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navybrat817 · 2 years

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Lumbersnack

Pairing: Lumberjack!Steve Rogers x Female Reader Summary: You're hungry for something only Steve can give you. Word Count: Almost 1.6k Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (m. receiving), dirty talk, swearing, slight feels (it's me), Steve Rogers (he’s a warning, okay?). A/N: Loosely on this anon ask, I wanted to give you lovelies something for Sinday. ❤️ Beta read by the beautiful @yarnforbrains, but any and all mistakes are my own. Banner by yours truly. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Please reblog or comment as it means the world!

Not many would have predicted that Steve Rogers would not only give the title of Captain America to Sam Wilson, but that he would retain his Nomad status. Part-time, at least. When he didn't help Sam, Bucky and the other Avengers, Steve chose to spend time away from the city to work as a lumberjack. Brooklyn was still his home in his heart, but the forest became a place of comfort.

You hadn't expected to become a source of comfort for him as well.

As a writer, you didn't think your life was particularly exciting. Steve thought the opposite, telling you that your stories inspired passion in others, including him. You thought he would have gravitated toward another fighter, but the artist in him was drawn to your creative side. Both of you were hard workers, just in different ways.

You respected each other.

And, god, did you crave each other.

Steve joked that he was making up for lost time with how often he took you. When he returned from a mission, it was a guarantee that you wouldn't leave the bed the next day. There was an almost permanent ache between your thighs, but you didn't mind. You never wanted anyone else the way you wanted Steve.

I never will again.

There was hardly a cloud in the sky as Steve brought his axe down, effortlessly chopping a piece of wood in two. He didn't break a sweat as he replaced it with another piece, quickly adding more to the growing pile. It was tough not to stare as he worked, his biceps rippling under the tight t-shirt. Looking at his face wasn't any better since you imagined feeling his beard between your thighs.

Like it had been earlier that morning.

"I'm hungry. I could use a lumbersnack," you called out to him from the porch, standing up from the swing and making a show of slowly stretching. You were wearing one of his plaid shirts and nothing else. Being out there with him in the woods made you feel bold.

Teasing your lumberjack was always a treat.

Plus, no one else was around to see you like this.

"Yeah?" he chuckled as he looked you up and down, driving the axe in the stump in front of him. "How hungry are you?"

"Starving," you answered, grabbing one of the cushions off the seat and dropping it in front of you.

Steve had spent a good part of the morning eating you out, and it was only fair that you returned the favor.

"I should feed you then," he offered as he walked toward you. Stalked was more like it. The massive super-soldier glided across the grass with more agility than you'd ever possess. "Unless you want me to keep working."

"You can get back to work after I suck your cock," you said as a matter of fact, seeing the slight swell in his utility pants as he got closer.

Both of you knew you'd respond that way. You weren't ashamed to admit you had a slight addiction to him since the first time he took you to bed. You even dreamt about his cock. Given the chance, you'd always choose to have him.

It wasn't just that the 6'4" man was built like a god. He had the kindness and generosity of one, too. He treated you like a goddess and listened to you. He did his best to make you happy. No one had ever been so good to you.

"Dirty mouth."

"I think I need something to wash it out."

Steve groaned once he reached you, gripping the back of your head to press his lips against yours insistently. One of the things you appreciated about him was that he didn't hold back or do anything half-assed. If he wanted you, he made it known, and he took you. Of course, he would stop if you weren't in the mood since he was a gentleman at heart.

Even though he was an animal in bed.

And you hadn’t stopped him once.

"You're distracting me when I should be working, sweetheart."

"All I said was I was hungry. You're the one who offered to feed me," you teased, letting him give you another breath stealing kiss.

"You always say that when you want my cock in your mouth. Like I could ever resist fucking that pretty mouth of yours," he said, making you whimper when his voice deepened. "Now be a good girl and get on your knees."

Still the Captain at heart.

"Yes, sir."

Your hand moved down his body before you followed the trail with your mouth and dropped to your knees on the cushion, your pulse jumping when you undid his pants. You pulled them down with his underwear, your mouth going dry at the sight of his cock springing free. It didn't matter how many times you saw him, the size of him still made your pussy throb.

You gently gripped him, his thickness hot under your touch. Sucking the head into your mouth, you gazed at him with a moan. The bittersweet taste of him flooded your mouth as you teased the tip with your tongue. You watched as he exhaled, his lips parting as his dark blonde locks fell in his eyes. You couldn't wait to choke on him.

Make me appreciate the ability to breathe.

"Suck it harder, sweetheart," he moaned, helping you bob your head. "You said you were hungry."

You inhaled through your nose as you relaxed your throat, alternating between jerking him at the base and fondling his balls. The weight in your hand was almost as heavy as the one on your tongue, moving them in time with each other. You were eager for him to empty himself in your mouth or on your face.

Either would be a reminder that you were his.

"Fuck, sweetheart. You and your mouth drive me fucking crazy."

It didn't take long for his head to tip back, keeping a hand on the back of your head as you took him in as much as you could. Not many could take a man his size, but you wanted to please him. You were determined to remind him why you were made for him.

One of the many reasons.

He grunted as he lifted his head to stare down at you. "You really do look good with a mouthful of cock. Almost as good as your pussy stretched around me. Fuck, you're beautiful."

In the back of your mind, you knew he craved the haven of your body as much as you craved being his haven. When he was inside you, he could forget about the horrors he witnessed in battle. He could drink you in and feel at peace. He didn't have to feel like a man out of time.

Not with me.

The slight tremble in his large frame warned you that he was getting close to the edge as he thrust his hips faster. You whined, engulfing him as your mouth tightened. He kept hitting the back of your throat, and you refused to pull off, even as your eyes watered. You could take it.

"Harder. That's it. You want it down your throat, don't you? Fuck, I'm gonna come."

He held you in place when you moaned in response, his cock throbbing on your tongue. The hoarse cry he let out had you clenching around nothing as he flooded your mouth, doing your best not to let anything spill out. You swallowed him down as he slowed his movements, blinking away the tears as he finished and let his cock slip free.

You took a moment to appreciate the view of Steve as you licked the saliva and taste of him from your swollen lips. The sun in the distance illuminated his body, the glow making him look every bit like the god many believed him to be. He raked a hand through his hair, a slight flush to his cheeks as he swore under his breath. He made wood-chopping look like a walk in the park, but the orgasm you gave him had him panting above you.

I love making the man with a plan lose control.

You gasped when he gripped you by the arms and pulled you up once he caught his breath. Using his strength to keep you up, he brought his mouth to yours. He did the same whenever he pleased you. Kisses meant something special to Steve.

They mean the world to me, too.

"You okay?" he asked, searching your face for any discomfort or pain. No matter how he had you, he made sure you were comfortable after. "Do you need some water?"

"I'm great," you smiled, nodding over to the porch swing where you had your water waiting. "And I'm a little full."

He chuckled as he used his boot to adjust the pillow and carried you to the swing. "You may be full, but now I'm hungry."

"We both need to get back to work," you teased as he set you down and sank to his knees on the cushion you previously occupied. You spread your legs, your pussy wet and begging for his attention. "But if you really are hungry."

"I am, and I'll be quick. Especially since I can hear one of our neighbors heading this way," he said, gesturing behind him with his head. His heightened senses amazed you. "Let's see if I can make you come before he gets here."

*****

Maybe this lumberjack will become a thing. What do we think, lovelies? See how they're doing here. Love and thanks! ❤️

#navybrat writes #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #lumberjack!steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #nomad!steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers au #steve rogers #nomad!steve rogers #lumberjack!steve rogers #lumberjack au #chris evans x reader #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x you

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misalpav · 1 year

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you don't understand the makers of the kerala story speared propaganda against islam and kerala and you are navie lured to hindu fanaticism

first of all, if you're denying the existence of ISIS conversions in Kerala and the larger India then, the Observer Research Foundation published, in a 2019 report, that between 60-70 individuals in Kerala joined ISIS between 2014-18. Also, the NIA has entered various times into Kerala due to suspects of ISIS interactions. ISIS has existed in India for a while now and denying it would require your eyes to be closed.

You're saying that this movie is against Islam and Kerala but from where I stand, it's a movie against ISIS. That's something I will support to the end, both as someone who's lived through the repercussions of 9/11/2001 and the fact that they are literally a salafi jihadist terrorist organization. Anyone minus a few select people who went and watched TKS today are making conclusions about the entire movie from a short teaser/trailer clip, which, many times, isn't even an accurate portrayal of a movie. People who watched the full movie in the Kerala Supreme Court themselves had refused to restrict the release of the movie on the same premise of being against ISIS, not Islam.

Obviously, the biggest argument being made right now, and one I'm 100% expecting you to bring up if you choose to come back into my asks, is the figure of 32K conversions in Kerala. I don't believe in that number. What I do believe in though, is that The Kerala Story is a mere movie. All these people arguing against this movie claim to be "secularists". News flash, any film in a secular industry is gonna be dramatized because in a secular industry people look for viewership and how to make any small story compelling be it through caricature or exaggeration. As far as I care, people can consume whatever media they want and then are responsible for researching and fact-checking on their own. Quick examples of this that I can think of are the Netflix TV show Narcos where they antagonized a supposed "judy moncada" who was completely made up, and The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien, a supposed retelling of events in the Vietnam war that he later concedes wasn't accurate apart from the emotion. Authors, writers, and any other artist for that matter take creative liberties in storytelling. I don't know how or why people are taking this so seriously. Congratulations you can do your research!

Now in terms of being a "navie" that's lured into Hindu fanaticism, what's naive about loving a culture that's been here for centuries that resulted in the construction of beautiful architecture and tells the some of the most enthralling stories? If anyone called any of the Abrahmic religions fanatical, they'd immediately be pegged as islamophobic, christianophobic, etc, why can't Hindus get the same respect? Honestly, the one common trait in any land with foreigners is the sheer lack of respect for natives and it shows, be it India, the USA, Australia, etc. I'd highly recommend you get a reality check on yourself.

#the kerala story #tw: human trafficking #tw: sex trafficking #tw: terrorism #tw: religious abuse #hindublr #desiblr #indian politics #hindi movies #hinduphobia #readers feel free to reblog #shri answers asks

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rudo-lfium · 7 months

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The Fall of the House of Usher - my 2c

So I'm only 3 episodes in, and I admit it's a beautifully made show, very artistic, extremely creative, visually stunning and all that.

However its artistic value is deteriorating rapidly in my eyes because, once you dissect its story, it becomes obvious that it's another lecture on Divine Retribution by religious zealots.

At first I was trying to willfully ignore the obvious signs and kept trying to treat the characters as real (sic) human beings interacting with each other in a material world and being driven in their actions by practical motives such as revenge, advantage, love, devotion, hatred and competition. You know, just like we do in our everyday lives.

However the further the show takes us along its dark narration, the more impossible does it become to brush away such glaring symbolisms as the number of children being 6, which added to the 2 main protagonists (or rather, anti-heroes), makes 8, and that is exactly the number of cardinal sins listed in the earliest religious texts on the matter.

Thusly the story is reduced to the level of another "deadly sins" fabula of which there is already an unnecessary abundance. And my gripe with such plots is founded in my deep resentment of organized religion and its extreme, inhumane, monstrous values which the Churchers like to call "virtues".

All these postulates were developed by The Church (let's use it as a collective term for the purposes of this discussion) in order to suppress free thinking and to punish the "too damn smart" ones. In practice this just means legalized murder. Justification of killing off of all those who refuse to comply. The moral aspect here is indistinguishable from "jihad" which by definition means physical annihilation of all unbelievers. Since Islam is based intimately on Judaism such kinship of policies is to be expected, really.

Literary works, or in this case, a television series, in which some supernatural Avenging Angel murders those guilty of "cardinal sins" without a trial-and-investigation serve as tools to promote the policy of intimidation and oppression. They convince the easily impressed in the legality of such methods and place their sympathies firmly on the side of the murderers.

And when someone is convinced that it's not murder but a completely justified Divine Retribution, they will readily push their own kin under the guillotine or on the pyre and will remain in complete psychological obedience to The Church -- or any higher authority. We've seen it happen a million times.

Back to the plot, let's take the court trial. It is shown to be helpless in trying to convict Usher Sr and Ms Usher, his sister. What is it if not a demonstration of the fact that "human courts" are powerless against "such monsters" and the only way to bring them to justice is to send Gabriel The Smiting down from Heaven to exact punishment on their heads? And since he acts on a warrant signed by God himself, it's all tip-top with everybody.

Thus anything done to the Ushers is completely justified and requires no investigation. He is deserving of punishment, think the believers, and as such must be subjected to all sorts of inhumane sufferings to make him pay for the sufferings that he had allegedly inflicted on others. So let's start by killing his children. Let's whack them one by one in most horrendous and gory ways possible to scare him into fits of hallucinations where he's surrounded by come-from-the-dead corpses of his offspring day and night and hasn't a minute's rest from the constant pain. And then we'll murder him and his bitch of a sister too, because, well, you know, there must be 8 sacrifices, IT IS WRITTEN. Oh yeah, and let's make sure that each and every one of these 8 have no redeeming qualities at all, let's paint them as utterly terrible people in every aspect, so as to ensure the public's total repulsion of their personas. It is imperative that no one is allowed even a faintest chance at feeling any sympathy towards either one of the marked targets.

What is Usher's sudden "confession session" with the prosecutor if not a symbolism for penance? That's what believers do to have their sins excused -- they confess to the priest in an attempt to buy their way into Heaven. Usher, too, is trying to reserve himself a seat on a cushy cloud after he dies, so he's "confessing to his crimes" as a last ditch effort to escape the fires of Hell. By the way, the highest percentage of devout believers is found amongst repeat offenders in prisons.

I wouldn't be surprised if The Lawyer (by Mark Hamill) of whom we get very scarce snippets on screen (he is mostly seen dropping a sparse remark or giving quick advise to the Ushers) is meant to be the Devil who always stays in the shadows and operates under the cover of darkness, manipulating his subjects into doing VERY TERRIBLE THINGS that ensure their souls wind up in Hell and thus contribute to the contents of the Devil's personal coffers. It's my guess but I could very well be wrong, so we'll see, if the show's finale isn't a picturesque PvP battle between The Archangel (Carla Gugino) and The Devil (Mark Hamill) who will shed their humble human camouflage and don their Biblical armor appearing before the audience in their True Form.

I'm almost angry at this show being so well made. It saddens me to think that more people will now submit to religion's monstrous ideals. It saddens me that human beings, while flawed in many aspects, are portrayed as complete shit. And it makes me angry that anyone can hide behind false virtues and annihilate anyone at all as long as they're convinced that they've got a license from God. Just like in the barbarous Medieval times, we still have Divine wool pulled over our eyes and must fight to have it removed at the risk of being destroyed and having our deaths celebrated by our murderers.

#The Fall Of The House of Usher #review

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hoodie-2 · 3 years

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Hours had passed since the "math duel" and the sun had began its descent, setting the town ablaze with a warm orange glow. Krel had spent a portion of the evening exploring, or rather wandering, throughout more of the town, observing it's people. Many of the humans were out in pairs at this hour, some of the pairs had included smaller versions of themselves in whatever activities they were partaking in. He had spied a young pair of, well, human girls at the park, almost identical except in the tones of their skin and the color of their hair, and a pair of adults he assumed were their parents seated on a bench not far away, sitting at polar ends from each other on the bench conversing on their communication devices, otherwise leaving the two children on their own.

The girls themselves didn't appear perturbed or at all bothered by their parents behavior, more entertained by the images on the platform they made with the unusual writing untensils in their tiny hands. Well, all Earthly untensils were unusual in Krel's perspective; pencils, pens, markers, but ones that the two girls used were different even from those. These were maybe the length of an unused pencil but far thicker than a marker and... powdery? His head tipped as he watched one blow away part of her line, the colorful powder pushed into the air in one big gust, as she redrew the line. Her fairer toned sibling patted a hand on her clothes, a blue colored handprint left behind on the green fabric. Both girls took notice of the mark and giggled, the first girl Krel was watching pressed a hand to her own clothes and left a pink handprint similar to the other's blue. The action brought a smile to his face, it has been a while since that happened.

He eyed the girls' parents again. Would it be rude if he just started talking to the children? Their parents didn't seem to be very attentive at the moment. Doesn't that sound familiar? But he was curious about their weird, colorful writing tools. Hm, maybe if he just kept a decent distance as he spoke to them. He didn't want to come off as strange.

"Excuse me," he approached the girls, kneeling to their height at what he believed was a respectable distance. Both girls looked at him, shifting as if they were preparing to run at the first opportunity, Krel wasn't exactly surprised by the reaction seeing as a lot of the commercials on the picture box involved something called 'stranger danger' and he was, afterall, a stranger to them. But he pointed at their drawings, from a closer examination the colorful etchings turned out to be crude imitations of other Earth creatures, a lot of them with long ears and roundish tails and a few like clouds with legs. "What is that you are writing with?"

The wariness in their eyes wavered as they looked down at the drawings around them and then at the untensils in their hands.

"You mean chalk?" The yellow-haired one asked, pointing her free hand to the blue powdery stick she held.

"Chalk," Krel echoed thoughtfully. "And you, ah, draw with it?"

"Yea, dummy," her sister answered. "Haven't you used chalk before?" They gave him identical looks of confusion only someone their age could.

"No, actually, I haven't." Krel answered back quietly. "We don't have anything like 'chalk' where I am from." He looked down at their drawings again, noticing colors other than pink and blue, there was a yellow circle he figured was the sun judging by the green landscape below it and many other colorful dots he supposed were plants. His head tilted so the image wasn't completely upside down in his perspective. "You have some very pretty drawings."

"Do you want to try?" The yellow-haired girl asked, holding out her chalk stick to him.

He eyed the shrunken piece of blue in her open palm. "A- are you sure?"

"Sure!" The girl chirped, a smile spreading over her features, a matching one on her sister's as well. "We do this all the time, its fun."

Krel took the chalk from her, rolling it and turning it in his hand, blue powder stuck to his palm wherever it touched. He looked up to see the girl reach behind her sister and pull out another stick of chalk, purple this time. They went back to scribbling on the bricks around them. He watched as their creativity grew and spread, narrowly crossing over each other's work and somehow still blending together.

Looking down at the emptiness around him where their chalk hadn't yet touched. What would he draw, he wondered. Things considered artistic escaped him, even on his planet; he couldn't understand poetry, the closest he gets to crafting is inventing gadgets, even basic drawing on a telepad wasn't something he had much skill in. What could he draw? Well, shapes are pretty simple.

He started with a triangle, Earth's history was full of them according to Kubritz and her research teams. Ancient tombs and monuments to societies that have long since passed, the triangle was acknowledged as the strongest structure, those words rang true clearly. A square, the basic form of most present day structures; there wasn't anything too spectacular about it, a little more space than a triangle, sure but meh. Then a circle, a shape Krel was most familiar with, there wasn't a screen or viewing monitor in Akiridion-5 that did not have circles, and even then there were links that connected them to more circles. On Earth, circles meant unity to some and a means of 'alien' communication to others - Kubritz.

"Can't you draw?" The brown-haired girl asked as she crawled over to look at his work.

"I am not very talented." Krel admitted. "But drawing with chalk is fun."

"Try drawing your family." Her sister suggested as she joined them. "That helps me sometimes."

Krel hummed at that logic. It was sound enough, even if he was currently at odds with his family and it was an extremely delicate situation. But they are human children, it was probably best to go along with it.

He started with Aja, forcing himself to recall her human form; it wasn't perfect, especially since he was limited to one color but he knew. Next his mother, whose disguise he's only seen a handful of times so this may be a little more difficult. That was nothing to drawing his father. How does one draw face fur?

The girls giggled at the etching.

"That one looks like a monkey." The yellow-haired one pointed to his etching. His gaze roamed over the attempted drawing and felt laughter bubbling in his chest.

"It seems you are right." Oh, how was Krel going to look at his father's face without laughing now?

He looked around them, seeing that the sky was gradually getting darker, getting closer to the time that younglings would be taken back to their homes. The girls' parents were still occupied with their own priorities, poor girls.

"I suppose I should go," he sighed, giving back the chalk he was given, "you will be going home soon." Krel did not expect such saddened expressions at his words.

"Do you have to?" The brown-haired girl asked, watching him stand up.

"I'm afraid so." He dusted the blue powder on to his jeans. "But I'm sure we will see each other again."

"Really?" The yellow-haired girl asked excitedly.

"Of course," Krel chuckled. "I wander around when I have free time." He watched as they shared a look, tipping his head as they stood as well, the yellow-haired one picking up the blue chalk and holding it out to him again.

"My name's Abby," she said, bouncing a little on her heels as she shook the chalk at him.

"And I'm Gabby." Her sister added proudly. "You can have the blue one, then we can draw again next time. Right?"

A smile pulled at his lips again. It would be a shame to see their faces fall again in sadness. He took the chalk from Abby. "That sounds fun. My name is Krel, it was nice to meet you both."

They waved at him as he walked away, pocketing the chalk he was gifted. Maybe he can find out where they get it next time so he can obtain more himself. He admired the blue powder that tainted his palm, opening and closing his hand, it was somehow amusing how the color clung to his flesh. It was almost as if his real body was peering through, if only.

After a bit of wandering, the sky growing darker, and some of the street lights were blinking to life Krel found himself at a back alley behind some stores that surrounded the park, if his memory of the town map was correct. It was empty of any lifeform that was human as he stepped in, looking around at his surroundings carefully; four-legged creatures that he was told were cats saw his approach and ran off into hiding; even smaller creatures scurried away behind them, leaving Krel alone with the garbage bins of two different sizes, the walls of the buildings were clean aside from the occasional stain near the bins or moss that grew more toward the ground.

He wasn't sure what compelled him to do so but he pulled the piece of chalk from his pocket and wrote the equation from the math duel, following it with his correct work and answer. Satisfaction washed over him as he wrote his answer, the right answer, his original answer. He was still a bit stuck on his why's during the duel, he knew he did a good thing for Seamus so what did it matter anymore. Why did Seamus stare at him when it was over?

Krel's hand moved to write another equation, it was more complex but watching the letters and numbers come into being it made sense to him, it always made sense to him, similar to cataloging past events and his planning for the future. It was comforting as he continued the equation, spreading it further along the wall, blue clear against the red brick but still convoluted. Had he been less taken in with his work he probably would have felt more guilty about how much of the chalk he was using up. He didn't notice the approaching person behind him until they addressed him.

"Kubritz?"

Krel whipped around, instinctively taking up a defensive battle stance startling the newcomer. That was... Seamus? And was holding an item in each hand, they didnt seem to be weapons though so he could relax somewhat. Not completely though, he has noticed around the education prison that some human males in their age group tended to be, well, boorish and found amusement in harassing other males they perceived as weak, and Krel's human form unfortunately suited that perception. Primitive. He'll be sure to correct that.

"Uh... hey," Seamus waved one of the things he held, the action stiff. His eyes flicked beyond Krel, looking over the equations behind him. "What're you working on?" His gaze followed the equation to the start, lingering on the work shown. "Looks complicated."

"You have no idea." Krel wasn't trusting this interaction, not that there was any reason to.

"Hey- Look, you can relax, uh, whatever move that is," Seamus gestured to Krel's posture with whatever it was he held. "What is that anyway? Judo? Jujitsu?"

Krel eased his stance but kept a leery eye still on the human. "Nothing you have ever seen, I assure you." He answered in little more than a monotone.

"Ookay...?" The human coughed, taking a few meeger steps toward him with a hand extended outward. "You want a burrito? I dunno if you've eaten yet or anything but it's an idea right?" He gave a pitiful laugh as he stopped only a few feet away, the thing in his hand slumping over his fingers like it was trying to slip out of his grip.

As a being of energy, Krel had no need to consume organic materials, but he has been curious. On another hand Earth has a history in poisoning consumables for enemies, again not that it should affect him, maybe.

A sigh escaped Seamus, seeming to notice Krel's reluctance. "I just want to apologize for my behavior." He said, "You didn't deserve it. You earned the grade fair and square."

"I suppose I should say that I'm relieved you've gained some sense." Krel retorted, not completely convinced.

"Okay... I earned that." Krel saw Seamus' grip tighten around the 'burrito', his restraint was admirable. "But you didn't have to let me win, so why did you?"

Krel finally took the burrito, examining it for a moment before tearing the aluminum wrapping like he's seen other humans do and bite into it. The texture was strange, soft, soggy; the taste was savory, it was weird feeling the crunch of vegetables but overall it wasn't bad but he didn't have much in expectations, so, another point for Earth.

"Wanna sit?" Seamus gestured to the the sidewalk. Krel didn't object, taking another bite of his burrito and joining him on the cold cement just a yard or so from a flickering lamppost.

"I had nothing to gain," he answered finally, getting a startled look, "from winning the math duel. Nothing to lose either, unlike you."

The human's head ducked almost sheepishly. He must have recalled how loud his father was in bellowing their agreement. If it could have been called that.

"Again, I'm sorry," he declared. "My dad just has high expectations. Very high."

"Understandable."

"Is it really?"

Krel frowned at him. "Just because my parents are not present does not mean I don't have my own problems with them."

Seamus' face turned even more guilt ridden. "R-right, sorry," he stammered, a red hue spreading over his features. He was quiet for a moment, taking large distracting bites of his own burrito. The silence allowed Krel a moment to gather his thoughts about the present situation, and possibly plan for what could happen next. Maybe he could somehow make Seamus an ally, like Aja had with the majority of their peers, to keep his disguise here. It certainly would make things easier than researching every tidbit about this mudball to blend in while Morando outsources the search for Gaylen's core. The question was how to do so.

"You," Seamus spoke up again, breaking the silence between them, "you came from a warring country, right, like Aja Tarron and her family?"

The words brought a bitter curl to his lips. Her family, may as well be, ironic, consider she used to run away from her family at every opportunity.

"Yes," Krel answered softly. "Maybe even the same country, if luck would have it." Some luck that would be.

"What happened? I-if you don't mind me asking."

The expression on Seamus' face was different from before; softer, solemn, perhaps even sympathetic. It's been a clear background to his class that Krel escaped from a war torn country with no family besides Morando who was discharged due to injury during the fight. Could this be the opportunity he needed to make Seamus his ally? To make a 'friend'? In one quote Krel had heard, he now understood. When opportunity knocks, it would be wise to open the door.

"I-it all happened so fast," Krel began, quickly coming up with details to twist the story from the traumatic reality. "It happened on the coronation day for the royal heirs; my parents both had high political and military positions so my sister and I were allowed good seats to see the crowning," he kept his voice low, allowing some of the emotion he kept at bay to fill his words, "everyone was excited, we all had high hopes. The princess hadn't made her appearance yet when the attack happened." Krel swallowed thickly as the real memory came to mind. The running, his parents ordering him and Zadra to find Aja, falling behind, and being left behind. "It was chaos; people were running everywhere, trying to find each other and to find shelter, soldiers and their weapons, the cannon fire..." his eyes were leaking again, it was too much already with so little spoken. What was wrong with him? "I- I was too slow, my... my parents- my sister, gah, what is wrong with me?" He took the fabric of his shirt, quickly trying to wipe away the streaming liquid, his chest felt heavy, his core ached. Krel hadn't felt like this since he first found Aja and their parents on Earth. His head hurt.

A hand touched his shoulder making him freeze up. "It's okay." Seamus' voice was calm, relaxing even. "You've been through a lot, huh?"

Krel sniffed, trying to regain some composure before answering. "You have no idea."

#tales of arcadia #3below #krel tarron #aja tarron #general morando #morandos prodigy au #king failkov #queen coranda #seamus johnson #trollhunters #space camp #this is getting so long so imma make a part 3

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mona-rei-is-not-okay · 6 years

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Hello, hun. So here's my imagine for you: How would UT, MT Sans and the US and UF brothers (I'm sorry if I've exceed the character limit, feel free to choose any skeles you like in that case) react to an artistic s/o who has insomnia and they often spend the night sketching/sculpting/painting until the early hours of the morning, and the next time the s/o looks at the art peace they destroy it because it's a reminder that they lost another night to the insomnia? Who would try to stop/help them?

omg YOU’RE the sweetie ya sweetie

i just realized that i headcannon many of the boys as insomniacs jeezums but this is some unique prompt, holy carp i love

UT!Sans: At first, he’s really happy to know you’ve got a creative outlet. He has trouble with insomnia himself due to some reoccuring nightmares, so however and for whatever reason your insomnia manifests, he’s very supportive. He’s really proud of your creative endeavors, and often drapes himself over your shoulder to watch if you’re comfortable with it. He finds it soothing to see all that really cool stuff in your head gradually appear out of nothing.

He wonders where they all end up, of course, but he’s pretty sure the insomnia art is personal and he’s really not one to intrude on that sort of thing. The first time he catches you punching through a canvas, he’s more confused than anything else. He doesn’t know how you distinguish a good piece from a bad piece, but that portrait sure did look like a person. This worries him. He’ll wait until after you’re done and try to break the tension a little. “guess that portrait was a bust, eh? heh…”

Once you tell him why, he understands, but something about it feels wrong to him. He just can’t see your art as a product of a wasted night. If you gain some sort of catharsis from destroying your pieces, he sure as hell isn’t going to stop you, but his soul twinges whenever he sees you do it. Secretly, he starts looking up ways to start fighting insomnia and tries to open the topic to you. He can see how destroying the art might be harmful, and maybe if he expands your options you’ll start to keep them. In any case, he won’t try to directly stop you, but he will try to divert your coping mechanisms to something less… smashy.

MT!Sans: Your art is a breath of fresh air in his chaotic world. He also has trouble with nightmares, and will often stay up with you to watch you work or just read a book beside you. It does him proud to know his s/o finds such pure and creative ways to spend their time. Watching you is one of the few things in his life that’s truly peaceful, that makes him feel at home.

Which is why when he first catches you ripping up a sketch, he immediately snatches it up and asks what the actual heck you’re doing. He’s usually off doing jobs during the day, so he figured you were just stashing them somewhere when he wasn’t around. But this? It feels like sacrilege! Why would you destroy your own pieces?

Once you explain, he’s tempted to argue, but stops himself. Obviously he loves your art, it makes him think of you and the time you spent together when you made it. He never really considered that you might’ve had a more complicated relationship with your pieces, but it makes sense to him. Still, thinking about all those works being torn up or broken… it opens a void somewhere precious. One night though, something hits him. If you just want them gone, he might know a guy.

“‘ey doll, ever think of puttin these up for sale?”

UF!Sans: Color him impressed, kid. He’s the opposite of a creative type, so he doesn’t really know what’s good from what’s great, but you seem to have this stuff down to a T and he couldn’t be prouder. His night terrors and resulting insomnia is significantly worse than his Tale and Mob self, so he tends to come watch you for comfort after an episode. It’s almost surreal, the way are your art comes outta nothing like that. Sometimes it’s enough to help him wanna sleep again.

The first time he sees you smashing a small statue, he’s shocked and a little afraid. At first, he doesn’t connect the violence to the statue, and thinks something unrelated is making you angrily break things. And hey, he’s been there, but it still triggers a slight panic response. After taking a breath, he just gently swipes away the rubble of your statuette with magic and asks what’s wrong. He’s trying to formulate a short lecture in his head on how harmful getting into the habit of breaking things when you’re angry can be and how he can try to help you learn some better ways to cope, but then you tell him why you’re destroying your art specifically.

And he gets it. He really gets it. He’s broken some things that reminded him of times he’d rather forget, too. He checks your hands for any scratches or wounds from the clay, and treats them if he finds any. He’s not at all good with words, but if you’re comfortable with it, he’ll try to talk with you about his experiences with this stuff, and ways to work through the lack of sleep and the low moods and the urge to break the pieces. But he won’t try to stop you. In fact, those situations are some of the few times he’ll actually help you clean up a mess without complaining. He just wants to help you through it as well as he can.

UF!Papyrus: He loves your creativity. He’s not much of an artist himself, but he has quite an eye for detail and has a knack for finding that THING in a piece that’s bothering you, and offering gentle critique. And that’s nothing compared to how much he gushes to friends about you and your art. Everybody look at his wonderful artist s/o, they’re doing so much and so well! He has experience in supporting a loved one with insomnia from helping his brother, but he himself doesn’t have it. His sleep schedule is tight and short though, so he’ll likely catch you working in the wee hours of the morning sometimes and stop for a while to just… bask in your skill. He really admires your dedication, even though he’s concerned about your sleep schedule and will try to get you into daytime habits that’ll help you get in a couple more hours.

When he first sees you wrecking a pot you’d made, he panicks, swiftly lifts you out of reach of any breakable objects, and pulls you into a so-called “Calm-Down Squeeze,” in which he hugs you really tightly and hums a soothing tune until you either stop thrashing or soften your tone. His brother used to have a habit of wrecking things in anger, and he wasn’t about to lose another vase. Since you aren’t actually in a bout of rage, the Squeeze is short lived and he puts you down, tapping his foot and coolly asking for an explaination.

Once you tell him about your struggle, his finger, in the air and poised for a lecture, lowers. He didn’t expect to hear that it was about ridding yourself of a reminder. Edge can understand wanting to destroy the past, or wanting some sort of revenge against your issues. He’d felt that way for a long time, heck, he still felt that way sometimes. But maybe he could help you feel better? He starts with helping you with the mess, then tries to discuss better ways to deal with your resentment towards your sleepless nights. He’ll definitely try to get you to meditate with him more often, teach you some breathing exercises, and will likely start squirreling your pieces away after you’re done when he can, so that you don’t have to face them until you’re ready. And hey, now you’re familiar with the Calm-Down Squeeze and can have one whenever you need one!

US!Sans: He is immesurably proud of your artistic ability. He’ll probably try out some of some of your art mediums to support you, and try to get you to take classes with him to expand your artistic muscles together. He’s always wanted to tke up painting, but never seemed to get around to it until now. He’s not exactly an insomniac, but his sleep schedule isn’t exactly healthy. He pushes himself to stay up too late and get up too early, and though he can function well enough on little sleep, it’s still to his detriment. Seeing you struggle with insomnia and supporting you actually helps him admit to himself that he should be sleeping more, too.

When he first sees you ripping up a drawing, he assumes it’s due to some manner of art block. Goodness knows when he was particularly frustrated with a piece, he felt like destroying it, too. He figures that that plus and an extended lack of restful sleep didn’t mix very well. He sits beside you and touches your arm, asking if you’re okay.

Once you tell him what’s really going on, he’s a little surprised. He was pretty proud that you’d figured out a way to endure those nights, he always figured these pieces would remind you how well you survived, just like they remind him. He tells you that, but also that he won’t stop you from breaking the pieces, but he’d feel better if you looked into better solutions together. So now, every early morning while you’re awake, he tries to get you to meditate or paint with him while the sun rises, before you see that night’s piece again. He tends to hide them, but leaves one out every once in a while to test the waters. Art is just such an important part of what you do, and he doesn’t want it to act like a reminder of failure, when you use is so often to persevere.

US!Papyrus: He’s happy to see that you’re following your artistic passion. As a person that has had little to aspire to, seeing you tackle your work with such skill warms up a part of him that’s been been left mostly unattended. He’ll watch you work and ask questions about your technique, and offers pretty good criticsm if you ask. He has a way of letting you know what could be improved without making it sound like something’s really wrong with your piece. His insomnia doesn’t have anything to do with nightmares, but his anxieties drive him completely up the wall at night. As much as he wished you’d sleep more, he’s sorta glad that you’re awake during these times. Seeing you work gives him something to focus on when he feels like freaking out, and it can help him settle down after an attack.

When he finds you tearing up a painting, he doesn’t process exactly what you’re doing until he recognizes it as the painting from last night. He walks up and squeezes your shoulder, asking what it did to deserve that. When you explain, he shrugs. Makes sense to him that the process of creating would be helpful even when the creation reminds you only of the struggle. Shame about the canvas, though. Try to clean up after yourself if you’re gonna do that, okay?

But the thing is, now your works seem to just… disappear after you make them. At least the ones you make at night. If you ask Stretch, he’ll just shrug and say they’ll turn up eventually. He’s obviously squirreling them away somewhere, but he knows you won’t look for them. He just likes your art, and it’d be such a shame to waste the materials on something you’re just gonna break. Plus it’s satisfying for him to look at the end product of something he watched the making of. If nothing changes, he might never outright tell you that he keeps them. He’s also just a touch more active about trying to get you to come to bed. He realizes that it probably won’t do much, but maybe both of you could get an extra hour in edgewise if you were committed.

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nothingnewunderheaven · 4 years

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QUEERS READ THIS A leaflet distributed at pride march in NY Published anonymously by Queers June, 1990 How can I tell you. How can I convince you, brother, sister that your life is in danger: That everyday you wake up alive, relatively happy, and a functioning human being, you are committing a rebellious act. You as an alive and functioning queer are a revolutionary. There is nothing on this planet that validates, protects or encourages your existence. It is a miracle you are standing here reading these words. You should by all rights be dead. Don't be fooled, straight people own the world and the only reason you have been spared is you're smart, lucky or a fighter. Straight people have a privilege that allows them to do whatever they please and fuck without fear. But not only do they live a life free of fear; they flaunt their freedom in my face. Their images are on my TV, in the magazine I bought, in the restaurant I want to eat in, and on the street where I live. I want there to be a moratorium on straight marriage, on babies, on public displays of affection among the opposite sex and media images that promote heterosexuality. Until I can enjoy the same freedom of movement and sexuality, as straights, their privilege must stop and it must be given over to me and my queer sisters and brothers. Straight people will not do this voluntarily and so they must be forced into it. Straights must be frightened into it. Terrorized into it. Fear is the most powerful motivation. No one will give us what we deserve. Rights are not given they are taken, by force if necessary. It is easier to fight when you know who your enemy is. Straight people are your enemy. They are your enemy when they don't acknowledge your invisibility and continue to live in and contribute to a culture that kills you. Every day one of us is taken by the enemy. Whether it's an AIDS death due to homophobic government inaction or a lesbian bashing in an all-night diner (in a supposedly lesbian neighborhood). AN ARMY OF LOVERS CANNOT LOSE Being queer is not about a right to privacy; it is about the freedom to be public, to just be who we are. It means everyday fighting oppression; homophobia, racism, misogyny, the bigotry of religious hypocrites and our own self-hatred. (We have been carefully taught to hate ourselves.) And now of course it means fighting a virus as well, and all those homo-haters who are using AIDS to wipe us off the face of the earth. Being queer means leading a different sort of 2 life. It's not about the mainstream, profit-margins, patriotism, patriarchy or being assimilated. It's not about executive directors, privilege and elitism. It's about being on the margins, defining ourselves; it's about gender- fuck and secrets, what's beneath the belt and deep inside the heart; it's about the night. Being queer is "grass roots" because we know that everyone of us, every body, every cunt, every heart and ass and dick is a world of pleasure waiting to be explored. Everyone of us is a world of infinite possibility. We are an army because we have to be. We are an army because we are so powerful. (We have so much to fight for; we are the most precious of endangered species.) And we are an army of lovers because it is we who know what love is. Desire and lust, too. We invented them. We come out of the closet, face the rejection of society, face firing squads, just to love each other! Every time we fuck, we win. We must fight for ourselves (no one else is going to do it) and if in that process we bring greater freedom to the world at large then great. (We've given so much to that world: democracy, all the arts, the concepts of love, philosophy and the soul, to name just a few gifts from our ancient Greek Dykes, Fags.) Let's make every space a Lesbian and Gay space. Every street a part of our sexual geography. A city of yearning and then total satisfaction. A city and a country where we can be safe and free and more. We must look at our lives and see what's best in them, see what is queer and what is straight and let that straight chaff fall away! Remember there is so, so little time. And I want to be a lover of each and every one of you. Next year, we march naked. ANGER "The strong sisters told the brothers that there were two important things to remember about the coming revolutions, the first is that we will get our asses kicked. The second, is that we will win." I'm angry. I'm angry for being condemned to death by strangers saying, "You deserve to die" and "AIDS is the cure." Fury erupts when a Republican woman wearing thousands of dollars of garments and jewelry minces by the police lines shaking her head, chuckling and wagging her finger at us like we are recalcitrant children making absurd demands and throwing temper tantrum when they aren't met. Angry while Joseph agonizes over $8,000 a over for AZT which might keep him alive a little longer and which makes him sicker than the disease he is diagnosed with. Angry as I listen to a man tell me that after changing his will five times he's running out of people to leave things to. All of his best friends are dead. Angry when stand in a sea of quilt panels, or go to a candlelight march or attend yet another memorial service. I will not march silently with a fucking candle and I want to take that goddamned quilt and wrap myself in it and furiously rend it and my hair and curse every god 3 religion ever created. I refuse to accept a creation that cuts people down in the third decade of their life. It is cruel and vile and meaningless and everything I have in me rails against the absurdity and I raise my face to the clouds and a ragged laugh that sounds more demonic than joyous erupts from my throat and tears stream down my face and if this disease doesn't kill me, I may just die of frustration. My feet pound the streets and Peter's hands are chained to a pharmaceutical company's reception desk while the receptionist looks on in horror and Eric's body lies rotting in a Brooklyn cemetery and I'll never hear his flute resounding off the walls of the meeting house again. And I see the old people in Tompkins Square Park huddled in their long wool coats in June to keep out the cold they perceive is there and to cling to whatever little life has left to offer them. I'm reminded of the people who strip and stand before a mirror each night before they go to bed and search their bodies for any mark that might not have been there yesterday. A mark that this scourge has visited them. And I'm angry when the newspapers call us "victims" and sound alarms that "it" might soon spread to the "general population." And I want to scream "Who the fuck am I?" And I want to scream at New York Hospital with its yellow plastic bags marked "isolation linen", "ropa infecciosa" and its orderlies in latex gloves and surgical masks skirting the bed as if its occupant will suddenly leap out and douse them with blood and semen giving them too the plague. And I'm angry at straight people who sit smugly wrapped in their self-protective coat of monogamy and heterosexuality confident that this disease has nothing to do with them because "it" only happens to "them." And the teenage boys who upon spotting my Silence=Death button begin chanting "Faggot's gonna die" and I wonder, who taught them this? Enveloped in fury and fear, I remain silent while my button mocks me every step of the way. And the anger I fell when a television program on the quilt gives profiles of the dead and the list begins with a baby, a teenage girl who got a blood transfusion, an elderly baptist minister and his wife and when they finally show a gay man, he's described as someone who knowingly infected teenage male prostitutes with the virus. What else can you expect from a faggot? I'm angry. QUEER ARTISTS Since time began, the world has been inspired by the work of queer artists. In exchange, there has been suffering, there has been pain, there has been violence. Throughout history, society has struck a bargain with its queer citizens: they may pursue creative careers, if they do it discreetly. Through the arts queers are productive, lucrative, entertaining and even uplifting. These are the clear-cut and useful by-products of what is otherwise considered antisocial behavior. In cultured circles, queers 4 may quietly coexist with an otherwise disapproving power elite. At the forefront of the most recent campaign to bash queer artists is Jesse Helms, arbiter of all that is decent, moral, christian and amerikan. For Helms, queer art is quite simply a threat to the world. In his imaginings, heterosexual culture is too fragile to bear up to the admission of human or sexual diversity. Quite simply, the structure of power in the Judeo-Christian world has made procreation its cornerstone. Families having children assures consumers for the nation's products and a work force to produce them, as well as a built-in family system to care for its ill, reducing the expense of public healthcare systems. ALL NON-PROCREATIVE BEHAVIOR IS CONSIDERED A THREAT, from homosexuality to birth control to abortion as an option. It is not enough, according to the religious right, to consistently advertise procreation and heterosexuality ... it is also necessary to destroy any alternatives. It is not art Helms is after .... IT IS OUR LIVES! Art is the last safe place for lesbians and gay men to thrive. Helms knows this, and has developed a program to purge queers from the one arena they have been permitted to contribute to our shared culture. Helms is advocating a world free from diversity or dissent. It is easy to imagine why that might feel more comfortable to those in charge of such a world. It is also easy to envision an amerikan landscape flattened by such power. Helms should just ask for what he is hinting at: State sponsored art, art of totalitarianism, art that speaks only in christian terms, art which supports the goals of those in power, art that matches the sofas in the Oval Office. Ask for what you want, Jesse, so that men and women of conscience can mobilize against it, as we do against the human rights violations of other countries, and fight to free our own country's dissidents. IF YOU'RE QUEER, Queers are under siege. Queers are being attacked on all fronts and I'm afraid it's ok with us. In 1969, there were 50 "Queer Bashings" in the month of May alone. Violent attacks, 3,720 men, women and children died of AIDS in the same month, caused by a more violent attack --- government inaction, rooted in society's growing homophobia. This is institutionalized violence, perhaps more dangerous to the existence of queers because the attackers are faceless. We allow these attacks by our own continued lack of action against them. AIDS has affected the straight world and now they're blaming us for AIDS and using it as a way to justify their violence against us. They don't want us anymore. They will beat us, rape us and kill us before they will continue to live with us. What 5 will it take for this not to be ok? Feel some rage. If rage doesn't empower you, try fear. If that doesn't work, try panic. SHOUT IT! Be proud. Do whatever you need to do to tear yourself away from your customary state of acceptance. Be free. Shout. In 1969, Queers fought back. In 1990, Queers say ok. Next year, will we be here? I HATE ... I hate Jesse Helms. I hate Jesse Helms so much I'd rejoice if he dropped down dead. If someone killed him I'd consider it his own fault. I hate Ronald Reagan, too, because he mass-murdered my people for eight years. But to be honest, I hate him even more for eulogizing Ryan White without first admitting his guilt, without begging forgiveness for Ryan's death and for the deaths of tens of thousands of other PWA's --- most of them queer. I hate him for making a mockery of our grief. I hate the fucking Pope, and I hate John fucking Cardinal fucking O'Connor, and I hate the whole fucking Catholic Church. The same goes for the Military, and especially for Amerika's Law Enforcement Officials --- the cops --- state sanctioned sadists who brutalize street transvestites, prostitutes and queer prisoners. I also hate the medical and mental health establishments, particularly the psychiatrist who conviced me not to have sex with men for three years until we (meaning he) could make me bisexual rather than queer. I also hate the education profession, for its share in driving thousands of queer teens to suicide every year. I hate the "respectable" art world; and the entertainment industry, and the mainstream media, especially The New York Times. In fact, I hate every sector of the straight establishment in this country --- the worst of whom actively want all queers dead, the best of whom never stick their necks out to keep us alive. I hate straight people who think they have anything intelligent to say about "outing." I hate straight people who think stories about themselves are "universal" but stories about us are only about homosexuality. I hate straight recording artists who make their careers off of queer people, then attack us, then act hurt when we get angry and then deny having wronged us rather than apologize for it. I hate straight people who say, "I don't see why you feel the need to wear those buttons and t-shirts. I don't go around telling the whole world I'm straight." I hate that in twelve years of public education I was never taught about queer people. I hate that I grew up thinking I was the only queer in the world, and I hate even more that most queer kids still grow up the same way. I 6 hate that I was tormented by other kids for being a faggot, but more that I was taught to feel ashamed for being the object of their cruelty, taught to feel it was my fault. I hate that the Supreme Court of this country says it's okay to criminalize me because of how I make love. I hate that so many straight people are so concerned about my goddamned sex life. I hate that so many twisted straight people become parents, while I have to fight like hell to be allowed to be a father. I hate straights. WHERE ARE YOU SISTERS? I wear my pink triangle everywhere. I do not lower my voice in public when talking about lesbian love or sex. I always tell people I'm a lesbian. I don't wait to be asked about my "boyfriend." I don't say it's "no one's business." I don't do this for straight people. Most of them don't know what the pink triangle even means. Most of them couldn't care less that my girlfriend and I are totally in love or having a fight on the street. Most of them don't notice us no matter what we do. I do what I do to reach other lesbians. I do what I do because I don't want lesbians to assume I'm a straight girl. I am out all the time, everywhere, because I WANT TO REACH YOU. Maybe you'll notice me, maybe we'll start talking, maybe we'll exchange numbers, maybe we'll become friends. Maybe we won't say a word but our eyes will meet and I will imagine you naked, sweating, openmouthed, your back arched as I am fucking you. And we'll be happy to know we aren't the only ones in the world. We'll be happy because we found each other, without saying a word, maybe just for a moment. But no. You won't wear a pink triangle on that linen lapel. You won't meet my eyes if I flirt with you on the street. You avoid me on the job because I'm "too" out. You chastise me in bars because I'm "too political." You ignore me in public because I bring "too much" attention to "my" lesbianism. But then you want me to be your lover, you want me to be your friend, you want me to love you, support, you, fight for "OUR" right to exist. WHERE ARE YOU? You talk, talk, talk about invisibility and then retreat to your homes to nest with your lovers or carouse in a bar with pals and stumble home in a cab or sit silently and politely by while your family, your boss, your neighbors, your public servants distort and disfigure us, deride us and punish us. Then home again and you feel like screaming. Then you pad your anger with a relationship or a career or a party with other dykes like you and still you wonder why we can't find each other, why you feel lonely, angry, alienated. GET UP, WAKE UP SISTERS!! 7 Your life is in your hands. When I risk it all to be out, I risk it for both of us. When I risk it all and it works (which it often does if you would try it), I benefit and so do you. When it doesn't work, I suffer and you do not. But girl you can't wait for other dykes to make the world safe for you. STOP waiting for a better more lesbian future! The revolution could be here if we started it. Where are you sisters? I'm trying to find you, I'm trying to find you. How come I only see you on Gay Pride Day? We're OUT, Where the fuck are YOU? 8 WHEN ANYONE ASSAULTS YOU FOR BEING QUEER, IT IS QUEER BASHING. RIGHT? A crowd of 50 people exit a gay bar as it closes. Across the street, some straight boys are shouting "Faggots" and throwing beer bottles at the gathering, which outnumbers them by 10 to 1. Three queers make a move to respond, getting no support from the group. Why did a group this size allow themselves to be sitting ducks? Tompkins Square Park, Labor Day. At an annual outdoor concert/drag show, a group of gay men were harassed by teens carrying sticks. In the midst of thousands of gay men and lesbians, these straight boys beat two gay men to the ground, then stood around triumphantly laughing amongst themselves. The emcee was alerted and warned the crowd from the stage, "You girls be careful. When you dress up it drives the boys crazy," as if it were a practical joke inspired by what the victims were wearing rather than a pointed attack on anyone and everyone at that event. What would it have taken for that crowd to stand up to its attackers? After James Zappalorti, an openly gay man, was murdered in cold blood on Staten Island this winter, a single demonstration was held in protest. Only one hundred people came. When Yuseuf Hawkins, a black youth, was shot to death for being on "white turf" in Bensonhurst, African Americans marched through that neighborhood in large numbers again and again. A black person was killed BECAUSE HE WAS BLACK, and people of color throughout the city recognized it and acted on it. The bullet that hit Hawkins was meant for a black man, ANY black man. Do most gays and lesbians think that the knife that punctured Zappalorti's heart was meant only for him? The straight world has us so convinced that we are helpless and deserving victims of the violence against us, that queers are immobilized when faced with a threat. BE OUTRAGED! These attacks must not be tolerated. DO SOMETHING. Recognize that any act of aggression against any member of our community is an attack on every member of the community. The more we allow homophobes to inflict violence, terror and fear on our lives, the more frequently and ferociously we will be the object of their hatred. Your immeasurably valuable, because unless you start believing that, it can easily be taken from you. If you know how to gently and efficiently immobilize your attacker, then by all means, do it. If you lack those skills, then think about gouging out his fucking eyes, slamming his nose back into his brain, slashing his throat with a broken bottle --- do whatever you can, whatever you have to, to save your life! 9 reeuQ yhW Queer! Ah, do we really have to use that word? It's trouble. Every gay person has his or her own take on it. For some it means strange and eccentric and kind of mysterious. That's okay, we like that. But some gay girls and boys don't. They think they're more normal than strange. And for others "queer" conjures up those awful memories of adolescent suffering. Queer. It's forcibly bittersweet and quaint at best --- weakening and painful at worst. Couldn't we just use "gay" instead? It's a much brighter word and isn't it synonymous with "happy?" When will you militants grow up and get over the novelty of being different? WHY QUEER Well, yes, "gay " is great. It has its place. But when a lot of lesbians and gay men wake up in the morning we feel angry and disgusted, not gay. So we've chosen to call ourselves queer. Using "queer" is a way of reminding us how we are perceived by the rest of the world. It's a way of telling ourselves we don't have to be witty and charming people who keep our lives discreet and marginalized in the straight world. We use queer as gay men loving lesbians and lesbians loving being queer. Queer, unlike GAY, doesn't mean MALE. And when spoken to other gays and lesbians it's a way of suggesting we close ranks, and forget (temporarily) our individual differences because we face a more insidious common enemy. Yeah, QUEER can be a rough word but it is also a sly and ironic weapon we can steal from the homophobe's hands and use against him. NO SEX POLICE For anyone to say that coming out is not part of the revolution is missing the point. Positive sexual images and what they manifest saves lives because they affirm those lives and make it possible for people to attempt to live as self-loving instead of self-loathing. As the famous "Black is beautiful" slogan changed many lives, so does "Read my lips" affirm queerness in the face of hatred and invisibility as displayed in a recent governmental study of suicides that states at least one third of all teen suicides are Queer kids. This is further exemplified by the rise in HIV transmission among those under 21. We are most hated as queers for our sexualness, that is, our physical contact with the same sex. Our sexuality and sexual expression are what makes us most susceptible to physical violence. Our difference, our otherness, our uniqueness can either paralyze us or politicize us. Hopefully, the majority of us will not let it kill us. 10 QUEER SPACE Why in the world do we let heteros into queer clubs? Who gives a fuck if they like us because we "really know how to party?" WE HAVE TO IN ORDER TO BLOW OFF THE STEAM THEY MAKE US FEEL ALL THE TIME! They make out wherever they please, and take up too much room on the dance floor doing ostentatious couples dances. They wear their heterosexuality like a "Keep Out" sign, or like a deed of ownership. Why the fuck do we tolerate them when they invade our space like it's their right? Why do we let them shove heterosexuality --- a weapon their world wields against us - -- right in our faces in the few public spots where we can be sexy with each other and not fear attack? It's time to stop letting the straight people make all the rules. Let's start by posting this sign outside every queer club and bar: RULES OF CONDUCT FOR STRAIGHT PEOPLE 1. Keep your display of affection (kissing, handholding, embracing) to a minimum. Your sexuality is unwanted and offensive to many here. 2. If you must slow dance, be as inconspicuous as possible. 3. Do not gawk or stare at lesbians or gay men, especially bull dykes or drag queens. We are not your entertainment. 4. If you cannot comfortably deal with someone of the same sex making a pass at you, get out. 5. Do not flaunt your heterosexuality. Be Discreet. Risk being mistaken for a lezzie or a homo. 6. If you feel these rules are unfair, go fight homophobia in straight clubs, or: 7. Go Fuck Yourself. I HATE STRAIGHTS I have friends. Some of them are straight. Year after year, I see my straight friends. I want to see them, to see how they are doing, to add newness to our long and complicated histories, to experience some continuity. Year after year I continue to realize that the facts of my life are irrelevant to them and that I am only half listened to, that I am an appendage to the doings of a greater world, a world of power and privilege, of the laws of installation, a world of exclusion. "That's not true," argue my straight friends. There is the one certainty in the politics of power: those left out of it beg for inclusion, while the insiders claim that they already are. Men do it to women, whites do it to blacks, and everyone does it to queers. The main dividing line, both conscious and unconscious, is procreation ... and that magic word --- Family. Frequently, the ones we are born into disown us when they find out who we really are, and to make matters worse, we are prevented from having our own. We are punished, insulted, cut off, and treated like seditionaries 11 in terms of child rearing, both damned if we try and damned if we abstain. It's as if the propagation of the species is such a fragile directive that without enforcing it as if it were an agenda, humankind would melt back into the primeval ooze. I hate having to convice straight people that lesbians and gays live in a war zone, that we're surrounded by bomb blasts only we seem to hear, that our bodies and souls are heaped high, dead from fright or bashed or raped, dying of grief or disease, stripped of our personhood. I hate straight people who can't listen to queer anger without saying "hey, all straight people aren't like that. I'm straight too, you know," as if their egos don't get enough stroking or protection in this arrogant, heterosexist world. Why must we take care of them, in the midst of our just anger brought on by their fucked up society?! Why add the reassurance of "Of course, I don't mean you. You don't act that way." Let them figure out for themselves whether they deserve to be included in our anger. But of course that would mean listening to our anger, which they almost never do. They deflect it, by saying "I'm not like that" or "Now look who's generalizing" or "You'll catch more flies with honey ... " or "If you focus on the negative you just give out more power" or "you're not the only one in the world who's suffering." They say "Don't yell at me, I'm on your side" or "I think you're overreacting" or "BOY, YOU'RE BITTER." They've taught us that good queers don't get mad. They've taught us so well that we not only hide our anger from them, we hide it from each other. WE EVEN HIDE IT FROM OURSELVES. We hide it with substance abuse and suicide and overarhcieving in the hope of proving our worth. They bash us and stab us and shoot us and bomb us in ever increasing numbers and still we freak out when angry queers carry banners or signs that say BASH BACK. For the last decade they let us die in droves and still we thank President Bush for planting a fucking tree, applaud him for likening PWAs to car accident victims who refuse to wear seatbelts. LET YOURSELF BE ANGRY. Let yourself be angry that the price of our visibility is the constant threat of violence, anti- queer violence to which practically every segment of this society contributes. Let yourself feel angry that THERE IS NO PLACE IN THIS COUNTRY WHERE WE ARE SAFE, no place where we are not targeted for hatred and attack, the self-hatred, the suicide --- of the closet. The next time some straight person comes down on you for being angry, tell them that until things change, you don't need any more evidence that the world turns at your expense. You don't need to see only hetero couple grocery shopping on your TV ... You don't want any more baby pictures shoved in your face until you can have or keep your own. No more weddings, showers, anniversaries, please, unless they are our own brothers and sisters celebrating. And tell them not to dismiss you by saying "You have rights," "You have privileges," "You're 12 overreacting," or "You have a victim's mentality." Tell them "GO AWAY FROM ME, until YOU can change." Go away and try on a world without the brave, strong queers that are its backbone, that are its guts and brains and souls. Go tell them go away until they have spent a month walking hand in hand in public with someone of the same sex. After they survive that, then you'll hear what they have to say about queer anger. Otherwise, tell them to shut up and listen.

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