickel-plated stuff, but you really like your rings, they’re important to your look, so I wasn’t gonna be a dick and tell you to take them off just so I could.”

Recontextualizing every interaction of his year-long relationship he’d tried not to read too hard into is…a lot to experience in a little under thirty seconds.

“Oh, dear God, I’ve been an asshole,” Eddie mutters. “I thought you wouldn’t let me touch you because—but it was just—”

“Yeah, an itchy dick is not a good feeling,” Steve says, a nervous little laugh bubbling out of him. His face falls a little. “I—did you think—?”

“I’m so sorry,” Eddie blurts, horrified. “I am so sorry, Steve, oh my God—”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you didn’t—I must’ve seemed like a total jerk, Eddie, I should’ve told you outright, but I guess I figured you already knew,” Steve says, shrugging helplessly. “But, no, it’s nothing like what you said, I promise, I’m just—I’m allergic.”

Eddie immediately yanks the rings from his fingers and fumbles to get the box open, swapping them out for the silver ones, which he jams onto his fingers as fast as humanly possible. “If I got my head out of my ass sooner, I swear I would’ve found replacements the second I knew,” he says, and Steve laughs.

“I know you would’ve,” he says, all fond and soft, “you’re good like that.”

“Let me make it up to you? I can touch you all I want now,” Eddie says, waggling his silver-covered fingers in front of Steve’s face.

Steve interlocks their hands and leans in to kiss him, slow and sweet. “Looking forward to it, Eds.”

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #stranger things #my fic #also my prompt #i guess it's a prompt? #it was more like. a passing idea #but still

[fromchaostocosmos]

Claims that Israel has been committing a genocide of Palestinians date to long before October 7. Yet the population of Gaza was estimated to be less than 400,000 when Israel captured the territory from Egypt in a war against multiple Arab countries in 1967. It’s now estimated at just over 2 million. Population growth of almost 600% would make it the most inept genocide in the history of the world.

Those repeating the word genocide over and over, turning it into a mantra that penetrates the public consciousness, smearing Israel and anyone who supports it, ignore the facts of this war. This is not an unprovoked war, like Russia’s against Ukraine. It’s not a civil war between rival militias, like the one raging in Sudan — which, by the way, is being ignored by almost everyone, even though the UN describes it as one of the “worst humanitarian crises in recent memory,” where a famine could kill 500,000 people. No, Israel was attacked. On October 7, Hamas launched a gruesome assault on Israeli civilians, killing some 1,200 — including many women and children — and dragging hundreds of them as hostages into Gaza. Today dozens — including many women and children — remain in captivity. Those who keep saying that Israel’s response is an act of revenge rather than the strategic, defensive war that most Israelis view as a fight for national survival against a determined enemy backed by a powerful country are deliberately distorting reality. In doing so, they are perversely evoking the same false blood lust and grotesqueness embedded in the blood libel archetype.

Indeed, Hamas’ actions, which precipitated this war, don’t seem to exist in the minds of ostensibly humanitarian-minded protesters. Nor even the fate of the hostages, still captive in Hamas tunnels. Although the campus protests vary in their message and actions from school to school, we never hear protesters chant that Hamas should release the hostages or accept a ceasefire. Quite the contrary. Accusations against Israel at times include praise for Hamas, one of whose aims — the end of the Jewish state — is shared by some key organizers of the student protests. As Secretary of State Antony Blinken recently said, “It remains astounding to me that the world is almost deafeningly silent when it comes to Hamas.” Accusing Israel of genocide and putting the entire onus for stopping the war, putting all the blame for the deaths, on the Jewish state is even more astounding because Hamas — designated a terrorist organization by the US, the European Union and many other countries — is a group whose explicit goal, according to its founding charter, is not just to destroy Israel, but to kill Jews. That is the definition of genocide.

Still, the death toll, even by the Hamas count, does not in any way suggest a genocidal campaign. The terror organization puts the total at about 35,000. The figure, disputed by The Washington Institute for Near East Policy among other think tanks and researchers, includes Hamas fighters. That means the number of civilians killed, whatever the total, is actually lower. Compare that to the death toll in Mosul, Iraq, where coalition forces uprooted ISIS from a city that had some 600,000 people at the time. Estimates of the exact number of deaths vary, ranging from 9,000 to 40,000 (the latter is the estimate of Kurdish intelligence). The lowest figure is on par with the rate of total deaths reported by Hamas authorities in Gaza that does not distinguish civilians from Hamas fighters, while the highest is four times greater. I don’t recall hearing the term genocide used there, or in any of the battles that led to more than half a million people being killed in Afghanistan and Iraq during America’s wars there. And yet, Israel has been repeatedly smeared with this damning accusation.

#antisemitism #judenhass #jumblr

[leohtttbriar]

this entire episode was incredibly fraught and it's conclusion was almost willfully blind and offensive but also it definitely reveals a lot about the paradigm of thought in which the voyager writers were operating. like, i kept wondering since i started watching voyager why they felt the need to make up a tribe instead of grounding chakotay in the many real people of indigenous american communities. and i guess this episode, "tattoo," offered their reasoning for that choice. as baffling and ill-conceived and un-creative as that reasoning is.

see. there was one moment in this episode where i thought the story they were telling wasn't about to be the most frustrating thing ever. this moment was when young-chakotay references how other tribes are not living in the past, but his and his father's is. the simple idea that not all people are one and the same, that indigenous communities can be and are distinct and not a single amalgamation easily filed under one label, as well as the idea that tribes yet exist--that they are not and have not been vanishing. i thought, after this conversation, that the story was going to go on like a wakanda-type route, where the "fantasy" and "myth" chakotay is criticizing above is actually just a specific sort of highly-developed and protected tech and the people of his tribe were isolationists. i thought when we first saw that peaceful symbol on the alien planet that we were about to be treated to an alternate yet hidden history of a tribe from earth having achieved space-travel far before anyone else from earth did and kept it secret. i thought that might justify, a little bit, making up a tribe instead of picking one and hiring several consultants/writers for the writing room.

obviously, i thought wrong. more fool me--like this episode came out the same decade as dances with wolves. i genuinely should've known better.

i think one of the main mistakes (informed by the umbrella ""mistake"" (i.e. profound and deliberate crimes again humanity) of violent and merciless colonialism, which continues to inform how people interact with the world and will continue to do so for as long as we can imagine) is the treatment of the "myth" and "fantasy." like, another made-up indigenous people in star trek is the bajoran people in ds9, which i think exposes a lot of the writers' perspectives about chakotay. i don't think it's a coincidence that they made the leader of the maquis cell that had to be absorbed into the voyager crew explicitly indigenous. or that said leader had a whole situationship with a bajoran character who thinks very, very little of starfleet and janeway. these are all part of the same creative impulse. and it's a rich idea, started in ds9 and continued into voyager--the maquis, their relationship to bajor and cardassia and the federation, and what their principles are. and through that idea, you can see that the 90s star trek writers were trying to draw from real-world indigenous resistance to shape these freedom-fighters as well as from real-world indigenous insight to shape the bajoran (and chakotay's) spirituality. in that: they made the spirituality "real."

the bajoran deities are real beings. thus the bajoran people have a super special relationship to the land. and the deities are material and there. chakotay's spirituality also is "real", in that it has a direct effect on the material happenings in an episode. this sort of thing can either be: spirituality is drawn from the material world/material insights and human consciousness is a very powerful thing OR these particular people have a "magical" connection to nature. based on everything to do with these spiritualities i've seen in these two shows, it definitely feels like they were going more for the latter.

and then in this episode (!) they make the writing decision to explicitly say that all indigenous people in the americas were inspired by and directly gained wisdom from a bunch of special aliens who wanted to make sure the land of earth was protected and so appointed all the american indigenous people as guardians. like they were One people who both had a super special connection to the land and had to be given that special connection and didn't, like, historically shape and influence and change the ecosystems and flora and fauna in permanent and far-reaching ways, over many tens of thousands of years and many types of tech and city-building and migration patterns and cultural practices, all as or more diverse than the land they were living on.

the reluctance to attribute cerebrality and deliberately produced technology to anyone not of western european descent is just so so present in this episode and in the character of chakotay. him and the bajorans--their gods are real and their myths are real and not the product of richly-thought traditions and reasoning practices. no, their religion is thus far un-evolved. they're not like the white american characters who aren't praying to jesus bc christ is a made-up god and those white people have moved on (""evolved"" maybe, ughhh) and separated themselves from nature and their base instincts about religiosity. no they still pray to their gods who can absolutely answer their prayers if they wanted to.

the thing is. it's just oppression 101 to construct a binary and make one half of that binary Human Beings with Great Minds and the other half Adjacent Human Beings Who Are Close to Nature. like all the oppressions work through that basic framework.

the impulse to use indigeneity as an entry point into environmentalism isn't ridiculous. but people (i mean, white european "philosophy") miss the whole step where the reason you often see tribes making such headway with environmental activism is because they are being politically astute and they recognize that "land" being abstracted in the way it has been since Locke (and obviously before that but Locke is the most relevant thinker in terms of like land policy?) is actually irrational. you can't just build a tube of poison over a water-source. that is Idiotic. that is a thing that Unthinking beings do. iron eyes cody crying over pollution on a highway is not an accurate representation of the land-rights justice that tribes all over the americas have been fighting for.

the thing about "myth" and "fantasy" is that they are philosophies. they inform and represent great abstract and fully-reasoned ideas. and this episode so easily could've been about that. when we start with the flashback of young chakotay noticing the symbol on the rock and his dad praising him and chakotay saying "i only saw it because of a lizard," i thought that could be a way to show how lived experiences allow different people to notice different things about the world. it's not magic, it's practice and thought. but the episode just goes on and on, getting further and further into the racist ideas of the innocent and close-to-nature natives, the "noble savage", and the idea that any great insight originating in a non-white people came from aliens.

(and somehow these biases get transported to the bajoran characters, all of whom are actually played by white characters, which shows how these biases are an actual paradigm and not some sort of 'instinctual prejudice' like racists like to claim their racism is--i.e., not their fault and can't be unlearned.)

this got me thinking about "far beyond the stars." how it works as a futurism and as a comment on racism now. how the futurism is in fact an argument: that the future belongs to everyone; that exploration and great thoughts and great adventures belong to everyone; how this can be framed as inevitable because it is right; how imagining it so is the first step towards actualization; how people are thinkers and they will make a world that is so expansive and so egalitarian that a black man will captain and discover and exist in the stars and among wonder and different people and so much life. and this works as a speculative piece because there is present in its foundation the idea is justice is not retrospective. as going back is impossible, people build forward. sisko imagines forward, and even as he's imagining backward to being a scifi writer in the 20th century, he's still imagining forward.

this episode, "tattoo," completely misses how "far beyond the stars" functioned. how speculation and futurism work as commentaries on the past and the now. it's particular and personal and doesn't imply that an alien species is the reason for any future liberation. or that innocence is a virtue. or that such innocence is due to "protecting the land" (which means one thing and one thing only) and thus gives one magical powers over the weather.

personally, i think chakotay should've found descendants of his tribe from earth on that alien planet--not aliens. i think the episode should've been about how that symbol for peace or something was a symbol for some sort of logical proof of sorts and these descendants should've used it as a technology that could affect the weather through some sci-fi star-treky technobabble that enables telepathy. i think this advancement should've been fundamentally rooted in what the descendants learned long ago on earth by studying the stars and birds and building cities and pyramids. philosophies that are entrenched and informed by a deep understanding of the natural world, expressed not just through tech but through spiritual practice, while not being relegated to """"primitivity.""""

but also i'm definitely not the best person to ask. and the main problem here is that they made up a tribe and put themselves in a position of not really being able to ask anyone.

like i loved chakotay being able to reexamine his past and his relationship to his father and his connection to the galaxy at large. i loved that he found a semi-home so so far away from his own planet. i love that they wrote a character doing that, finding a place of true belonging seventy-thousand light years away. i think that's an interesting as well as important story to tell. but the framing and argument provided in the episode undercut that story so much.

anyway as i am not the person to ask, i'll just leave this excerpt from a paper written by a much much smarter person than me about a sci-fi movie made by navajo filmmaker nanobah becker about the project of cultivating mars:

"Science Fiction, Westerns, and the Vital Cosmo-ethics of The 6th World," Salma Monani

#before anyone clicks 'keep reading'--this is long #chakotay #star trek #voyager #i love all the voyager characters so much (except maybe neelix--annoying) and i hate to see them in weak weak weak writing

[stateswscarlet]

hi this is the 3p person. how do i stop feeling like im doing this to change the 3D? can i acknowledge that it will change the 3D? im just confused. this manifested really fast but ive fulfilled myself with the state of being with him a bunch so why didnt that reflect like this? idk. im just scared im gonna imagine and enjoy it and nothing will reflect. i was thinking of getting coaching with you because idk what to do anymore. i hate my 3D. i just miss sp.

you need to give up on the 3D fully. you need to accept and acknowledge you (all of us) CANNOT change the 3D, we do not have the free will to do that as our free will ends in imagination. you must really sit with this and decide if you'd rather be trying to chase a shadow world and be frustrated, or would you rather 100% enjoy your imagination and feel good and be stressfree? hopefully the latter. we don't do anything to change the 3D as imagination and who were are is CONSTANTLY reflected, even before you knew about this stuff. we cant make it or un-make it reflect as creation is finished hence why we shift states. knowing the 3D changes is very different than chasing it and doing things for the 3D. the 3D will never fulfill you, only YOU choose how things fulfill you or if they even do at all. you need to understand you only want the feeling, not the actual; physical desire.

its like your shadow, do you only walk and move just so your shadow moves? or do you move because you want to? your 3d is the same, you're not constantly thinking of your shadow when you're doing things because the LAW is that its always there anyways. the law shouldn't be a comfort factor for you because it just is.

as i said in the previous ask about your situation. I'm pretty sure you haven't been fulfilling yourself as much as you think you were, and you were fulfilling yourself for stuff that wasn't even your end goal.

youre relying too much on the 3D and seeing this as smth you have to do to get them back and that is exactly where you're going wrong, you need to give up on changing the 3D completely, as edward art says you need to imagine as if there was no outer world bc the outer world has never fulfilled you and never will.

i get missing sp and those feelings are valid, but you need to realize that your life isn't going to end if you're not with them. manifesting an sp shouldn't be something you need, its something you CAN have and definitely shouldn't be approached from a desperate/needy mindset because that will lead to codependent (not saying you are like this but I'm putting it out there in case there are others). please stop revolving your life around an sp and put your crown back on. YOU made sp special, YOU are the secret sauce, they're just some random who YOU decided means something. you need to realize that (manifestation stuff aside) you will 10000% will ok if you don't be with them because you're more than content on your own and can date anyone else. i say this with love but as someone who was in your shoes and knows how it feels, you will only be running in circles if you don't approach this from a healthier mindset. work on your self concept (don't tie it to manifesting ur sp at all) and LIVE your life, do things that you enjoy, have fun/date around with other people (if you have the chance to bc remember that you're not pretending, you are single in the 3D), and stop trying to get back someone. give yourself the feelings of your dream relationship first and how it makes YOU feel, then add sp into the equation. you don't want them back, you want a fulfilling relationship. how would you feel if they came back tomorrow yet the same issues happened as they did back when you were together before/theyre just not good/the relationship sucks? that isn't what you want, you want the fulfilling relationship so focus on aspects about that and give those to yourself. you don't want their physical body back bc it means nothing to you unless you get the feelings you desire.

[thydungeongal]

If one were to accept the simplistic framing that in the context of the wider Israeli-Palestinian conflict Israel represents the "good side" because it's a democracy, what does it say when the democratic nation's government, supposedly with a democratically granted mandate from the people, is currently involved in a military campaign that has required an untold civilian death toll and the wholly unnecessary and avoidable destruction of infrastructure?

And that's the thing isn't it: in a bourgeois democracy the actual structures of democracy are not fully democratic, but serve to prop up the interests of the ruling class as well as support the structures that the state is built on. Even within the supposedly democratic system of Israel, individual citizens can't simply vote away the system that is currently engaged in a destructive military campaign against the people of Gaza while also engaged in violence which has all the markings of ethnic cleansing in occupied territories in the West Bank. (Remember, the West Bank is Palestinian territory where Israel is an occupying force, and there is an ongoing campaign of displacing the local Palestinian population and bringing in Israeli settlers, something which has been declared illegal by the UN but any sanctions have been of course vetoed by the US.)

The asinine idea that Israel represents "the good guys" because it's a representative democracy is flawed because it is a state whose political institutions are set up to support a system that is actively hostile against the Palestinians, both those in illegally occupied territories in the West Bank and those under siege in Gaza, and any idea of Palestinian sovereignty. If one were to entertain the idea that Israel is a flawless democratic state whose government has direct support for its actions from its people, then it would paint the people of Israel in very unfavorable light.

Which isn't to say that all Israeli people are blameless, because there are definitely Israeli citizens who fully back the current violent system. There are Israeli civilians currently blocking humanitarian aid going into Gaza. There are Israeli soldiers happily firing at Palestinian civilians receiving aid or in refugee camps.

In fact, the idea that Israel is better because it's a democracy, to me, only achieves the reverse of what it's meant to: it frames the Israeli citizens as active political agents and the Palestinians as disenfranchised people with zero political agency. And it's the former people, with actual supposed political agency within their system, that are involved in a destructive military campaign against the latter. It's perverse.

So, no, the fact that Israel is a representative democracy does not automatically make it into one of the good guys (although many Western liberals and conservatives would like to pretend so, simply because Israel effectively exists within the periphery of "Western liberal democracies"). In fact, if it were a truly democratic state it would simply paint its actions as even more perverse. Most Israeli citizens do not have the actual means within the system to actually stop the state from doing what it was meant to do. The Israeli military, with orders from the Israeli government, isn't doing what it is currently doing because of a direct mandate from the people: it is doing it because that's what the Israeli military was meant to do and all the supposedly democratic systems from which actual citizens are isolated from are in support of it.

The greatest crime of most Israeli citizens in the current context isn't active participation in the illegal settlements or blocking aid going into Gaza or killing civilians in Gaza. Their greatest crime is knowing that this is happening and not doing anything. Because it is extremely easy to look away and enjoy a life of privilege.

In most violent states, even supposedly democratic ones, throughout history the governments have, in fact, not enjoyed the full support of a plurality of the people. But governments don't need the full, undying support of the people, or even a majority of the votes, provided there are enough people who do not care, and provided the actual means of political engagement are insulated away from the people. In the early 2000s there was a not insignificant anti-war movement in the US opposed to the invasion of Iraq. But it didn't matter. Enough people didn't care, the state had already decided what was to be done, and all that needed to be done was to sell the violence as at least palatable to the wider populace. And even though in retrospect most people realize that the war was fought on flimsy grounds, caused untold civilian suffering, and destabilized the region for years to come all in the service of US interests, there has yet to be any reckoning for those who orchestrated it. Because even in a supposedly democratic system power can be insulated from accountability, and especially in a bourgeois democracy it rarely matters what the people want, because the state itself is often entangled with other interests.

Democratic states can carry out monstrous actions through sheer momentum of the power invested in them and they often do not even need or want for a mandate from the people for that monstrosity.

[toomuchracket]

all those dreams where you're my wife (birthday party!matty x reader)

(hi! a fic inspired by the ending of my most recent blurb for this universe. probably a bit shit, i won't lie, but i thought it was kinda cute. i'm sure you can guess what it entails... enjoy! <3)

it's one of those mornings when you maintain that your boyfriend could have titled his second album based on himself.

you watch matty from the doorway of the master bedroom, his grey-streaked curls splayed across the same bright white pillows his handsome face is half-smushed into. the duvet covers have bunched around his waist, giving you a perfect view of his muscular arms and un-tattooed back, decorated with little crescent moon indents courtesy of your fingernails. suddenly, he moves, and your view changes; you can now clearly see matty's face, softened by slumber, pretty lips open ever so slightly and long dark eyelashes resting almost against his cheekbone. a gentle wave of love washes over you as you watch him sleep, wondering if he's dreaming about you in the same romantic ways you dream about him (he definitely is). he looks so content that you almost don't want to wake him, but the breakfast tray in your arms is growing heavy, so you must.

setting it down gently on the table at matty's side of the bed and perching on the edge of the bed, you lift the little bunch of flowers from the tray in one hand, and softly caress matty's cheek and jaw with the other. "matty, baby, it's time to wake up, c'mon."

languidly, matty presses his face further into your hand, twisting his head to kiss it, before blinking his eyes open. once he's shuffled to sit up against the headboard and adjusted to the sunshine-brightness of the room, he smiles lovingly at you, taking in your (his) mazzy star t-shirt and the flowers you're holding; when he registers the latter, some deeper emotion seems to settle itself in matty's dark eyes, but you can't quite explain what it is. you don't dwell on it - instead, you lean down to kiss your boyfriend's forehead and lay the flowers gently on his bare chest. "bonjour, mon amour. as-tu bien dormi?"

"ok, i understood the first bit," matty replies, his voice gravelly from sleep (quite sexy, if you do say so yourself). "and bonjour to you too, mon petit chou."

"you know you just called me your little cabbage, right?"

"i was trying to call you 'sweetheart'," matty groans, trying to hide his whole face in your palm, presumably to escape mortification. "how do you say that again?"

"chouchou. two of them. you were close! try again, babe."

"nope, my seduction attempt's ruined now," comes the characteristically overdramatic reply, muffled by your hand. "i fucked up my big sexy french-speaking moment, and now you're going to run off with timothee chalamet so he can seduce you with it instead, fucksake."

you snort. "me run off with him? are you sure you're not talking about yourself?"

"i'm not the one who spent a whole afternoon watching videos of him speaking french in interviews non-stop after we watched dune, am i?"

"and i'm not the one who admitted to an interviewer that they had 'interesting feelings' and had a crush on him after call me by your name, am i?"

"but you did, though, didn't you? i bet you did. he's your type, defini-"

"enough about him," you interject, moving your hand over your boyfriend's mouth to prevent hearing his analysis of your type in men, which would inevitably lead to a narcissistic tangent considering matty's, well, the blueprint for it. "do you like the flowers? i picked them for you earlier."

matty looks down at the bouquet of tulips and daisies resting on his chest, eyes softening. "they're beautiful, sweetheart, thank you. what's the occasion?"

he knows full well what the occasion taking place today is, but there's no way that you do.

"just thanking you for bringing me here. and coming to paris with me," you shrug. your head dips bashfully, and matty's heart soars in response; he loves you unconditionally all the time, he really does, but there's just something about seeing you all shy and sweet and blushy that makes his knees weaken. if he was to stand up right now, he knows his legs would simply crumple, and that certainty grows tenfold when you meet his gaze and grin. "wouldn't have gone on this trip without you - everything i wrote in that novel was either for or about you, even before i knew it. so... yeah, they're flowers of gratitude. and love, obvs."

"i love you too," matty smiles, placing the flowers to one side and pulling you into his chest in replacement. "and i'm so - god, i don't even know what to say about being the subject of your writing - honoured? yeah, honoured. this has been the best two weeks of my life, honestly, being here with you."

"i know i said it in paris," you snuggle further into matty, and he kisses your hair. "but i really, really don't want to go home."

"neither do i, sweetheart, but we need to at some point, yeah? mayhem'll be missing us."

"oh, my baby," you sigh wistfully. matty's glad your face is tucked into his chest right now, so you can't see him beaming like an idiot about how much you love his dog. not that you don't know how down bad matty is for you already, but he reckons he should probably try to keep his cool a bit, stay focused, for today of all days. "alright, we can go home. for him only."

matty presses a kiss to your temple, tracing little swirls into your arm. "exactly, babe. we do still have one more night here to focus on, too."

a fucking huge night.

"and on that note, we should probably think about starting to get ready," you peel yourself off your boyfriend - with great reluctance - and stretch, before crawling towards the bottom of the bed (matty makes no attempt to hide his ogling of your bum, mostly bare with the exception of a tiny black thong he's mentally patting himself on the back for buying you) and standing. "will you join me in the shower after you've had your coffee? want you to wash my hair, please."

"of course. will you do mine in return?"

"duh!" you blow matty a kiss. "see you in a bit, lover."

he pretends to catch the kiss and presses it to his heart, which coaxes a giggle and a wink from you before you disappear into the bathroom. holding his quickly-cooling coffee in one hand, periodically taking sips, matty reaches down under his side of the bed to rifle in his carry-on bag, categorising items by texture and bypassing them until he finds the little velvet cube he's looking for.

after downing his cappuccino and setting down the mug, matty does nothing but sit and look at this box for a moment, marvelling at how something so small can hold something significant of one of, if not the biggest commitment he and you could make to each other. but despite the gravitas of the situation, he doesn't feel nervous. here, now, listening to you sing like a virgin as you potter about the ensuite and hissing and swearing at the freezing water temperature when you turn the shower on, there is nothing but love and hope and certainty in his mind; matty wants to marry you, simple as that, and tonight is the perfect night to ask you to do so.

this certainty doesn't diminish at all, either - if anything, matty's decision to propose is only affirmed throughout the day, through everything you do that reminds him how much he loves you. like the way you wordlessly and gently wash his hair for him; your habit of pre-empting what he needs at any given moment simply because you know him so well; the myriad of kisses and compliments and hugs and soft touches you gift him with. the way it takes you twenty minutes to tell a joke because the thought of it made you laugh too hard to talk; how you look at and listen to him intently when he speaks; your incredible insight and way with words turning the most mundane things into the most beautiful, in matty's eyes. speaking of beauty: the way you look right now, sitting opposite him in your new dress; the smile you gave him when he told you in complete earnestness that "you are the most gorgeous person in the known universe. and the unknown, too"; the way your eyes lit up earlier when you recognised the name of the vineyard you're currently sat in, the same name as on the bottles of the wine that you and matty bonded over all those years ago, the same wine that led to you confessing your feelings for each other, and the same wine that you've shared together to celebrate every occasion since then.

the ring has been burning a hole in the front pocket of matty's trousers for hours, desperate to be presented to you and slid onto your recently-manicured (he checked when your nail appointment was before he planned the holiday and proposal, obviously) finger. matty did almost get down on one knee while you were touring the grounds a few hours ago, walking between the rows of grapes, and you made him laugh by unexpectedly calling an obnoxious american man in the same group a "fucking wankstain" under your breath; as soon as he began to shuffle his foot back in kneeling preparation, though, he stopped himself. too eager, healy, she deserves more romance than this.

he could do it right now, and it would work. it's certainly romantic enough - the two of you sat at an outdoor table, illuminated only by moonlight and candlelight respectively, soundtracked by quiet, soft classical piano music, a vintage edition of the wine you love so much being shared between you. it would work, yeah, but it's still not totally right. matty's undeterred, though; he's not sure what's convincing him of this, other than the vague sense of anticipation crackling in the night air, but he knows the perfect moment is nearby. and neither of you are in a rush - the wine is only half-drunk, and another bottle will make its way to the table once that one is gone.

so he'll wait. impatiently, yeah, but he'll do it. the perfect moment will come along, and matty will ask you to be his wife.

you, his wife. perfect, talented, lovely you, currently interrupting his "waiting" reverie by tapping a platform sandaled-foot against his leg and smiling sweetly. "what's going on in that pretty head of yours, hmm?"

"just thinking about you. well, us." not a lie.

you smile shyly, taking a sip of your wine before leaning back in the chair and resting your glass lightly against your chest. reflected candlelight warms your slightly sleepy eyes, locked intently on matty's own. "what about us are you thinking about?"

"everything. us in the future, us now, us in the past." matty pauses for dramatic effect, knowing exactly how you'll react to his next words. "how good an idea i had when i decided to kiss you at that birthday party."

your reaction is just as matty expected - you raise your eyebrows coolly, pointing your index finger at him in warning. "christ, not this again. you know full well it was me who instigated that."

matty laughs. "nope, as i recall, it was all me; you did nothing that night except try to give yourself a nicotine addiction." his face softens before he speaks again, voice quietening to match. "and as much as i think you're insane for constantly trying to take up smoking, i am so glad you walked outside to bother me for a cig that night. i mean, look at where it led us."

putting your wine down, you gaze at matty so lovingly he thinks he might swoon - this is not helped by your next move, leaning across the table to press your lips to his in a gentle but lingering kiss. after you break apart and matty wrestles back control of his brain from you, he takes both of your hands in his own, rubbing his calloused thumbs across your knuckles and the permanent ink stains on the side of your index finger. "you warm enough, darlin'? hands feel a bit cold."

"a little bit, but the wine's helping," you shrug. "i'll be alright, babe."

the goosebumps spreading up your bare arms in the cool breeze suggest otherwise to matty - he quickly rids himself of his suit jacket, standing to settle it on your shoulders. "there we go."

"matty, i'm al-"

"don't be a martyr, baby, please," matty smiles softly at you as he returns to his seat. he gestures to his dress shirt-clad chest. "see? long sleeves. you need the jacket more than i do."

you sigh, then look sheepish. "yeah, that is better, thank you. i'm also gonna... just to try and warm my neck a bit."

sliding an arm out from under his jacket, matty watches as you take the tortoiseshell claw clip from your hair, shaking the wavy tresses out and leaving them to settle around your beautiful face. then, you take a lazy sip of your wine, before setting the glass down and beaming at him, the picture of comfort and contentment. and something in matty's brain just clicks.

of course. of course it would be you who gave matty the perspective he needed - you do it every day, after all. that simple action of taking your hairclip out, one you must do constantly without thinking too much, if anything, about, and the obvious relaxation that followed... that was the key. the perfect moment has been unlocked.

now is the time for matty to ask you to marry him.

it's as if the crackling anticipation in the air has culminated in a lightning strike, like in back to the future - the right energy is coursing through the atmosphere, and matty knows he has to pull a marty mcfly and seize this moment to change the course of his life for the better, before it slips away.

so, in a quick movement sequence punctuated by awestruck gasps from you, matty practically jumps out of his chair and moves to stand beside yours, pulling the ring box out of his pocket and kneeling; only once he's slowly lifted the lid - ironically at about the same speed the DeLorean doors open - does matty look up at you, tears beginning to pool along his lower lashline already. "so, i think you'll have an idea of what i'm doing down here-"

you giggle, sniffling a bit yourself, and nod.

"-but i have a whole speech prepared, and i'd like you to hear it. ok?" another nod from you, which makes matty smile. "right. here goes - fuck, you're so cute."

not how matty had envisioned his proposal to you beginning, but the way you look right now - eyes wet but sparkling, starlight on sea, cheeks lifting in an elated smile despite the way you've pressed your lips together to keep from exclaiming - is too adorable to go unaddressed.

"ok," matty laughs, then shakes his head and inhales deeply. "i know i'm prone to being dramatic, and exaggerating, but when i say that the seven years i've known you have been the best seven years of my life, i'm doing neither. it's the truth, darlin' - especially these last two years, where i've had the privilege to officially love you and be yours, although i've unofficially been doing those things a lot longer. how could i help that, though? you're so beautiful it breaks my heart, but so kind that it heals immediately, and you're unflinchingly loyal to the people you care about, even when they don't make it easy for you." he pauses, briefly, to bite back the sob building in the back of his throat. "you saw me at my absolute worst and you still stuck around. which i am so grateful for, because i really do think you bring out the best in me. and also in the world in general; i am so envious of the way you can turn the most quotidian things into the most stunning, through your perspective and your unparalleled talent with words. to be given insight into your thoughts every day is the second greatest gift in my life, only beaten by the mind-boggling fact that you, for whatever reason, love me. if you'll allow me to be a little bit self-indulgent, i would love to keep both receiving those gifts and being granted the privilege to love you and be yours for the rest of our lives, officially, and also to spend that same amount of time doing whatever i can to make you happy. i love you, sweetheart, so much. will you marry me?"

you're nodding furiously and beginning an ecstatically teary monologue before he's even finished the question. "yes, yes, an infinite number of times, yes. i love you. i can't wait to be your wife. wife! jesus christ. i'm gonna marry you. oh my god. this is insane. i love you so much. thank you."

after your monologue ends, matty stands and gently takes your left hand, bringing it to his lips before sliding the delicate ring onto its designated finger. you both take a moment to admire it, gemstone sparkling almost as much as your eyes in the romantic lighting, before your eyes lock. matty beams at you. "s'perfect."

"it really is," you say, wiggling your hand in different directions before bringing it up to rest on your fiance's (!!!) face. "and so was that speech. you're incredible, healy. i can't wait to share that last name, and forever, with you."

with that, you pull matty's lips onto yours. the kiss is a little bit damp and salty, because of your shared tears, but it's the best kiss you two have ever had. the red wine lingering on your lips makes it seem like the first all over again, to matty. with a jolt, he realises that it kind of is - your first kiss as a couple betrothed.

as the kiss deepens, you pull matty impossibly closer to you, arching your back against the table - at the sound of a loud thud against it, though, you break apart to see your wine glass on its side, the burgundy contents spreading out over the table. you swear, rifling through your handbag for tissues to clean up the spillage; your fiance, in contrast, continues to hold your waist as he laughs at your clumsiness. "maybe we shouldn't have red wine at our wedding. seems like a dangerous game, what with you in white and all, yeah?"

you faux-glare at matty, before giggling and abandoning the spillage. "yeah," you smile, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. "we should probably just stick to champagne."

"well, there's our next holiday destination sorted. champagne region. you up for that?"

"honestly," you begin, kissing all over matty's stubbly face before ending with a peck on his lips. "i'd go anywhere with you, my husband-to-be. i love you."

"i love you too, my future wife."

#into the birthday partyverse #mads does writing #mads muses #matty healy fanfiction #matty healy x reader #matty x reader #matty healy fic #matty healy fluff

[obae-me]

ooo i have a suggestion!! (if you're still taking them)

how about mammon and an mc who won't let him get out of bed in the morning?

So sweet! I can definitely do something with this! Thank you for the suggestion!

‐-------------------

How does one tell when it's morning in a realm where the sun doesn't even exist? For the longest time, the only thing MC had to go off of was the clock on their D.D.D. Everything else felt unchanging. However, the longer they remained down here, the more they adjusted. Sure, the moon was ever-constant, darkness persisting through morn, noon, and night, but they began wake up naturally to the peaceful silence that came just after dawn, the crooked-horned toads and devil doves coming together in a chorus as the day started.

Well, there was that and the fact that Mammon was a surprisingly early riser. Perhaps time really was money, and the longer he was awake meant the more he could gain. So, when MC's first pact-mate began to frequently keep them safe by 'guarding' the bed, they found themselves waking up anytime the demon of greed rather un-stealthily got ready for the day.

But on this particular morning, MC was not having it. Morning dew that sparkled across the lawns and the leaves like the stars in the sky be damned. This was the weekend. So when they felt the demon next to them start to pull back the comforter and let all that cold air rush in? They clamped their arm around his waist and pulled him back in.

"Hey!" Mammon exclaimed, his voice deeper than usual, slightly cracking with the grogginess that comes with just waking up.

They ignored his cry, locking their legs around his and clinging onto him. If he were to move, he would have to either pry them off or carry them out. Both of which he could easily do, but he wouldn't, they knew that. "Stay," they ordered, eyes still shut, more than likely still half asleep.

He scoffed a bit, trying to turn around while still in their clutches so he could face them. "What, am I your personal heater or somethin'?"

Perhaps, but that wasn't the only reason. Maybe they simply just found comfort in his presence, being able to sleep soundly with him in their dreams. Maybe times like these sated that inner craving for peace. He was always calmer in the mornings. Whether that be due to exhaustion or being around them, MC would never really know, but they wanted to trust in their heart of hearts that it was the latter. "Just... be with me longer," they asked, the grip they held on his sleep shirt suggesting that they would be hard pressed to accept no as an answer.

Mammon sighed. "Well, when you say it like that, I can't deny ya." He shifted a little as he settled back against his pillow. They felt as he took his hand and ran it over their head, settling his palm on the back of their neck as he pulled them closer, keeping them close to his chest. MC gave one last yawn before falling back asleep, finally satisfied having out-tempted a demon. Mammon simply smiled before shutting his own eyes, his heart warm at the thought of his human giving into greed, and that the thing they so desperately wanted was himself. “Mammon, you idiot,” he whispered. “What did you do to get so attached to a human like this? You’re really in for it now.” But he was fine with it. He knew love tended to be a risky gamble, but for them...he’d bet the house on it. Even if that meant being stuck in bed for the next few hours till they woke up. An easy sacrifice to make. 

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me mammon #obey me mammon x mc

[edwad]

it’s not that you think marx should be read primarily as an economist. it’s that your project of contextualizing marx in terms of the economic thought that both predates and follows him is valuable, but it runs up against hard limits in terms of both explanatory power and ability to generate practice that you can only solve by situating marx in the context of the actual political movements that both produced and drew from him and the concrete actions that resulted (cont.)

you wont find the key to a systemic analysis of capitalism purely in the realm of ideas, whether they be economic, philosophical, or political, you need to connect your analysis to some sort of concrete political reality for it to have any teeth. sure, no movement has succeeded at ‘achieving communism’ but they have made undeniable gains in the anti-colonial struggle and general social welfare (cont.) the latter thing, despite what you say frustratingly often, is not simply reducible to social democracy, and it shows how little understanding you have of the actual material history (as opposed to ideological), that you think western social democracy is comparable to the social welfare achievements of socialist countries, and that’s without even taking to account that the former is directly predicated on imperialism and neo-colonial exploitation of the global south

im finally getting around to this 3-message wall of text which i should realistically ignore because its not really productive and its clear by the end that youre just typing your frustrations at me, but it gives me a chance to say a bit more about a particular angle of what im doing with marx.

you say:

"your project of contextualizing marx in terms of the economic thought that both predates and follows him [...] runs up against hard limits in terms of both explanatory power and ability to generate practice that you can only solve by situating marx in the context of the actual political movements that both produced and drew from him and the concrete actions that resulted"

what limits? and what explanatory power is lost here? you dont say, although your immediate pivot toward the need to "generate practice" implies that youre suggesting some sort of practice-oriented information. frankly, i dont really understand why this enters here. if marx is totally wrong (which is further than i would go!) and nothing can be salvaged from him whatsoever, you would be upset because this critique of him wouldnt generate immediate practice? on what grounds could that desire for practice even be justified? marxist ones? some new, un-marxist one which can only come out of this (assumed to be, for sake of argument) successful critique of marx which still, for some reason, is immediately interested in the development of practice (sounding an awful lot like marxism btw)? or is your problem simply that it fails to account for actual marxisms after marx? if its the last option, then thats a non-criticism if part of my point is that i am trying to say something new about marx. the fact that he might've been received otherwise would only work as a refutation of my criticism if it weren't a necessary part of the criticism itself (ie, id be wrong for agreeing with myself).

whichever one of these it is, it misses the point. however it works as a segue to what i imagine you really want to talk about, which is concrete struggles. your initial way of getting there is to try and make me reckon with a proper contextualization of marx in his political environment as well as those he influenced. the latter, as ive just said, isn't necessarily damning (because it is part of my point), but the former is definitely worth lingering on.

so you say in your second message

"you wont find the key to a systemic analysis of capitalism purely in the realm of ideas, whether they be economic, philosophical, or political, you need to connect your analysis to some sort of concrete political reality for it to have any teeth"

you seem to think i fail to do this. ironically, i see my chief criticism of marx to be that *he* fails to do this. he tries to identify the development of political economy out of patterns of class struggle, but he constantly gets the facts wrong on both counts. yet even if we could take him at his word and assume he got all of these things right (which is definitely necessary for coming to terms with the nature of marx's project as he saw it), then i would argue that he actually saw his political environment as being shaped, in large part, by the reception of political economy in the workers' movement. this is already clear from the radical/popular economic literature which, in his eyes, arose and declined alongside (and, to some extent, within) the ricardian school, which is why he deals with it at length in theories of surplus value (in a deliberately historical mode, for the record). the socialist appropriation of economic categories to explain the ills of capitalism is something which animates much of his work beginning in the 40s. for example, in the poverty of philosophy, he announces at the outset that he aims to "protest" the "double error" of seeing proudhon as a "good German philosopher" or "one of the ablest French economists" on the basis of marx's being both german and an economist. this goes to show the economic terrain of marx's approach to his socialist rivals and how significant the economic angle was to him and to the movement around him more broadly. the critique of his rivals (especially proudhon) as economic thinkers appears again in capital, as william clare roberts has demonstrated in his work.

but also, at a different level, he very deliberately intervenes in engels' anti-dühring by contributing a single chapter which is *specifically* designed to take dühring to task for his critical history of political economy, in large part (as reading the text makes obvious) because marx alleges that dühring gets the history wrong. this was because, among other things, dühring's work was having a large influence on the german socialist movement and several of marx and engels' peers. this wasn't some apolitical intervention, it had meaningful stakes for marx's practical work. clearly, the critique of political economy and the ability to properly account for the history of economic thought was politically significant for both marx and the socialist movement around him. if i am being accused of over-estimating this angle, then that would only serve as another criticism of marx himself.

however, you continue (or, really, you pivot entirely, but you continue talking)

"sure, no movement has succeeded at ‘achieving communism’ but they have made undeniable gains in the anti-colonial struggle and general social welfare[.] the latter thing, despite what you say frustratingly often, is not simply reducible to social democracy, and it shows how little understanding you have of the actual material history (as opposed to ideological), that you think western social democracy is comparable to the social welfare achievements of socialist countries, and that’s without even taking to account that the former is directly predicated on imperialism and neo-colonial exploitation of the global south

this has absolutely nothing to do with what im dealing with here, and its bizarre of you to include it in the first place, not least because you seem to think that by me criticizing communists around me for not having a political horizon capable of overcoming social democracy, that i am overly critical of socialist experiments in the 20th century for feeding themselves. if anything, i think the point of political theory should be to achieve the greatest possible "good" (whatever that might be taken to mean) for the greatest majority of people. despite their obvious flaws, i count the 20th century socialist experiments as among the greatest examples of social organization ever achieved and if communism were proven to be impossible tomorrow, i would be a dogmatic social democrat (ive actually said this for years).

im not the cartoonish ultra leftist that some of you think i am, as if i care more about establishing some magical bar for communism than i do about the people who are supposed to reach it and live in it. i dont say any of those things "frustratingly often", and youre unable to correctly attribute my own views to me, which i think is pretty telling. if anything, the things i try to talk about here dont stem from an allergy to anything less than whatever perfect ideal i might hold in my head, its out of a frustration with communists who dont even recognize that they might as well be social democrats. thats not necessarily an insult (ive worked with a lot of good social democrats in my life and will continue to do it as long as it produces worthwhile results), its just supposed to clarify the stakes and what i see as the limits to their analysis of the system (which ought to matter to them, even if i dont get much out of it!).

my focus on the history of economic thought as it relates to marx's critique of political economy, is admittedly pretty far removed from some of this stuff, but i dont take that distance between the two as a problem of my ability to reckon with the global south or the success-rate of communist movements around the world, i take it as an issue which only results from the overexertion of your stretched criticism to try and get me to talk about something else. next time you want my opinion on something other than what im posting about, you can just ask!

[hamofjustice]

nemona's sync pair story in pokemon masters ex can be viewed anytime as soon as you recruit her, and in just a couple minutes of dialogue we scarlet/violet story analyzers get some great subtext-made-text and new subtext:

confirmation of one instance of nemona working herself really hard for the sake of others and seeing anything less as a display of her own weakness and letting them down (even if the others are her pokemon in this case). it's something that i thought always seemed likely to be a theme with her if we knew more about her, with stuff like her mostly un-commented-on arm brace / compression glove and perfectly clean room nearly devoid of personality outside of her meticulous schedule and displays of her achievements, and what that implied about her relationship with her family, teachers, and idol

recontextualization of why she wears sporty athletic wear and runs around everywhere, even though she's a straight-A nerd who has to take a break every 50 feet when she initially takes you to school and is still winded enough to be worthy of comment from arven by the time you're running around in area zero

the fact that penny, the otaku shut-in, did not get called out like this means either she performed exactly as arven expected her to based on how she looked, or that nemona was doing the worst out of all of the group and might actually have some kind of chronic condition / disability like some fans theorize. nemona's stamina now being revealed to be a long standing insecurity of hers despite shrugging it off with a joke in area zero implies the latter to me

if she shrugged off a long standing insecurity with a joke, that could potentially say a lot about any other things she didn't want to make a big deal about that fans are a little suspicious of, like saying her parents were "hands-off in a good way" with her while her sister got all the attention, which i definitely think was an deflective understatement or simply not realizing there's a problem

and if her low stamina and "bad throwing" are in fact due to some kind of condition and mostly out of her control, that also makes her calling herself weak that much more tragically unfair to herself. someone hug this kid please

i trust these folks to write a compelling nemona if they were given the chance to, not just a fun and cute one. they get it.

her 15 minute storyline from her debut event is mostly just good fun with her meeting a bunch of people and almost winning a big tournament with her new friends hilda and bede. it also, however, touches upon how sad she is that people mostly get jealous of her rather than feel inspired by her (which she actually comes up with a motivational speech to try and combat this time, with hilda's help). it even has her tell blue and bede that florian/juliana back home is "a precious treasure" to her, which made me melt into boiling taffy.

now i'm looking forward to whatever else they come up with when nemona's more plot-driving friends arrive. despite how cheesy and hit-or-miss pokemon masters tends to be, they're treating scarlet/violet with respect so far. it's canon to me. i kinda need that right now when we're not sure what the friend trio are gonna get in the DLC of the actual game.

#nemona pokemon #pokemon sv #pokemon scarvio #pokemas spoilers #nemona #pokemon scarlet and violet #pokemon masters #pokemas #nemonaposting #there is a big sense of relief knowing that the deeper subtext to her simple text is not just in my head and people in charge see it #like i have won the battle that i was in and now i can just chill #just like in-universe people need to know nemona is struggling to be able to really appreciate her fully and not just on a surface level #if it was immediately obvious from the get go i'd probably be significantly less invested #note: this is a datamine she's not actually out until the pokemon presents on the 8th if you're reading this before then lol #the 8th will probably also be the last chance to show us nemona arven and penny in the DLC trailers if they're going to

[14dayswithyou]

hi hiii! I loveeee your blog sm I just wanted to say <33 And also I was just wondering — I’m not sure if you’re familiar with MHA, so if you’re not then dw about this^^ but if the main cast had quirks, then what types do you think they would have? + Do you think they’d go into pro hero work? I was thinking about it for renren and i felt like a quirk similar to toga would make sense (turning into people with their blood = changing his appearance/personality for angel?), but i wanted to hear ur thoughts!!

✦゜ANSWERED: I've never heard of MHA in my life (I've been married to mr Shigaraki Crusty Ass Tomura himself since the moment he showed up in the manga <3)

Ren "Quirkless", but pretends to be one of Pro Hero Haruko's biggest fans to appeal to you. But if you have a quirk/are are pro hero as well, then he'll devote his entire life to you instead.

[REDACTED] Glitch quirk. He's able to manipulate a small area around himself into whatever he wants — including himself and anyone caught inside it. Doesn't align himself with heroes or villains, but has the morals of the latter.

Moth Also quirkless, but dedicates most of their free time to running the #1 fanblog for Pro Hero Haruko. They'd love to work for his agency if it were possible, even as an intern.

Violet Prediction quirk. She can see the next 60 seconds of someone's future — but only if they inhale the scent coming from the flowers growing around her figure. A pro hero that's currently ranked #9.

Elanor (Un)lucky quirk. Something bad happens to her at the expense of giving someone else good luck. Usually involves small things like tripping over her feet or tearing her hero costume. Currently a sidekick to an unnamed pro hero in the hundreds.

Conan "Quirkless", but only because someone needs to run a library and it's definitely not going to be Teo. He won't admit to being something of a vigilante in his younger days.

Jae Water quirk. Anything he touches turns into a liquid form, which he can manipulate and control at will. It all goes back to normal after a certain amount of time though. An aspiring pro hero after Teo (unintentionally) saved his life when he was younger.

Leo Blood quirk. He can use his own blood to create bladed weapons or heal others even if they're not compatible. Became a pro hero alongside Jae and Teo, and is currently ranked #23 due to his selfless and protective nature.

Teo Glock quirk lmao. Calls himself "Hotshot" and goes around manifesting illegal firearms from thin air. He only made the top 10 because of his looks, flirtatious personality, and because he's a nepo baby whose parents were the #2 and #4 heroes.

#Teo being a child of nepotism is such a real and raw take I'm honestly embarrassed it took me this long to realise #💌 — answered. #💖 — 14 days with queue. #to be tagged later #no tags on mobile </3 #bnha au tag pending

[d3lta-2005]

The Shelby Brothers with an S/O that has a thick Scottish accent.

TW: cannon typical violence :D

NO GENDER SPECIFIED

B/T = body type

F/C = favourite colour

H/C = hair colour

*Thomas Shelby*

You where probably in the pub drunk telling people stories from your journey up in Scotland or about the folk lore.

Let's just say when Thomas walked in most people whent silent but a little group in the corner including you. You cought his eye almost instantly with your thick accent and your stunning B/T, he kept his stone cold face walking up to you. He introduces himself because you were clearly new around Birmingham, as he does so he offers you a drink as a get to know him gift. You end up taking to eachother for almost the hole night.

Latter on in the week when he sees you at the pub he offers to take you out for the day. Overall he seems un bothered by your accent and where you have come from.

*Arthur Shelby*

You walked into the pub to get a drink. Arthur was serving drinks to people behind the bar, you walked up and asked for something to drink

Arthur looked at you blank faced for a minute. 'what?!' he's shocked some one had come into his pub with a thick accent to order a drink. He would definitely try to flirt with you, he dose find your accent attractive thought so that's got to count for something right?

Whenever Arthur gets angry you are normally able to calm him down with your voice, he finds your voice very suthing and relaxing so he might try to find you after a stressful day to relax and see how your day has been. Overall he finds your voice relaxing.

*John Shelby*

How on earth did you meet this man, and how did you get that drunk and have enough balls to talk to him, the first thing he noticed was you accent and complimented you on it he offered to buy you a cupple of drinks.

He then agreed to meet up once every week and you would take it in turns to buy drinks. Overall he loves to hear you speak and loves to hear you talk about Scotland.

#thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x male reader #thomas shelby x female reader #arthur shelby #arthur shelby x reader #arthur shelby x male reader #Arthur Shelby x female reade #john shelby #john shelby x reader #john shelby x male reader #John Shelby X female reader #gender neutral s/o #male s/o #female s/o #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #headcanon #mlm #flm #nblm

[thshenami]

So, about the English localization of FF7 Rebirth's sector 5 scenes

Sorry, this is going to be a long one, but I had recently seen on Reddit that several people mentioned the English localization for several chapter 14 scenes can be rather misleading. I decided to play through the opening cutscenes again in Spanish, since several people noted that it matches the original Japanese script very closely, and I neither speak nor read Japanese. My objective going into to this was to better understand several of the conversations that left me scratching my head.

For example, when Sephiroth comments on Cloud having a functional piece of white materia in the forest, the English line "Very poor form" left many of us scratching our heads. However, in Spanish he says "he de castigarte por ello", which can be interpreted as "I have to punish you for that". The English script creates a HUGE misunderstanding, and completely obscures the clear foreshadowing in the Spanish dialogue. Also, in Aerith's house she says to a very confused Cloud: "we could call it a homecoming" vs "hemos vuelto al planeta" (we have returned to the planet). The latter strongly implies that they are in the Lifestream, which they seemed to have fallen into at the end of Chapter 13.

The "date scene" also has some key differences between English vs Spanish. Notably, when the photographer says "you don't look like you're on a date, more like at a funeral. just have fun while you can, huh", in Spanish he says "no crees que haceis mala pareja? tu novia esta a punto de llorar. No teneis quimica, y punto" (don't you think you make a bad couple? your girlfriend is about to cry. you don't have chemistry, period). I mean, come on, he's WAY more savage in the Spanish version, and a lot clearer about why they lost the contest! I think the other party members would agree with that last point if they had to compare Cloud x Tifa vs Cloud x Aerith interactions throughout the game, with the former having chemistry that jumps off the screen.

Finally, several points of the conversation in the church scene between Cloud and Aerith seem to be clearer in Spanish, which honestly had me confused several times in the English version. I break down the entire English vs Spanish exchange below, structured as English/Spanish (with English interpretation in parentheses). I also put in both Cloud's low and high affection responses for reference.

Cloud: This is it right, our spot? / Aqui es donde querias venir? (Is this where you wanted to come?)

Aerith: Bingo / Has acertado (You got it)

Cloud: That was easy / Era obvio (It was obvious)

Aerith: I told you it was obvious / Eso es porque tenemos pocos recuerdos juntos (That's because we have too few memories)

Cloud: Well, you'll have to give me a harder one next time / Con el tiempo tendremos mas (We can make some more in the future)

Aerith: Oh, next time? / Eso es lo que quieres (Is that what you want?)

Cloud, low affection: Yeah, why not / Eso hacen los amigos, no (that's what friends do, right)

Cloud, high affection: Yeah, next time / Si, sin duda (Yes, definitely)

Aerith: At least I know now, where you and I stand, I mean. Thing is Cloud, I really like you. / Es un alivio saber lo que sientes (I'm relieved to know how you feel). Yo... te quiero (I... love you).

Aerith: But then, "like" can mean a lot of different things, can't it. Cause there's liking, and there's "liking. / Pero hay muchas formas de quere a alguien (But there are many ways to love someone). A cual crees que me refiero (Which one do you think I mean)?

Cloud: Seriously, what's going on? You've been weird all day. / Aeris, estas muy rara (Aeris, you are acting strange). Llevas todo el dia rara (You've been weird all day).

Aerith: I'm sorry / Permiteme un capricho ("Allow me to have a treat" is the literal translation, but it likely means "grant my strange/unusual wish" in this context).

Aerith: Whatever happens, don't blame yourself / Basta de sentirse culpable (Stop feeling guilty).

Aerith: Cloud, thank you / Cloud, ayudame (I need your help).

Aerith: Sorry, I'll be okay / Olvidalo, no he dicho nada (Forget I said anything).

She hands him the white materia, Cloud seems confused, and then:

Aerith: This isn't about me though, it's about saving the world, and you / Estoy segura de que esta materia salvara el mundo (I'm sure this materia will save the world).

Cloud then gets pushed into the rainbow light and, scene.

Much of the dialogue is the same between languages, but several points are clearer in Spanish: asking for Cloud to grant her wish before hugging him instead of abruptly apologizing first; telling him to stop feeling guilty (which alludes to his internal story arc); and telling him she needs his help before handing him the White materia vs "thank you" in the English script.

It is worth noting that the whole "te quiero" (i.e. I love you) part can be a bit misleading. In Spanish there are actually two ways to say "I love you": te quiero and te amo. The former is typically used in a more casual way such as for close friends or members of your extended family, and in some contexts can be interpreted as "I like you", which matches the English script. The latter "te amo" is typically meant to express "I'm in love with you" for romantic partners or deep love for close family members (such as your parents, siblings or children). So the Spanish dialogue seems to suggest that Aerith doesn't have overtly romantic feelings for Cloud. Side note, in Gongaga when Cloud asks if she still loves Zack, she simply replies "Si, aun le quiero" (yes, I still love him) in Spanish vs "Maybe, he's never given me a reason not to" in English. Again, the Spanish is so much clearer!

The differences that I thought changed the meaning of their dialogue the most are the English parts that mention "our spot", and the saving the world bits. For "our spot", in Spanish Cloud merely states the church is where she wanted to come, and does not refer to it as "our place" (nuestro sitio) like Aerith does prior to the church scene, which removes some of the confusion I had since it is not technically "their spot" (they first met on the Sector 8 plate, which she even reminds him of in Junon), but rather hers and Zack's. The change in the saving the world part also changes the subtext quite a bit, since the English version led some to believe that she was implying she could fill Tifa's role in the Lifestream sequence (i.e. be heroine of the inner plot), whereas the Spanish version places her focus entirely on being the heroine of the outer plot.

This analysis really makes me see these scenes in a whole new light (especially that photographer one, it's priceless in Spanish), as it makes them both clearer and more tragic. Now I really want to replay the entire game in Spanish, to see whether any other instances exist where the English is just too ambiguous compared to the Spanish, and hence the Japanese by association.

#final fantasy rebirth #cloud strife #aerith gainsborough #tifa lockhart #cloud x tifa #cloud x aerith

[y2kbugs-moved]

I'm going to debunk some Miguel misconceptions from movie-only fans, ok. I'm going to try my best to not sound like a dick, which is hard because it's early morning here and I really do want to clear things up.

Spoilers, obviously.

This is going to be very long (because I love to over-explain things), and I do want people to read all of this. I even highlighted important points in bold.

(Fanon portrayal is a whole other can of worms and I could make a post about that too, but I'm just going to stick with the biggest issues right now.)

Miguel is the villain!

The confusion of villain vs antagonist is a common one.

I'm going to use this site for definitions, but basically:

"In literature and film, an antagonist is a character or force that actively works against the protagonist or main character. Think of them as a roadblock with a clear purpose and well-defined reasons for their choices and actions."

"A villain is an amoral or evil character with little to no regard for the general welfare of others. They are driven by ambition, greed, lust, or a desire for power or revenge"

Indeed, a story can have both! A villain could also be the (major) antagonist, but not all antagonists are villainous. The site I linked actually lists some great examples from movies and I recommend looking through them! They're very clear.

A story can also have multiple antagonists and villains but it does take a bit to really pull it off. I'll make this brief and just speak my interpretation: The movie has two antagonists, but only one villain.

The Spot is both a villain (has evil motives, no regard for the welfare of others, driven by revenge) and an antagonist (a force directly opposing our protagonist, Miles Morales). He is actively trying to destroy the multiverse, and targets Miles specifically out of disproportionate revenge including wanting to kill his father, Jeff. Yes, he's goofy and incompetent at the start and has a inferiority complex, but he's still villainous. All of his actions are motivated by revenge, destruction, and perhaps pride.

Miguel/Spider-Man 2099 is an antagonist (Opposing force/obstacle to the protagonist), but, while having a few traits, ultimately not a villain (has ultimately good reasons and is driven by what he believes is right, even if his actions betray these).

Miguel is driven by trauma and an unflinching sense of order, and indeed he brings these beliefs to their extreme, resulting in his violent behavior in the latter part of the movie. He's trying to stop the Spot just as much as Miles is. He does not want to destroy the multiverse, he wants to keep it in check even if his theories about canon are ultimately wrong. The only non-supervillain person we see him be really violent to is Miles. He is described, both by Gwen and Peter B, as "a good leader/listener" and "just looks scary", and going by PB's reaction to how violent Miguel becomes, this isn't a normal occurence for him. He doesn't usually act like this. That's what pushes him to be like a villain, even if his motivations are good.

This isn't any defense of Miguel's actions in the movie, but to explain that what we are seeing here is a person who is ultimately a hero/"good guy" changed by trauma and refusing to compromise, therefore resulting in behavior that feels villainous to outsiders.

The third movie is yet to be released, but I have belief that Miguel will get some form of redemption but remain mostly an anti-hero and foil to Miles, while The Spot will always be the central villain.

And check out this Twitter thread on what Miguel is really like as a person. Images here:

2. Miguel is a vampire!

I'm not sure why people are so adamant about this one. I guess it's because vampires are hot, and he has fangs, but this is the most easily debunked one of all of these. Especially when you keep in mind that the only person describing him as being like a vampire is a teenager who just met him. I don't mind if you want to make Miguel a vampire in an alternate universe of your choosing, but to act like he is one in the main canon (ironic) is ignorant.

While the movie takes liberties and changes a few things from a Spider-person's origins, the core is generally the same. I see no reason at all for the writers to completely change Miguel's origin to make him a vampire. Not only is this just lazy, but it is also in my opinion disrespectful to the original writers who came up with his origin story.

I implore people to read the 1992 Spider-Man 2099 comic, it is really very good (but does have a few racial stereotypes early on unfortuunately), but for a brief rundown, Marvel Future Fight has a good summary of his story:

(Text: Miguel O'Hara is an engineer who worked for Alchemax in the year 2099. He was a genius in the field of genetics, but was reluctant when pressured by his higher-ups to imprint foreign genetic codes onto human physiology. After a test resulting in the hideous transformation and then death of the test subject, O'Hara attempted to resign from his position. However, he had a drink laced with a drug that bonds to the victim's DNA. To counteract the drug, he used a procedure to save himself, splicing his DNA with that of a spider, granting him enhanced senses and abilities.)

It does leave out what exactly the spider DNA gave him (and the fact that the genetic experiment was sabotaged by his boss) but it's a good summary that does not mention anything about vampires.

He has fangs which he can use to envenomate a person to paralyze them temporarily, and sharp talons under his fingernails (not part of or on top of) that can rend through metal and he uses to climb the walls instead of having sticky fingers.

All of the above points to being half-Spider DNA, nothing like a vampire.

3. Miguel is the Prowler/an Inheritor/Morlun!

I'm shocked some movie fans recognize these characters given their general ignorance of the comics, but...no.

I'm seeing something about Miguel and Prowler's musical cues having a similarity, while I can't check for myself, this is just something that occurs in media and narratives, and I would not be surprised that the music artists might reuse motifs just as animators reuse models, simply for convenience and time reasons.

Also, their masks look nothing alike.

If you've read through the whole post as I hoped, congratulations! Please go read the comics, there's a good reading guide here and a video overview of Miguel's origins here. You can easily read the comics online by just googling "Spider-Man 2099 1992 comic online" as a start.

#miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #atsv spoilers

[seleneinaseaofdreams]

mi sono divertita tantissimo a giocare a quest'evento, l'illustrazione è bellissima e questi nuovi personaggi li trovo molto simpatici, tra l'altro Nath e Roy sono amici e frequentano la stessa palestra.

Sicuramente giocherò a "NewGen" -sebbene non sia tradotto in italiano ma troverò comunque una soluzione-

Tra i nuovi flirt quello che attira maggiormente la mia attenzione è Thomas, sembra il più introverso e il suo sguardo è più malinconico rispetto agli altri, sarà interessante provare a scoprire qualcosa di più sulla sua personalità.

Devon è carismatico e affascinante, Roy sembra il più simpatico e sportivo, Amanda ha un portamento raffinato e sembra avere un bel caratterino.

Jason è comparso solo per qualche istante, possiamo considerarlo l'antagonista della storia ma a quanto pare anche lui è un possibile flirt, peccato non mi piaccia particolarmente da un punto di vista estetico.

Per concludere, è stato piacevole dialogare e trascorrere del tempo con Nath, ormai il mio caro "marito", nonostante nella storia originale non sia ancora arrivata al punto di sposarmi con lui, quest'evento è tipo un "flashforward" haha :')

Per rendere la cosa più veritiera avrebbero dovuto aggiungere l'anello nuziale allo sprite di Nath, secondo me.

Poi ho trovato molto tenera la scena in cui proprio quest'ultimo decide di preparare una cenetta solo per loro due, quant'è romantico il nostro Nick Flinch? ❤️

------

I had a lot of fun playing this event, the illustration is beautiful and I find these new characters very nice, Nath and Roy are also friends and go to the same gym. I will definitely play "NewGen" - even if it is not translated into Italian but I will find a solution anyway-

Among the new flirts the one that attracts my attention the most is Thomas, he seems the most introverted and his look is more melancholy than the others, it will be interesting to try to discover something more about his personality. Devon is charismatic and charming, Roy seems the nicest and sportiest, Amanda has a refined posture and seems to have a nice temper.

Jason only appeared for a few moments, we can consider him as the antagonist of the story but apparently he is also a possible flirt, too bad I don't particularly like him regarding physical appearance. To conclude, it was pleasant to talk and spend time with Nath, now my dear "husband", even if in the original story I haven't gotten to the point of getting married to him yet, this event is like a "flashforward" haha ​​:') To make it more truthful they should have added the wedding ring to Nath's sprite, in my opinion. Then I found the scene in which the latter decides to prepare a dinner just for the two of them very tender. How romantic is our Nick Flinch? ❤️

#amor doce #amour sucre #corazon de melon #dolce flirt #my candy love #nathaniel carello #edit #candy #campus life #high school life #lovelife #sweet amoris #mcl nathaniel #mcl castiel #mcl rayan #mcl priya #mcl hyun #mcl lysander #mcl kentin #mcl armin #castiel veilmont #rayan zaidi #sucrette #event #crossover

[evermetnotforgotten]

Found some old pieces and decided to put them up. Thank you to @whatiswhump for the encouragement and for always being so lovely. These don't really fit with anything anymore, but who cares :-) Enjoy.

content warnings: noncon, kidnapping, torture, murder, drugging.

Series One - Taken

Lev was dreaming.

Or—or he was spinning, but he was standing still. Definitely. Maybe. He wasn't sure. His head was light but for a brief moment, when gravity pressed down, and his chin flopped forward to his chest before bouncing back up again.

“Wh's happen?”

He couldn't tell whether he'd spoken the words, or they'd been spoken to him, or to someone else. He could hear them, could make out the separate shapes in the sounds, but they were fluffy, like cotton stuffing, and they floated away before he could grab and make sense of them.

“—s me?”

He did manage to grab, however, an object in front of him. It was hard, and square, and grey, and he could curl clumsy fingers around the sides of it. It wouldn't pull free. He wasn't—he wasn't strong enough. He tried to stand, but was held still at a point on his waist, and his breath hitched slightly at the vague awareness of being held down, secured to something. He didn't like it.

“Shh, love. You're okay. Here, drink this.” He only registered it after the fact, but he had taken what was offered to him with trembling hands, and had poured it down his throat. Another spin pushed at him, and the back of his head rested against a soft surface. It was as if he was upright, flat on his back, and hanging upside-down all at once.

What did Pierce always say? Breathe. In for four, out for eight. That's it.

He let the soothing baritone and the gentle pressure against his scalp anchor him. They slowly dragged him back under, to float there, in half-consciousness.

-

“He's just taken a Valium, makes him a little loopy sometimes.” Martin smiled softly, running fingers through the hair of the man now half-collapsed against his side. He reached across to Lev's lap, buckling the seatbelt that he had undone in his confusion.

The flight attendant looked sympathetic, returning his smile with a look that said oh, the poor dear. She handed Martin the two in-flight meals, and the two bottles of juice to go with them, and pushed the bulky trolley a few feet further down the aisle to serve the passengers behind them.

He was just so cute like this. Curled up, moderately confused, unwittingly obedient… Martin had hoped it would last until tarmac, as there was only a couple of hours left of the journey, but it had been difficult to calculate. He had a knack for estimating these things, usually getting it just right, but there were multiple factors at play here. The amount Lev had eaten beforehand, for instance, or his weight—though Martin supposed the latter would only serve to work in his favour. Lev was only of a medium build, lithe, a little on the thin side. It didn't take much.

The first dose needed to be quite small, so that Lev was just lucid enough to make it through airport security. Martin had even gone to the effort of slipping a small bag of unmarked pills in the carry-on of the couple in front of them, trying to contain a smirk when they inevitably got pulled up by officials and it caused a scene. The stunned un-responsiveness of his “partner” could then easily be played off as shock at the drama unfolding before them, quiet as they were both quickly ushered through the metal detectors—also, it was amusing.

Just as amusing were the text messages that he'd had the good fortune of reading on Lev's phone, just before they'd had to leave to catch their flight. It had been buzzing relentlessly, the display lighting up with the words Call incoming: Graham Pierce every time. Martin had lifted the hand of his unconscious soon-to-be hostage, silently cheering when the fingerprint unlocking system worked, and scrolled through them. The texts got increasingly more emotional, more desperate—god, he'd wished that he could have taken the phone along with them. He'd had to commit them to memory instead.

He'd never been this bad before, not for himself. He got jittery just thinking about it, about pulling this whole thing off.

It was thrilling.

-

What the fuck. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

Pierce reached for his phone, having to fight off the icy shock that was threatening to paralyse him in order to do so. With shaking hands—whether from anger or fear, or both, he couldn't tell—he picked it up from where he'd half-thrown it to the other end of the couch, moments before.

He had to be sure. That it wasn't some kind of a prank, or a fake. His heart was jackhammering so fast. He slowly turned the phone over to take a closer look at the dark, slightly blurry photograph on the screen.

The first thing he zoned in on wasn't the blood, or the bruises—it was the gag, and the first thought that he had was about how Lev would hate that. The second thought was about how there was actually a lot of blood, now that he had a proper look at it. It was all over the man's face, covering most of his nose, lips and chin, and had soaked into the material of the gag, which looked to be some kind of tightly pulled cloth or canvas. A nasty, mottled bruise decorated the space high on one cheek. His eyes were closed. Sleeping. Or unconscious. There was blood smeared across the green tiles underneath him.

Not. Not dead. He couldn't be dead.

Pierce tried to pry his jaw from itself, almost hurting from how hard he had been clenching it. Utterly unable to just sit there and do nothing, he took a deep breath—in for four, out for eight—and tapped on the little phone icon beside the number, dialling it.

It rang... and it rang out.

Pierce let out a sound of frustration. He dialled again.

This time, the call was answered immediately, and he recognised the smooth, clipped, deep voice instantly.

"Graham."

"Martin? What's—what do you want?"

A light chuckle from the other end of the phone. "If you have to ask, you're not ready yet."

Okay. He needed to tread carefully, now that he knew who he was dealing with. He'd always suspected that deep underneath the surface the man was a proper psycho, just never had reason to believe it. Well—the fact that the man worked for the Mob should have been the first major tip-off, but he couldn't hold that against him. Pierce was many things, but he wasn't a hypocrite.

"Let me speak to him. Please."

"Tell me his middle name."

Pierce blinked. "What?"

"Hmm. And here I thought he actually meant something to you."

"Wait, no, just—I'll co-operate. I just need proof of life."

"He's alive. You'll take my word for it. You'll also answer my question. Surely you know what it is by now." Though Martin was using the familiar, orders-only style language of the Mob, his tone remained calm, almost pleasant. “Don't tell me you're too chickenshit to have asked him already.”

"It's Alexander."

"Aha, I knew it had to be something pretty like that. Lev Alexander Johnson." He said the name as if feeling it roll around in his mouth.

Pierce was about to snarl out a response when a faint moan filtered through the speaker of the phone, causing him to freeze in place—

And the call ended.

"Shit. Shit," Pierce swore.

-

There was something intimate about lying there, tied up on the bathroom floor, straddled across the chest by his attacker, that Lev couldn't quite wrap his head around in its current state. The state being: rattled, foggy, just barely struggling out of unconsciousness. Thinking clearly was a little hard, considering all of that. Realising that he had to especially focus in order to breathe properly didn't help the matter. A throbbing, clogged up nose and whatever was currently in his mouth were both working to partially obstruct his air intake.

But he could still see, and feel, and everything felt… far too immediate. As if shot through a macro lens, every detail highlighted, the bigger picture forgotten in favour of minuscule changes in texture and fine patterns of light. Martin's hand, for instance—the dark splotches of blood clinging to the knuckles, the thick veins threading underneath the skin, and the shiny, black concentric rings of the camera lens.

He felt the pins and needles shooting down both of his arms, numb from being trapped underneath the weight of the man on top of him, and his wrists where they were bound together. Why was… why was Martin on top of him?

The stylised sound of a fake shutter went off once, twice, thrice. Lev blinked absently, squirming when his face was grabbed and tilted to one side, cruel fingers digging into a particularly sore spot there.

“Just a few more, sweet thing. The first one I sent him wasn't very good.”

The shutter sounded once again. Lev felt a delirious whine escape him.

“Now. Where were we?”

-

“It was some kind of benzo, right? Like a roofie. What you gave me.”

Martin didn't respond. Instead he reached for the gag, which was lying discarded on the ground, and turned on the bathroom sink, letting the water run until steam rose from the basin.

Lev didn't really expect a reply to his question. It felt good just to speak, softly, to be free of the cloth that had been pulling and stretching his lips, drying them until they cracked. The gag wasn't the type to completely cut off all sound, just to make it so that anything he said would be moderately unintelligible—but that was enough to make Lev anxious. Pierce had always liked to joke that there could be a rampaging werewolf right in front of them and Lev would still try to invite it over for tea. That he would be chatting even underwater, with a mouth full of concrete.

It was always hard to describe how helpless not being able to form words properly made him feel. Like he wasn't a real person.

He was still bound with the duct tape, at four different points on his body—hands, knees, feet, and around his whole torso, at the elbows. Martin had come into the bathroom, grabbed him under the arms, and propped him up against the wall. Lev had been bracing himself for the incipient pain as soon as the man had walked in the room. He'd been surprised to find, then, not a fist, nor a knife, but instead a small carton of liquid breakfast—strawberry and blackberry twist—being shoved into his lap, and the gag being untied at the back of his head. Martin had told him he had five minutes until it went back in.

Lev was able to take small sips through the straw, trying not to notice how it came away with more blood each time he brought it back from his mouth. He didn't know whether grateful was the right word, exactly, but the idea that he wasn't being left to starve was filling him with some mixture of relief… and apprehension.

He had to ask. The question was burning his tongue. It was predictable, and cliché, and entirely futile, but he had to ask it, regardless.

“What do you want from me?”

“From you?” Martin looked over his shoulder at him, still wringing out the wet cloth with deliberate movements. His eyes were soft, a small smile across his lips. “You're already being really good. I'm incredibly impressed with you.”

That… Lev didn't even know where to start with trying to make sense of the response. He couldn't detect any trace of sarcasm or deceit in the gentle praise, laid out so matter-of-fact like that.

“You didn't even scream when I took off the gag,” Martin commented.

“I would have, if I thought it would achieve anything,” Lev admitted.

Martin tilted his head to the side, thoughtful. “Smart. And honest. Now drink up—you've got one minute left.”

When his time was up and Martin knelt down beside his captive, the wet and slightly less bloody gag in his hands, Lev decided to give his best puppy-dog eyes a go. It was worth a shot. Lev wasn't above debasing himself—he'd worked in retail, after all.

“Please, don't. You don't need to.”

At that, Martin studied him for a few moments. “You're pushing it.”

Lev couldn't do much except open his lips when the gag was refastened and pulled tight. Satisfied, Martin pulled back, reaching up to the counter of the sink. “I think you'll be grateful to have something to bite down on, anyway.”

The silver shine of a knife in the other man's hand sent Lev head-first into panic, and he tried desperately to scramble back and away from the blade, despite his back already being up against the wall. He brought his bound hands up to protect his chest, and curled his knees up as best he could to do the same.

With a free hand, Martin grasped Lev's ankles and yanked, hard. Lev let out a startled sound as he was pulled out flat to lie against the tiles, as he had been before, his head almost smacking against the floor on the way down. Then, the knife against his cheek forced him to lie still. Very still. Barely breathing.

“Bring your hands down.”

There wasn't anything else he could do except comply, right?

As soon as Lev's hands were away, the knife sliced down the front of his jumper, severing the fibers with relative ease. It would have done the same to his T-shirt, but Martin instead opted to cut only a little portion of the collar, and then grab the corners and tear it the rest of the way open, with forceful hands.

Lev took several shaky breaths as his collarbone, pecs, and eventually his shoulders, were all exposed to the cool air. His hairs stood on end at the feeling of being so unprotected, his lungs and hammering heart right there, vulnerable, just underneath the thin layer of freckled skin. He'd never been one to be ashamed of the way he looked without clothes on, but to cut and tear them away, to be put on display like this… was different.

He felt like a little frog, about to be vivisected.

Martin brought the knife down to hover just underneath his collarbone, and Lev instinctively turned his head to the side, and squeezed his eyes shut.

The slow, cold line drawn across his body was shocking at first, but then the opening started to run hot—and then started to hurt.

The warm prickle of a trail of blood running up and over the side of his neck. His cries, muffled, but still ringing loud in the small room. Sobs. Pathetic little mh, mh, mh sounds. Martin… was laughing. He was laughing at him.

Another cut, parallel to the first, stinging its way across his skin. And this one, this one, it fucking hurt, god, it was so much worse than the punch to the face, so much more measured, and Lev wanted to scream. And he did.

-

In for four, out for eight. Over, and over, and over.

The regimented, almost mechanical breathing was the only thing keeping Lev from having a fully-fledged panic attack, there and then. Probably a warranted one, granted, but he'd just managed to shake off most of the cloudiness of the drug, the dizziness giving way to something which felt more like a bad hangover. Not that any panic attack was really more justified, or voluntary, than another… he was just trying to keep it together as best as possible. The breathing helped.

He wasn't able to determine just how many cuts Martin had left on him, the blood having obscured any definition there. Several cuts in, Martin had grabbed him by the throat to try and push him into the floor, making it harder for him to squirm under the knife, and much harder for him to draw breath. When he'd been released, panting and shaking, his entire right pec stung, and throbbed awfully. The pain had lessened in the couple of hours since he'd been left alone in the room, but there was still a portion of his mind dedicated to it, aware of it, cataloguing differences in sensation. Another part of his mind was focused on maintaining the deep, even breaths. The rest, was wandering.

If anyone had heard his earlier screams, when Martin was hurting him, surely he'd know by now. He wasn't expecting a storming of the gates, or anything, but… at least a sign. Something. Not that he knew how big of a building the room was located in, at all—there was a word for that type of amnesia, but he'd forgotten it. God, maybe the cops had shown up, but this tiny room was too far away from the front door for him to have heard anything. Maybe he was being kept in the middle of nowhere.

There had to be a reason, for all of this. If he could just figure out what Martin wanted, what he was keeping him for, why he was doing this, then maybe he could… Lev gently bumped the back of his head against the tiles, a soft, chiding thump, and huffed a sigh. What? Do what, exactly? Continue to lie on the floor, wrapped up in tape and his own clothes like a bloodied sausage roll? He'd have to try something else. He looked around the bathroom.

Small, but relatively clean. Toilet, standard. Trash can. Shower. Grubby bar of soap in the holder. Sink. Couldn't see on top of the counter from this angle. Three drawers. Maybe… maybe there was something in them. Maybe he'd get really lucky, and Martin had left the knife up there.

Lev rolled onto his side, wincing as the movement caused one of the flaps of his ruined jumper to slap against his bleeding chest. He brought his knees up, and planted his hands against the floor, as firmly as he could. So far, so good...

Or maybe not. From there he was a little bit stuck, and this endeavour was starting to prove a lot more difficult than he'd anticipated it to be. He'd thought his hands being bound in front of him would be to his advantage, and that he'd be able to push himself up using his arms—but that was before the handful of minutes spent writhing around on the floor, shimmying like a seal on sand. Cute, sure, but terribly impractical. Before long he was huffing and trembling from the exertion, face hot with effort.

Eventually, Lev was forced to concede that it just wouldn't be possible, not with his elbows secured to his sides like this, and not as drained of strength as he was. The ring of tape around his torso was turning out to be the major obstacle, preventing him from gaining any kind of proper leverage with his arms. It didn't help that there were still slippery patches of his own blood smeared across the tiles.

Ah, okay—if he wanted to do this, he'd probably have to get some momentum, enough to roll sideways onto his knees without the use of his upper body at all.

He psyched himself up, and rolled—

A few unsteady moments—

And he was on his knees, finally, facing the sink.

Which was when he heard the footsteps, followed by the sound of the door unlocking behind him. A pause.

“You know what? I'm kind of impressed. However, it does mean I get to have the pleasure of doing this—”

A hand pushing on the front of his throat sent him sprawling, his back smacking flat against the ground, all of the air forced out of his lungs in one hit. As he wheezed, Lev decided that he hated the feeling of being on the floor, lying on his back, yet again. In a gesture that seemed to be just for good measure, Martin delivered a swift punch to his stomach. Lev would have cried out, if he had the capacity.

-

This time, no sordid photograph preceded the ringing of his phone. He answered it immediately with a gruff “Yes?”

“Graham Pierce!” Martin answered cheerfully. “Thank you for calling. Please hold.”

“But you called me—“

Pierce was cut off by a rustling noise, and a loud clack. The next time Martin spoke, his voice sounded further away, echoing slightly. “This is the group project portion of the assignment, so I had to put you on speaker. Say hi, Lev.”

“Mmm.”

Before Pierce could formulate a response, or ask Lev if he was ok, Martin was already pressing on in his typical, inane fashion. “You know how in school they always make you do a group project, but come the day of the presentation your group-mates either don't show up, or haven't done any of the work? This is like that—just, y'know, your partner's here, he just can't participate. Now there, don't look at me like that, Lev Alexander.” There was a clear grin in his stupid, grating, irritating voice. Pierce was choking down the impulse to tell him to shut up, just shut up.

“So, old chap, I hope you're ready to do enough talking for the both of you.”

-

“So, question one. How long do you think our little darling will last with my knife in his abdomen?”

Pierce's mouth ran dry. The image in his head—of his, of Lev's face, brown eyes wide and frantic, the gag that would still be between his teeth, the shallow, rapid breathing—was causing every last rational thought to slip through his fingers. The amount of pain he must be in. The amount of fear.

“Clock's ticking.” Martin's voice had deepened to a purr, and a soft whine filtered through the phone speaker.

“It depends,” Pierce ground out, through gritted teeth. His fingers were almost white where they clutched the side of the dining table.

“On what?”

“On where—on where you've stabbed him. Please, don't kill him. Please.”

He'd… never begged before like this in his entire life. He'd never scared so easy, or been so uncertain. He'd never had so much to lose. A handful of first's, today.

A long, chilling laugh from the other end of the line. “Oh, don't worry. I haven't gotten that far, yet. Like I said, needed to have a chat with you, first.”

“What do you want? I'll give you anything. I'll give you myself. We can talk about this.”

That had to be it, right? Martin wouldn't have any gripes with Lev, personally—this had to be all some kind of a grudge, and not something like a whim. That his—whatever they bloody were, his Lev—was not getting tortured on a whim. Because then he didn't have the first fucking idea what to do.

Martin seemed to delight in the whiplash created by throwing out non sequiturs at whomever he was talking to, because he followed up with yet another one. “Hang on, I'm gonna move the phone closer to his head so you can both hear each other properly.”

Now… now Pierce could hear every laboured exhale, every pained, feeble sound, every hitch in breath. Fuck.

“This one's different to the one you met earlier. It was custom made for me out of a very hard, very durable type of stainless steel, the kind they use for high-quality Japanese kitchen knives. Only four inches—less than what I'm used to working with, honestly. But size isn't everything.”

Pierce was familiar with the small folding knife being described. He'd seen it used before. On civilians and other members of the Mob, alike.

“Lev, babe, I'm gonna need you to stop squirming and lie still.” The sound of a slap, followed by a muffled shout. It horrified Pierce.

“So. Next question. How long have you been fucking him for?”

“We're not… we haven't.” He could actually respond honestly to that one. Not that he hadn't entertained the notion, hadn't wanted to—not, not sex, but ask him out, see if there could be anything between them, if they could be more than friends.

“Really? Huh. Well—oh, you should've seen his face, just then! Holy shit—you didn't know, Lev? That he was having dirty, depraved thoughts about you? Are you disgusted that he was thinking about you that way?”

“Please, tell me what you want.”

“Right now, I want you to apologise.”

At this point, Pierce was on autopilot. “What...”

“I want you to say 'Lev Alexander, boy of my dreams, I am so sorry for what I'm about to do to you'.”

Pierce blinked, and then he didn't know what happened. He must have had a lapse of consciousness while forcing himself to repeat the words, the movement of his lips going unregistered by his own brain—but he was sure that he'd been able to say them, somehow, because the next thing he was cognisant of was the sharp pain of his fingernails digging into his forearm, drawing half-crescent circles of blood, and the hiccuping, terrified sobs that sounded so close, yet so, so far away.

“He can't respond, obviously, but I want you to know that he's shaking his head. I guess he doesn't forgive you.”

“Damn you.”

Martin hummed, a short, steady noise. “So. Here's what you're going to do. You're going to choose between one of two things. I'm going to slide this knife right into his belly, right about here,” a sharp, startled cry, “maybe a few times. Maybe—let's say five or so. And then I'll let you listen to him bleed out, and die. That's Option A.

“Option B; I take him, and hold him, fuck him in all the ways I know you've fantasised about, but were clearly too much of a coward to go and do. And I'll probably still stab him once or twice, let's be honest. But then, I'll leave him alone, and let him live a long and happy life. That is, unless he goes and offs himself from shame, or whatever. Who knows.”

The escalation. The final nail. Despair crept on all fours into Pierce's chest and burrowed itself a home, deep, deep within in his wretched soul. He wouldn't survive this. There was no way.

Seconds passed. He… had to say something.

“Lev,” he choked, “I—”

The deafening gunshot startled Pierce so badly that he almost dropped the phone. He recovered, reeling, not able to recognise the disjointed sounds coming from the other end of the line, “Lev?”

“It's fine—he's fine. Fucker stabbed me, though, and ran. My aim's not what it used to be, apparently.” A woman's voice.

Pierce rested his forehead against the table, lightheaded. When he spoke his voice shook, pathetically, but he couldn't summon the energy to give a shit. “Stenberg. Thank—thank fuck.” One of the Mob folk, a remnant of the old guard, one that he could still trust. He could have kissed her. “Please, let me speak to him.”

“'Course. Hang on.”

After a few moments of shuffling, he heard the hoarse, slightly awkward voice.

“I'm good, I'm fine. He's gone.”

-

Lev didn't expect the leap in his chest, the wave of relief and genuine elation when he spotted the tall, fair-haired former mob, a bottle of water in each hand, eyes scanning the airport mezzanine for his two arrivals.

He bounced down the last two steps of the escalator as it approached the floor, straight into Pierce's outstretched arms—and then was instantly welcomed by a surge of regret as the still fresh cuts across his chest were jostled on impact, to the jumbled tune of 'ah, ow, shit' and 'sorry, sorry'. The padded adhesive bandage was enough to contain the blood and guard against infection, but wasn't capable of doing anything to ward off his own stupidity, or his capacity for immediately forgetting that he was injured.

Pierce was well kept, as usual, but the exhaustion in his face was hard to mask. His hair was thrown back into a loose bun, beard grown out to a casual smattering of stubble. Stenberg ambled over to them, supported by a crutch under one arm, and accepted one of the bottles of water, downing it almost in one go. The two exchanged a formal nod and a handshake that Lev couldn't decipher the exact meaning behind, but assumed it was some kind of associate thing.

Stenberg was incredibly cool, Lev had decided. Being stabbed in the thigh seemed to phase her surprisingly little, if at all. She'd told Lev to go and lock the front door, and by the time he came back she had found a tea towel and a half-used roll of duct tape from somewhere in the hotel room, and was “fixing” herself on the floor of the kitchenette. She'd looked up at him, bloody hands still wrapping the tape around her thigh, and said “Hope you can drive. I'm under strict orders to kill a certain motherfucker if I see him—need both hands for that.”

Lev had laughed outright when he saw the exterior of the bathroom that he'd been tied up in for the past forty-eight hours. The hotel room was relatively well furnished, a double bed and a vanity, and when he got a glimpse out the window the room appeared to be pretty high up. The place looked to be just the right amount of seedy luxury that he wouldn't be surprised if all of the walls were soundproofed. They'd waited for a while, but when neither cop nor homicidal maniac showed, Stenberg had just shrugged and led him out the door.

That was what Lev decided to focus on, in the car trip home, on the details after he had been rescued. On the scenery of his home city whooshing past in a blur, on the feeling of the breeze on his face, on the fact that he was finally able to move his wrists independently of one another. Not on Martin's hands on him, on his chest, on his throat. Anything but the threat of a knife in his stomach at any given moment. The feeling of his back pressed up against the cold tiles. Not—

Well, he tried to. A work in progress.

Pierce was focused on the road, but looked as if he was struggling to say something. He was chewing his lip, shoulders tense, fingers tapping on the steering wheel idly with the song on the radio.

Lev hazarded a guess. “Hey… he was forcing you to say those things as much as he was forcing me to hear them. Right? I don't hold you to any of it.”

Pierce let out an exhale, head tilting to one side, eyebrows raised. “It was… effective. I'm still sorry, though. He was trying to use you to get to me, to get under my skin.” The sentences were calculated carefully, but still wavering, uncertain. “I'm worried that this has ruined any chance we had together. That you won't… that you're not safe with me, any more.”

Lev couldn't help the smile that worked its way across his lips. Together. So it was true, then.

-

“What do you want for toppings, love? Grab any veg from the fridge that looks good.”

One word in the casual question caught Lev's attention, and held it. All of the other words fell away, dropping to the floor like discarded things, except for that one throwaway endearment.

His face must have betrayed some of his thoughts, as Pierce stopped kneading for a couple of seconds to look up at him, realisation and concern dawning in his eyes. “Shit, sorry. Didn't realise, just kind of slipped out. Won't happen again.”

Lev shook his head, unable think clearly with the buzz of whatever primal instinct had switched on under his skin, sequential arrays lighting up in tandem, activated by such a short and simple word. “No, it's fine, it's just… yeah. I don't know.”

Whatever it was, it was making him particularly inarticulate. Lev put his face in his hands, groaning.

It was the second time today. The thanks, sweetheart from a tiny, totally harmless elderly woman, when he'd retrieved her dropped receipt at the grocery store earlier in the morning, had instantly twisted his throat into a knot. He'd had to rush off to the bathroom to hide his trembling hands, his burning hot face. Clutching at his own arms in a toilet stall.

But that had been outside, in a public space. Lev knew he was safe, in here, making pizzas in Pierce's home, his house cat Rosie weaving through his legs and purring intermittently. The green-eyed calico was a bundle of love, ecstatic at having the attention of two whole humans for the better part of a week. Graham had suggested the two of them stay at his house until his contacts got a bead on Martin, wherever the man had fled to—Lev had gratefully accepted the offer, not wanting to be alone in his apartment for longer than it took to pack a duffel bag and check his mail.

He knew that he was safe now. He wasn't afraid, damn it—but, honestly, the teasing voice ringing in his ears, the echo intimate touches, the pet names? Fuck them, and fuck that man for ruining such soft words as love and sweetheart.

“Sorry,” Lev mumbled to no-one in particular, slipping off the stool to go rummage through the fridge. Tomatoes, and peppers, basil, ham, mushrooms.

Graham rolled the stray chunks of dough off his fingers, patting them gently back into the ball. The way his floury hands pushed and pulled at the dough, forward and back, in a half-circle, was relaxing to watch. Meditative. He pulled out a glass bowl from one of the kitchen cupboards, scooping the ball into it and covering it with a cloth, leaving it on the windowsill to rise in the warmth of the afternoon sun. He picked up his half-glass of merlot, the other hand leaving white fingerprints where he reached up to absently massage at his neck.

“I know I'm not all that great at talking, but… if you want, or need to talk, I'm happy to listen. Or, if not me, then I could help find someone you could talk to. It's, uh… not great to have certain things rolling around in your head for too long.”

Lev was ripping the basil apart in angry little motions. “I just feel so… so stupid. He didn't even do anything to me, and I'm still all jumpy like this? How does that make any sense?” When Lev looked up to gage the other man's response, Graham was staring at him, slack-jawed.

“Lev… what happened to you, what he did to you... wasn't nothing."

Growing increasingly frustrated at the kitchen counter separating the two of them, Lev threw the sprig of herb down on the surface and wrap his arms around the man. He felt hands softly smooth down the back of his shirt.

“You should use whatever pet name you want to call me, just to spite him.”

He felt the rumble and jump of Graham's chest as he laughed. “My stepmum used to call my dad chicken, or chook—would that work? Only if you want to.”

Lev looked up, eyes still tight with unease, but the spark of a challenge in them nonetheless. “You can call me chook, if I can call you Gray. Then it's even.”

“Deal. But I think we should have some more wine to celebrate our new aliases.”

“Sounds good to me.”

-

Martin was in a mood.

The bullet wound on his upper back was making it difficult to do anything physical, most movements telegraphing don't do that again signals to his brain. The weight of his own body was working against him, leaving him almost embarrassingly sluggish and uncoordinated. The room was cheap and it showed, and the only thing saving it from being a total shithole was the mini-bar in the corner.

And getting someone who could remove the bullet and also not ask any questions? That had been a total bitch. He'd only been able to find a person capable of the former, but the latter was something he'd had to manage himself, before collapsing on the scratchy single bed. Another mess he'd have to clean up later, added to the list.

And yet.

He hummed. He whistled. He laughed.

He was in an incredibly good mood.

Martin didn't know exactly how he would get what he wanted. But he knew he would get it. He was owed it, after all. More importantly, he had permission.

But right now he needed to eat, and to rest, and to gather his strength. Which was just exceptionally boring, so Martin indulged himself in daydream.

He thought about Lev, and all the cute little moans he'd made on the floor, squirming, underneath him. Threatening to fuck him had been merely a whim, but the more he thought about it, the more the idea cemented itself in his brain. He'd only wanted to hurt him, but that was before he realised how pretty he was when he cried. The way those brown eyes had been searching his own, tears welling up and spilling over, irises blown wide. Still struggling to find any scrap of truth, or mercy. Full of hope.

But then they'd been rudely interrupted. Too bad.

He thought about Pierce, and how he'd love to help the ex-mob remember the value in deference. He must have forgotten it since leaving the Galloway family, amongst other things. Martin smirked at the thought of Graham trying to be normal, trying to forget his past life, and all the things he'd done. The racketeering, the violence, the murder. The man had been as fucked up as him, once upon a time.

He'd help him remember.

Martin rose, pushing aside the scream of protest his body gave as he did, making it to the tiny desk with only a small amount of dark spots in his vision.

He picked up the pen.

Series Two - Isolation

“You either sing, or you scream. Your choice.”

Martin raised the cane, tapping it against Lev's cheek, running it along the underside of his chin.

“No, please,” said Lev. He raised his hands slightly, in gentle surrender, trying to placate the man. Attempting to broadcast the right amount of subservience, despite already being on the concrete, on his knees.

It was better when he faced him, talked to him, played along. The man seemed to revel in his nervous obedience. And Lev was happy to give it, if there was any chance of being spared a beating.

“I don't know what, what, uh, which song. What do you want me to sing?”

The look of disappointment that fell across Martin's face was strange, as if he couldn't believe Lev would let him down like this.

“Come on, now. I can't do all the work for you.”

Lev hated that he was like this. Twenty-five, a fully-fledged, tax paying adult— to whom the begging, the kowtowing, the prostration came embarrassingly easily. Coming to heel at the first mention of a firm hand, a stern voice.

He didn't want to please the other man. He didn't. He just didn't want to be hurt. That was it.

He closed his eyes, and searched for the right note. Going with the first song that came to mind, one deep within his psyche. A favourite.

His voice shook at first, before he schooled it into something sturdier. He got through the first chorus with barely a waver, and then Lev could only cower, and curl, and try to shield himself with his arms as the rattan cane was brought down on him again, and again, and again, and again. The whistle and crack of it hitting a shoulder blade. The heavier thud as it hit a meatier part.

And then he could only lie on the floor, and bleed, and bruise.

“You said, nhh… you said you wouldn't...”

“Wouldn't what?”

“Promised...”

Martin tutted. “I made no promises, darling. Besides,” he said, wiping the blood from the cane with a cloth. “How can you expect me to resist, when you sing so sweetly...”

He stooped, and Lev would have been afraid, if he had the energy. Martin pressed a kiss to Lev's temple.

“...but your screams are like music to my ears?”

-

He probably deserved this. It had been a long time coming, and he'd pissed off a lot of people. A lot of people.

Pierce hacked out a wet cough, spitting blood and phlegm into his own lap. Most of his suit was already soaked in his own sweat and body fluids, so whatever else he added to it didn't really make a difference. His glasses were fogging with the warmth of his breath, in the cold of the room.

It was a standard holding room—dim, brick-walled, one small skylight in the ceiling. One he'd have used himself for conversations, back in the day. Though this time he was the one in the chair, sitting pretty in metal cuffs and rope. Each leg secured individually, immobilised.

He lifted his head at the sound of the door unlocking, and a person entering the room.

“Pierce.”

“Winters.”

“It's good to see you.”

Pierce quirked an eyebrow. “Really,” he deadpanned.

Winters looked at the ground, timid. They had been a soldier when Pierce had been in the family, the lowest echelon within the Galloway Mob. Used to following orders, but not giving any.

As Winters approached, Pierce spotted the roll of tape in their hands. “Come near me with that, and I'll bite your fucking fingers off,” he warned, baring his teeth.

“Try it and you'll regret it,” they said, their voice equally calm, but halting in the advance.

A surge of dangerous bravado filled him. “Oh, you're gonna threaten me now? Get your jollies from this little power trip?”

“I've got orders. You know how it goes.”

He knew, but right now, Pierce was feeling petty. “Yeah,” he laughed, “I know how you always liked playing at being one of the big boys. Tell me—did your parents not want a girl, or is all of this just penis envy?”

Their reply came in the form of a fist to Pierce's face, the punch snapping his head backwards. As he rolled his neck to the side, slowly, his glasses clattered to the floor. They were broken, bent out of shape. A few drops of blood trickled off the tip of his nose, splattering against the shattered lenses.

He was immediately grateful to have the shards of glass away from his eyes, as otherwise the next punch would probably have left him blind. The chair rocked back slightly with the force of each impact.

And any pithy comments were steadily beaten out of him. One, by one, by one.

When they were finally done, Winters shook out their hand, sending a small bloody cascade arcing outwards. They stepped back, panting from the exertion.

“God, I've been waiting years to do that.”

The strike of a match, followed by the smell of a cigarette. Pierce groaned, barely able to turn his head from the smoke blown in his face, further stinging his bleary eyes.

“I can deal with you misgendering me, if that's what you were going for. I've heard worse from better men.”

Winters had undone the top button of their shirt and rolled up their sleeves. As they raised the cigarette to their lips, holding it there while they pressed a piece of the tape to Pierce's mouth, he noticed the official tattoo on the inner forearm. The Galloway crown, three dots sitting in the centre. Not a soldier, then, anymore.

“But Martin was right. You never respected me. And you still don't.”

They circled around behind the chair, and Pierce violently tried to twist his right arm away from the searing pain that he knew was about to be inflicted on it, to no success. The cigarette found his forearm, sizzling against the skin there for several agonising seconds, until the sensation gradually gave way to cold numbness.

He watched Winters move to the door, flicking the crushed butt into the corner of the room as they left him, there, with nothing but his pettiness—and a smouldering, circular burn.

-

How long would it be before he went insane? Lev gave himself maybe two more days, tops, before he lost his damn mind in here.

The only real contact he'd had with another human being was with Martin—so the bar was already pretty fucking low, seeing as he had been beating the shit out of him at the time—and that had been at least three days ago. At first he'd been relieved to see no trace of the man, but then twenty-four hours had passed, and then more, and now he was just bored.

Lev couldn't decide whether it was better or worse that he knew the impacts of extended solitary confinement on prisoners—the depression, the self-harm, the hallucinations, the cognitive impairment. He chalked it up to the same kind of elusive irony there was in him having both a psych degree, and an anxiety disorder. The element of physician, heal thyself.

The grunts that had been bringing a tray of food twice a day weren't really the chatty sort. Apparently he was supposedto eat, though, as they would stay and watch until he was done with the meagre platter, or they'd slap him around until he was. Which had happened one time, only once, when he had felt far too queasy to touch the bread and powdered eggs pushed in his direction that evening. He'd instantly been made to regret it.

They also wrested the tray from him every time, which Lev guessed could count as social interaction, if he squinted.

“Christ,” he muttered, scratching carefully at the hot, itchy lacerations on his back and shoulders. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Great—already talking to himself. Halfway there already. Lev couldn't stop the delirious giggle that escaped him, putting his head in his hands.

What would his therapist have said? He could visualise her, sitting on one of the yellow couches in the cozy studio apartment turned psychologist's office. She would tap her pen against her pursed lips, and she'd say… that insanity was a perfectly valid response to a situation like this, probably.

She'd actually encouraged him to talk to his own thoughts as a way to distance himself from them. Defusing, she'd called it. Thank his anxious brain, and let the thought go.

You're going to die in here.

Thanks, brain.

You're an idiot.

Thanks brain, and also, rude.

Martin will probably be back soon. At least that's less boring.

Holy shit, brain.

Maybe the insanity wasn't setting in quick enough.

At least he hadn't been tied up, or tied down to anything this time. He could stretch, and pace, and fidget however much his weary, weak body and the tiny room allowed. A mercy he never thought he'd appreciate.

Gray would be looking for him. Surely, someone would find him. He just needed to hold out until then.

-

Lev was going to die in here.

Not from boredom, but because of the fingers wrapped tight around his throat, and getting tighter.

The press of the man on top of him—one of the guards, the big one with the undercut, the same one he'd called a dickhead only seconds ago—using his full weight, both hands, squeezing so hard, quite literally crushing the life from him, and then—

He needed—

Please—

No—

Lev felt the last movements his body would ever make, in the form of a violent spasm in his legs, and a gentle rake of fingernails against skin.

Then, release, and the way air rushed into his starving lungs all at once, and out again in several, convulsing sobs. Clutching his neck protectively. Taking one breath, another, as if stealing something he wasn't supposed to have.

The firm hands that took him by the shoulders caused him to seize in terror, frantically mouthing his apologies, lacking the sound to make them. The man didn't say anything, he didn't need to, the message in his eyes uncomplicated—next time.

Lev nodded his understanding, between poorly suppressed coughs. He dimly registered the guard picking up the tray from the floor, leaving the mess of cold pasta where it had splattered, and exiting the room.

The room quickly grew too big, too bright, too loud. He crawled to the corner, facing the crisp white line, slotting as neatly as a human body could fold itself down. Pressing two cupped hands to his mouth. All of him shaking, shaking.

He had forgotten himself, and been reminded.

He'd remember next time.

He'd have to.

-

The room was nine steps wide, and ten-and-a-half steps long, heel to toe, so a complete lap was thirty eight and two half-paces, one half at each corner. The days went like this—lights on. Powdered eggs and a stale bagel, a cup of water. Bathroom. Pacing. Cold pasta, with chunks of chicken in it, a cup of milk. Bathroom. Pacing. Lights off. Sleep, whatever came. Lights on.

The big guard didn't lay hands on him again, except on the arm to lead him to the toilet down the hallway. It was the only time he was touched, one large hand firmly on his biceps, half-dragging him there and back again.

He looked forward to it. He hated himself.

He'd been reciting poems, song lyrics, movie dialogue, whatever he could recall. He was running out of things to talk to himself about, but it was the only thing that made him feel any better. Not great, but all he had.

Whenever the door opened he looked up, hoping to see Gray's face, saying it's okay, chook. I've got you.

-

His heart was beating way too fast, and hadn't stopped, not for a while now, and that was a problem, right? A heart only has so many beats in it until it gives out, right? The conversation in his head had turned to pleading with his body to relax, please, just give him a break. Stop feeling things. The breathing exercises should work, they usually worked, but they weren't working.

The guards had to know—he banged on the door until the hand started to bruise, and then he used the other. The guards had to know, because Martin wouldn't want him to die in here, right? He'd been entertaining, he'd been accommodating, he'd sung and screamed so sweetly. Martin would want to hear him. He couldn't hear him if he wasn't here.

When the door opened he looked up, hoping to see Martin, saying right, love. Time for another round.

It was just the guard, again.

-

His throat was still aching from the strangling, and it must have been weeks since that. He thought about provoking the guard again, just to feel something, to have something to blame, but even thinking about it caused his body to seize so hard it made him dizzy. So, he went quietly. Not well enough to bite the hand that fed.

There was no point in words, as no one would hear them. They bounced back at him from several directions, loud, and hoarse, and achieving nothing. So he stopped. He still had to pace, though—he had to move his body, or else it would stop existing. The borders on him would fade, and whatever was inside would escape into the atmosphere.

He would disappear, and no one would know.

He wasn't sure what made him him, any more. He was a person, but he was also a series of electrical pulses in a shell. A container of blood and meat and bone. A dot floating in space.

When the door opened he saw himself, pacing up, and across, and down, and back, and up again.

-

It had been a long six weeks, and Martin was exhausted. The job he was asked to take had dragged on far longer than expected, and it was mostly just negotiation. Long, insipid, and just incredibly dull. Loosening his tie and hanging up his suit jacket in the main lobby, he wound his way through the long corridors of the warehouse complex, stopping at the holding rooms.

What he found behind the first door was very interesting. He stood in the doorway for a few minutes, leaning against the frame, and watched.

Oh, this hadn't taken long at all.

Martin guided Lev out of his room and down the hall, four doors down, to where the blond ex-mob lived. As Martin opened the door, Lev slowly resumed walking heel to toe, along the north wall of the cell.

When the fluorescent light from the hallway crossed his face, Pierce squinted up from where he was slouched. He still tied down to the chair, bearded and scowling. His eyes widened in shock when he realised who was currently making his way about the perimeter of the room.

When Pierce finally found his voice, he sounded shattered.

“What... did you do to him?”

Martin smiled, tilting his head.

“Nothing,” he admitted. “Absolutely nothing.”

-

“Don't,” said Pierce, voice weak. “Don't touch him. He's clearly not well.”

Lev was onto his third lap of the room, walking carefully, as if measuring the distance with each step. Barefoot, shirtless, plain grey briefs with a black waistband. Pierce thought he could see greenish echoes of bruises stretched across his neck and back, but he couldn't be sure from this distance.

He wasn't responding to any bids to get his attention, which was... concerning. To put it so mildly.

“It's quite fascinating, isn't it? What a small cage can do to a wild creature... I could just leave you both here for a while, you know. I'm willing to bet that this,” Martin gestured, “for long enough, would just drive you insane.”

“Get fucked,” Pierce spat, the rage frothing forth with a snarl despite himself. Hands clenched and straining at the cuffs, painful. Unnoticed.

Martin's eyes narrowed. “Luckily for you, I'm just here to blow off some steam.” He caught Lev with one gloved hand at the small of his back, steering him away from the wall, saying, “Let's make this easier on your loverboy's myopic ass, hmm?”

Then, Lev was only inches away, moved to stand in between his splayed legs, and now he could see that yes, the bruises were real, and yes, his eyes were glazed over, unfocused. He seemed to be in the throes of a severe mental break.

Pierce struggled to maintain focus through the rush of oxytocin that flooded his system, triggered by the proximity of another person, almost flush with him now. Closeness that he hadn't felt in so long.

He tried again to talk to him. “Lev, I'm, I'm right here… I'm right here.”

Dark eyes found his, a spark of recognition in them, a furrowed brow, and that was when Pierce realised he'd made a mistake.

As Lev started to regain his grasp on reality, his instinct was to lift himself from Pierce's lap, pushing against his chest and away—he was prevented from doing so by the large hands forcing his own behind his back, leaving him with no choice but to lean against the man in front of him. Martin held him still with one hand, pulling off his tie with the other.

Pierce's stomach dropped. Pressed together like this, he could hear the hitch in breathing, and the quiet no, no, no as Lev's hands were tied with the length of silk.

Pierce cursed himself to hell, and back. It would have been better—he couldn't do anything, but it would have been better—if he hadn't just coaxed Lev back from wherever his mind had retreated to. If he was still out of it.

It would have been so much better, if Lev had never met him.

The words left him in a long, anguished string. “Martin don't, please don't don't do this, he hasn't done anything to deserve this—he hasn't done anything to you, he doesn't know anything. Please. Please.”

In response, Martin smiled. Saccharine. He lowered his hands to Lev's hips, hooking his thumbs at the waistband of the briefs, and slowly, slowly pulled them down. Lev let out a distressed keen at the feeling of being exposed, and buried his face in Pierce's neck.

“Do you feel that?” said Martin, voice filling with awe. “He's shivering all over.”

Pierce's throat was closing up, every swallow an effort, thick with regret. “I'm so, so sorry,” he muttered into Lev's temple.

He felt the shaking cease, and the full-body tension that took place. He felt the smooth pressure of the first thrust, and the sharp jolt of the second. He heard the scream. He heard the sobs.

“Fuck,” Martin hissed. “That's tight.”

Pierce focused on the smell of Lev's hair, his skin. He closed his eyes, and mourned for a relationship that was killed before it had a chance to grow.

Series Three - Reluctance

Pierce rolled his neck side to side, cracking it, feeling some of the tension along his spine dissipate. He picked up the knife—no, the tire iron. Tested its weight with a few experimental swings. A low whine sounded from the corner of the room.

He'd been led into the cell with a single instruction—make him cry. No specifications, just the ever-present implication of what would happen if he didn't comply. The terms of the deal. A guard at the door to make sure it happened.

He'd never enjoyed this sort of thing, not the way some of the other Mob folk did, but he had never exactly gone out of his way to avoid it, either. Considered it just part of the job, though he knew that didn't make him any better. At best, complicit—at worst, even more of a monster.

The kid chained to the wall looked like he hadn't been left there long. Red hair, young—early twenties at most.

Just a kid. Still just a fucking kid.

Maybe Pierce could get through this with a bit of smoke and mirrors. Maybe he could find a fear, a phobia, something to exploit. Maybe the kid was an easy crier. If they were both lucky.

He advanced, slow and deliberate in each movement, twirling the metal rod in his hands. Letting the captive look him over, read the threat in the posturing, and the way Pierce had stripped—been stripped—down to just his singlet, exposing his bare arms and the tattoo running up and down the full length of one of them. Like some sort of awful, loutish display of dominance. Power. Violence.

There was one person who liked that look, eyes lighting up at the casual danger there, but god damn it, god damn it, Pierce was trying so hard not to think about him right now. He wasn't allowed to think about him, at all, any more. He wasn't worthy.

But he knew how he looked. He could use that to his advantage. And by the way the anger in the kid's eyes was already waning, starting to give way to something uncertain…

Pierce slapped him as hard as he could, hoping the sudden, humiliating shock would provoke what he needed, but no dice—a couple of stunned blinks, and that was it. Fine—he grabbed him by the throat, digging a cruel thumb into the windpipe, earning a wince. Better, but it still wasn't enough.

He could do it. He was just another thug, sent in to torture a captive.

He could do it. He tapped the tire iron against the captive's rosy, sweaty cheek.

He needed to do it—God, he really couldn't deliberate like this for much longer.

Pierce gripped the iron with both hands and swung, aiming for soft tissue at the waist, but the kid immediately tried to twist out of the way—the resulting impact was way too high, catching the bottom of the ribcage with a horrifying crunch. And that, of course, that made the kid scream.

It took most of what Pierce had left, to smother the instinct to drop the iron and apologise, or panic, or run from the room. It took more still to press the unexpected advantage, crowding in on the kid, pressing fingers into the site of the trauma, hoping, hoping, teeth clenched against the unending wail of agony.

Come on, come on, come on, come on—

There.

He gestured for the guard to come over and verify. They grabbed the kid by the chin, tilting it this way and that, before letting go with an affirmative grunt. Finally he was dismissed, which was fucking fantastic, because couldn't stand being in the cell for one second longer.

He threw the tire iron down on the table on the way out. Headed straight back to his own cell. Curled up on the comparative luxury of the shitty mattress, and wooden pallet. And wept.

tw: suicidal ideation

He'd begged for it.

“Please, just let me kill him.”

Graham clutched the knife with a trembling fist. It was the final thing, the only thing, he could think of doing. Be the one to beg.

“I'll do it, chook, but I need you to make the decision. I need permission.”

He had no right, no right to make that call, but surely… surely it was better for him to die here, than to be forced to exist one more day in this hell.

He'd do it. He'd do it, and then even if Lev resisted, even if he still had the will to go on, it wouldn't matter—he'd do it, and then he'd turn the knife on himself. And then he wouldn't have to live with the weight of this. And they could both be free.

For the first time in far, far too long, Lev stirred. He looked up, with that depth and love in his brown eyes, and he smiled.

“Always knew… you'd be the death... of me. Love. Love.”

Despite everything, he was still joking. Feeble, fading, but there, still there.

And Graham, selfish enough to beg for his lover's death, but not enough to go through with it, bowed his head, before waking with a start. Crying. Calling his name.

-

He recognised one of the guards, this time around. Jacobs. All macho swagger in an absurdly tight shirt. Despite the neck tattoos he was a real traditionalist, if Pierce remembered right. He nodded a greeting when Jacobs showed up to let him out of his holding room, and got a reserved nod in return, along with today's instructions.

“Same as yesterday.” So, he'd be allowed to stop once the tears were flowing. For whatever reason.

“Can I ask—"

“Nah,” the other guard grunted.

Fine. He just wanted to get this over with, before the headache sitting just in along the sides of his nose escalated any further. As it was already making him want to beat his head against a wall.

As soon as the three of them entered the room, the kid straightened, the short metal chain at his wrists clinking with the movement. Eyeing them warily. That tracked. Pierce wouldn't expect anything less.

The bruise had spread across the kid's torso, blossoming from underneath a stark, pale line through the centre where the tire iron had kissed skin. He peeked out from underneath red bangs, hanging low in the shackles, breathing slow, shallow. Having his arms above his head like that, for such long periods of time must have been uncomfortable, if not downright dangerous. Nerve damage, blood clots… Pierce wondered if there was a sneaky way he could check the kid's capillary refill, under the guise of messing around with his fingernails.

Pierce headed for the table, reaching for—

His hand faltered, eyes widening as he realised that he had been left a different selection of tools, today. A pair of pliers… and a small, kitchen-grade blowtorch.

An incredulous laugh threatened to escape him. They expected him to mutilate the kid? No way. No fucking way.

Pierce turned back towards the door, reaching out to Jacobs with one calloused, upturned palm. “Belt?” He asked, praying that his reputation still held any amount of weight around here. Not missing the way the both of the guards twitched towards their holsters.

“Why?”

“Testing a theory.”

Jacobs fixed him with a calculating look, but then reached down to undo the buckle and slip his belt from its loops.

Pierce took the thick faux leather and folded it, unhurried, small flakes of black springing free with the flex of the material. Sticking to the sweat on his palms.

“This'll do.” A jingle, and a foreboding snap echoed out across the room as the strap was pulled taut. The sound, that cruel sound, was just… everything Pierce hated, in men like him.

For a brief second Pierce could see the gears turning, but then, like a flicked switch, all muscles in his body started to tighten.

“N-hh, n-oh, no, no, pl-uh, pl-ease, please, nh, please,” the kid stammered, chest heaving, shaking his head. The defiance from yesterday had crumbled so quickly, it was almost as if the man on the wall had been replaced with a completely different person. He was twisting from side to side and pulling down in the cuffs, straining, tears welling up in those panicked green eyes, and long blonde eyelashes fluttering.

As it turned out, two lashes with the belt got the job done fast. Real fast.

To the sounds of quiet sobs, he wiped the blood from the leather on his slacks, handing it back to the stunned guard.

“Shit, man,” Jacobs muttered. He was leaning against a wall, regarding the captive ex-mob with something that bordered on disquiet. “How'd you know he'd react like that?”

“Could see it in his eyes,” Pierce lied, heading for the door.

Thank God the kid had caught on quick, and was a convincing actor. Because, really? A blowtorch?

Before he could leave, Pierce was stopped by a large hand.

“You're not done.”

“What?”

“You're not leaving, until you're done,” the nameless guard reiterated.

“I'm done. I did what you wanted.”

No further response.

-

Pierce listened to the rain falling on the roof of his cell, and thought about murder.

Specifically, he was in the middle of picturing Martin's neck under his hands, and how he'd look as he suffocated, slowly, or quickly, if Pierce willed it... whether his eyes would bulge, all trace of smug superiority extinguished. Whether they'd roll back in his head. Whether Pierce could supply enough pressure to crush, feel the cartilage crack, before collapsing in on itself.

Or maybe it'd feel good to put his mouth to Martin's throat, right over his pulse, the same spot Martin had sucked the bruise onto Lev's. Whisper a soft you should have left us be, before catching his teeth on the tight skin there, and ripping. Not stopping until he came away with gristle.

He wasn't sure if the visceral, pathological fantasies stemmed from a deeply traumatised psyche, or a yearning for retribution, or simply from a need to channel his pent-up energy somewhere, anywhere. Three birds, one stone, in any case.

As far as justifications for killing someone went, it was a slippery, blood-soaked slope for a person to head down. But he wasn't a person, not any more—he was a feral dog, and his mottled and flea-bitten snout was already so dirty that it would never, ever be clean again. How much could one rapist's dying screams weigh on an already laden conscience?

And it was better to get this all out now, before he was called into the other cell, again. He'd already accidentally shattered a couple of bones on the kid, and that was while he had been completely lucid. Didn't need to add whatever fucked up rage-fog this was to the mix. Unwise.

With the wind and the rain worsening to a howl, Pierce settled in to another one of his favourites—in this one Martin was thrusting, rhythmically, but instead of inside, this time it was upward. On the crest of each jostle, ones that sent the other man's head lolling backward, the knife in his solar plexus would pull free, and then slide home again with a squelch. Teaching him the only meaning of the word penetration he deserved.

Pierce would be lying if he denied getting a kick out of imagining it as one of Martin's own knives, the little folding one. With that one, he'd really be able to carve, and gut, from stomach to sternum. Get his hands nice and wet.

He just needed one opportunity. Just one.

If the guards found him afterward, wrists-deep in the mess he'd made, they'd just put Pierce down—probably right here, in this cell. Put a bullet in his brain. Dump his body somewhere. They wouldn't bother going after Lev. No point, if he was already taken care of.

If that didn't happen, and he made it out alive, he'd check on Lev only once. Just to make sure he was safe.

And if his love never wanted to see him again after that, didn't want him after he'd seen the rabid creature, the less-than-human he'd become?

Then that would be fine. Just fine.

Until then, he just had to wait for the right moment.

Every dog has its day, after all.

-

“Off,” said the guard, gesturing to Pierce's torso. He fixed him with a spiteful stare in return.

“Off.”

This whole thing, insane as it was already, had just teetered over into absurdity—they wanted to force him to hurt this kid, but by now the kid definitely knew his heart wasn't in it. They didn't seem to want information, they just wanted him to make him suffer. Specifically with the tools they'd laid out. Which they were now going to use on him for failing to comply. Reasserting the fact that he wasn't here by choice.

So what was the point, here? What was the fucking point?

Lifting his arms up, Pierce pulled at the back of his singlet, obediently slipping it up and over his head. Before he could complete the motion, a steel-capped boot kicked him down to one knee.

Genuflecting. Not to gods, but maybe to god complexes.

The black singlet hanging loose across his elbows, Pierce watched as the guard picked up the blowtorch, adjusted the nozzle, pulled the trigger. He couldn't suppress the shudder that ricocheted through his body when the blue flame sprung to life in the man's grip, the low, even, rushing sound of it almost scarier in its lack of intensity.

Forced forward by Jacobs' hands, his bare, scarred back was exposed to the ceiling.

The first pass of the torch was light, quick, but it ripped a scream from him nonetheless. A second pass, diagonal to the first, excruciating, and he whited out.

He came to on the floor, on his elbows, the burn of bile in the back of his throat, and a boot nudging his side.

“Now get up, and try again.”

Pierce raised a single, trembling finger, requesting a few moments, a tremor shooting down his other arm as it struggled to support his weight. He was granted only a few, before the foot nudged him again, harder this time.

He stood, shakily, carefully, swaying on his feet, the singlet falling from his arms and to the floor. Collecting the pair of pliers from the table. Feeling something in him snap, the threads of it dissolving away.

The kid's face was alight with strong, bright terror. Pierce swayed a second time, eyes dropping to the kid's mouth.

As he pressed his lips over the kid's, he felt the questioning hum of startled confusion as it reverberated across their teeth. An indignant gurgle of a shout rang out from behind the pair of them, followed by hurried footfalls as Jacobs rushed over.

Pierce smiled weakly against the kid's lips. He'd remembered that particular foible correctly, then. Blunder one.

No sooner had Jacobs laid a hand on him than Pierce swung his fist in an arc, punching the pliers high into the man's neck. Jacobs stumbled, choking, clutching at the plastic handles sticking out of him. Pierce spun around, reaching for the gun pointed at his head, still within his range—blunder two—grabbing it on top, moving it to one side as the shot was fired. Going deaf with the noise of it. Hitting at the inside of the guard's wrist, a snap of the index finger as it was wrenched by the trigger guard. He turned the gun around, aimed, shot twice.

Jacobs was fumbling with his own holster, his fingers slick with blood, but a bullet to his chest brought him down—and Pierce followed him, getting in close. Running on nothing but adrenaline and hate.

“I just wanted to walk away,” he hissed, pressing the pliers in further, watching the man convulse. “I just wanted to retire and live quietly, with my boyfriend, and my cat—but you fuckers had to come and tear our lives apart and drag me back here. Well, guess what? Now you've got my full. Fucking. Attention.”

Pierce, slowly coming to the realisation that Jacobs had stopped moving long ago, released the man's shirt collar—when had that happened?—and let him fall to the floor.

“Dude,” came the scratchy, slightly hoarse voice. “That shit was metal as fuck.”

“Sorry.” Pierce wiped at his face, absently. Smearing hot blood across his chin.

“Any keys on 'em?”

He searched the bodies, sighing in relief when he heard a jingle. Quickly freeing the kid from the cuffs, aware of the speed at which his strength was starting to drain from him, Pierce was just able to keep them both steady as the kid regained feeling to his extremities.

He counted his lucky stars—lucky he didn't get shot in the face anyway when he took the gun. Lucky he hadn't gone into shock after being burned like that. Lucky the kid was willing to help him limp out of there, after everything.

So very, incredibly lucky he was able to pull of a stupid, reckless stunt like that, and still be breathing. The both of them. Alive.

-

The kid's name was Hugh, and he was actually twenty-one, and a little bit of a brat. He had bid them goodbye with a parting message to Lev:

“Take care of him. I'm straight, but your boyfriend's a really good kisser.”

Pierce—Graham, god, he never wanted to go by his last name ever again—felt the heat cascade down his neck and over his chest, and he buried his face further into his partner's Henley with a groan.

He still knew he shouldn't, he didn't deserve to—but his love was right here, holding him close, careful not to touch the burns on his back. He smelled so good, and he was so warm, and Graham was so tired.

“I know,” Lev had said, his voice rumbling and full. “Thanks again, Hugh.”

“Don't mention it. Any time.”

“Cocky fucker,” Graham mumbled, relishing the laugh that Lev gave in response.

He was home. He was safe. He was home.

#whump #noncon tw #murder tw #kidnapping tw #drugging tw #fuck me it's been a long time since ive had to tag a thing tw #lgm writing #lowkey thinking of writing an extension to the end of the isolation one... #if you saw me post this to the wrong blog no you didn't

[wearelatinamericanrockers]

Café Tacvba is a Mexican Alternative Rock made in 1989 and known for their mix of traditional mexican music with Rock.

In addition to the commercial and critical success they have achieved, the group is recognized for its avant-garde cultural project which mixes rock and its usual themes with lyrics, stories and sounds extracted from Mexican popular culture, the latter thanks to the use in various songs. of instruments such as tololoche and jarana. Among the main awards obtained throughout his career, the Grammy and the Latin Grammy stand out.

Re achieved the gold record in Mexico for more than 40,000 copies sold, definitively putting the quartet on the Spanish rock map.

Theyve been on MTV their most famous songs are "Eres", "La ingrata" and "Aprovéchate". Propaganda Below;

"El Rubén es medio Joto, Re es una obra de arte y la mezcla entre folclore y rock es eximia" "deben ser mi banda favorita mexicana, me encanta que se noten las influencias indígenas y populares y como se mezclan con influencias punk y urbanas 🔥"

----------------

Charly García is a Argentinian rock musician and got his start in his teenage ages as he started Sui Generis with his classmate Nito in the 70s.

he would go on to make another group in his adult years called PorSuiGieco and La Máquina de Hacer Pájaros, it jumpstarted rock in latin america, they didn't last long and he would have a pause to go to Brazil, come to argentina back to start Serú Girán and become one of the most successful bands from the 70s, he then went on to have a solo career after that

his most famous songs are "Tu amor" "Fanky" And "Influencia" below is fan submitted propaganda

"Es un demente, se tiró de un noveno piso, es anarquista, mostró el culo en un recital, tiene vitiligo y le hace el bigote blanco y negro, bardeaba siempre a los milicos, es un hombre trola, he has it all"

"NO PUEDE NO TENER A CHARLY GARCIA. bowie latinoamericano antes de que existiera bowie. sobrevivió un piscinazo. que sería de la música de nuestro continente sin el!!!!!" "Ícono del rock argentino, escribió poesía incomparable + es re buena fuente de memes. Lit qué mas querés" "Bigote multicolor, decirle a la policía “no es mi culpa que usted no haya estudiado”, tirarse de un 8vo (?) piso a una pileta en Mendoza, autointernarse, su flirteo con Susana Giménez, tantos otros momentos, ser el músico más influencias del rock and roll Latino. SE PUEDE PEDIR MÁS? SAY NO MORE."

#cafe tacvba #café tacvba #charly garcia #charly garcía #Latino rock tournament #round 4 #polls