I don't think I can say this with enough emphasis--if you are not Jewish, you don't get to decide what is and is not antisemitic.
There's no ambiguity here. Zero. I am sick and tired of being lectured at by goyim about how, 'oh, ackhtually, your explanation of how my words are antisemitic is off! You're trying to stop the discussion by being inflammatory!'
Or to be told that I am cheapening the term antisemitism, and that people used to react to it before October 7th, but now they're numb to it, which is just what happens you start using serious accusations for political means!
It's... genuinely astonishing to me. I'm consistently amazed by the arrogance, audacity, and disrespect it takes for you guys to lecture Jews on what antisemitism is.
Have any of you goyim experienced antisemitism firsthand? Is it your people who's experienced antisemitism for 3000 years? Is it you who has family members rescued by Schindler? Was it your ancestors who fled from constant, unending pogroms in with nothing but the clothes on their backs? Have you ever had someone tell lies to your friend about you sexually harassing people because you're a Jew? Have you ever had to sit and think whether you should mark down that you're Jewish on a job application? Have you ever felt unsafe and compelled to take off your Star of David because you've been afraid you'd be attacked? Have you ever had to worry about a professor who constantly brings up the war in class marking your assignment down because it talks about Israel being a democracy? Have you ever had the feeling of acid being splashed on your soul when you see antisemitic comments? The ice water rushing down your spine when someone is antisemitic to your face, and you feel the weight of 3 millennia of oppression bearing down on you?
No? Not you?
Then sit your ass down, and frankly, shut the fuck up.
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I've seen some mixed takes on this so it would be interesting to see the actual stats.
Non-Brits, how do you think the British monarchy works politically?
If you're British and know the answer please just pick Option 6.
(Also please reblog this because there's no way to tag this so that it breaks containment)
Option 1: The monarchy is an absolute dictatorship only beholden unto itself. Parliament drafts legislation on their behalf and can be consulted for advice on policy, but all power ultimately lies with the King.
Option 2: The monarchy is a branch of government with equivalent administrative power to Parliament, like the US President is to Congress. The King can and does veto legislation from Parliament they don't like, and directs policy initiatives with Parliament's backing.
Option 3: The monarchy is a subordinate branch of government like the British Supreme Court, acting in an advisory capacity to Parliament. The King is a recognised, active organ of state, but he isn't empowered to pass or approve legislation. The monarchy observes and intervenes where they deem necessary, but Parliament gets the final say.
Option 4: The monarchy, though officially a branch of government, serves no active administrative purpose. The King is a cultural ambassador and respiring rubber stamp that can request special exemptions from Parliamentary policy but cannot contravene, criticise or condone anything Parliament attempts to pass.
Option 5: The monarchy has no affiliation with the state anymore whatsover. The Windsors are just a random rich family we keep around for the tourists' benefit.
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Soft Touch Baby
Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3 | Pt 4 | Pt 5 | Pt 6 | Pt 7 | Pt 8 | Pt 9 | Pt 10 | Pt 11 | Pt 12 | Pt 13 | Pt 14 | Pt 15 | Pt 16 | Eddie’s POV | Song | ao3
(If y’all want a tag list or something let me know, I’m already up to part 8 or 9 in drafts. I don’t know how many more parts there will be after that, but I’m willing!)
Eventually the god-awful hitching in his breath stops. The trembling stops. The tears stop. His breathing slows down, his mind comes back online, and he takes a deep breath.
“Hey,” Eddie murmurs. “That sounds better. You back with me?” He punctuates it with a slow hand down Steve’s back, and Steve never wants to leave.
He forces himself to lean back, sniffle and wipe his face and try to rein himself back in, laughing quietly when Eddie hands him the entire tissue box on his nightstand. “Back,” he mutters, sniffling again. “Sorry.”
There’s enough light coming from the hallway that Steve can see the brow Eddie raises at him. “Sorry for trauma? Cut the crap, Steve, and tell me what I can do.” He shifts so he’s sitting cross-legged on Steve’s bed. “Wanna talk about it?”
Steve huffs out a humorless laugh. “No.” He picks at the corner of the tissue box. “You died. We were back in the Upside Down, and Dustin was just standing there, and I was getting annoyed because it’s not like we haven’t been through this before, it’s not like he doesn’t know what to do, which fucking sucks, but. Anyways. He was standing there, so I walk over and I- I see you, and…” he shakes his head. “Guess you tried to be the hero or some shit. I don’t know. Fuckin’ broke me.”
“I’m here,” Eddie promises again, hand palm-up on the comforter between them. Steve stares at it for a second before taking it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, taking another breath before he trusts himself to look up at Eddie’s face. “You are.”
Eddie cracks a joke, because he’s Eddie. “So I tried to be the hero and I couldn’t cut it, huh?”
Steve might still be figuring out his own emotions, and where his feet exactly are (he’d been sitting at an awkward angle and his legs fell asleep), but he knows that tone of voice. “You know why I said that?” He asks. “Why I told you not to be the hero?”
Eddie snorts. “Think your subconscious just told us exactly why. I woulda died.”
Steve shakes his head. “I told you not to because I couldn’t risk it. I know you would’ve, no hesitation. But I needed you safe. Alive.”
Eddie giggles. “Well, shit, man. Way to make me feel like a dick.”
Steve squeezes the hand he’s holding and somehow manages a teasing tone back. “You do that well enough on your own.”
Eddie groans and flops backwards, head narrowly missing the tissue box. “You wound me,” he says dramatically, and Steve starts laughing.
Eventually Steve gets his emotions under control and Eddie sits back up, tugging on their joined hands to get Steve’s attention. “You thinking you can fall back asleep?”
Steve shrugs. “I usually stay up and read or listen to music or whatever.”
Eddie grins. “How about breakfast instead?”
Steve laughs incredulously. “At three in the morning?”
Eddie shrugs. “You’re not gonna sleep. I’m not gonna sleep if you’re not. We might as well. Plus, pancakes just taste better in the middle of the night. It’s a well-proven fact of life.”
Steve giggles. “You’re so fuckin’ weird,” he says, uncaring that his voice sounds unbearably fond.
“Why thank you, my good sir,” Eddie says in an absolutely atrocious British accent, almost tripping over himself as he tries to get off the bed and bow at the same time.
Steve very carefully doesn’t think about the fact that they’re still holding hands.
He flicks on the light as they enter the kitchen, then immediately regrets it, hissing and shutting his eyes. “Fuck, I forgot.”
Eddie pauses. “Your eyes need to adjust?”
“No, man, fuckin’ headache, just… just gimme a second, I’ll be fine.”
Eddie reaches over and flips the switch back to off. “Y’know,” he starts, quieter than normal, “I’ve never made pancakes in the dark before.”
He squeezes Steve’s hand, pulls him forward a few feet. Steve, eyes still closed, lets him.
He startles at the feeling of something cold on his forehead, only after the fact registering the sound of the freezer door opening and shutting. “Thanks,” he murmurs, squeezing Eddie’s forearm before moving to grab the ice pack, adjusting it a bit and sighing. “Tylenol in the bathroom. D’you mind—”
“‘Course, sit down, I gotcha. Want a Coke? Does caffeine help or hurt?”
Steve hums. “Hurt. Water please.”
“I’m on it. Nurse Eddie, at your service.”
Steve smiles as he imagines the overdramatic bow Eddie probably took. “Nurse Ratched, maybe.”
Eddie gasps in mock offense. “I will have you know I’m an excellent nurse.”
“Mhm. You’re takin’ a while on those meds, excellent nurse.”
“I- you- be quiet,” Eddie lands on, at odds with the soft squeeze to Steve’s forearm as he brushes past on his way to the bathroom.
Yeah, Steve thinks, I’ve still got it.
Pt 7
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