#Nazi apologetics

[redditantisemitism]

There’s genuinely too much here to break down, so I’m making a list:

Pic 1:

Use of goyim as an implied slur

Idea that Jews are controlling goyim

Idea that Jews want to enslave goyim

Idea that Jews are rich and taking advantage of other people’s labor

Jews as insider traders, manipulating the economy

Accusing Jews of usury (a la church antisemitism)

Idea that Jews are “subverting culture” [via pornography and liberal ideas, etc. the “Jewish agenda”]

The idea that Jews only care about other Jews and Israel

The idea that Jews want to kill all goyim (and implied to be specifically [good, morally correct] Christians)

The exaggeration of shapiro’s facial features is reminiscent of antisemitic Nazi propaganda (as well as other antisemitic propaganda of the time)

The comparison of Shapiro to a goblin

“Clown art” is a reference to clown world/ r/frenworld, a notoriously vicious hotbed of antisemitism so bad even Reddit managed to get their heads out of their asses and ban it

Like. Come on. I genuinely despise Shapiro too, but we can criticize him without being antisemitic. Unless! Could it be! They actually don’t care at all about Shapiro and are using him as a symbol of all Jews?? No!!

Pic 2:

The title of “Jews lie”. Jews being liars is a longstanding antisemitic trope.

Conflating Jews with Israel

Denying and excusing instances of antisemitism and violence

“Ironic” use of Yiddish in order to poke fun at Jews (also it’s transliterated as chutzpah, not hutzpah)

Holocaust inversions

“The Jew cries out in pain as he strikes you”

Explicit holocaust denial-saying Jews are liars so they must also be lying about the number of us killed in the shoah

Implication that Jews control the police

Implication that “criticism” (antisemitism) of Jews will get you silenced, or worse, when the existence of this comic is blatant proof of that being false

Always note the tags

[raceispunk]

That unfortunate moment when your new blorbo is an actual literal Nazi

[shadow-turtle-234]

ALL OF THIS

loki season two is starting to be promoted and here’s your reminder NOT to watch it

the loki show did damage to not only loki’s character as a whole, but to bisexual and genderfluid people as well.

for years, loki has been a comic character that is well known for their bisexuality and genderfluidity. a huge component to this was the ‘loki: agent of asgard’ series written by al ewing (a personal favorite of mine). many queer people opened up their arms to welcome this representation. had i known i was bisexual at the time that mcu loki was my favorite character ever, i just know i would’ve been ecstatic, which i was when the first looks at season one came out.

the first red flag should’ve been when it was revealed that in loki’s tva files, his sex was labeled as “fluid” when it’s actually his gender. i remember people being skeptical and wary about it but continued to hope for the representation that the cast promised in interviews beforehand. (if anyone is able to find which interview this was in, please let me know so i could link it.)

then as the series went on for the next six weeks, hopes of there being representation dwindled. there was the line of “a bit of both” when sylvie asked if loki courted princes or princesses and he assumed it was the same for sylvie, which was SOMETHING at the time! people were happy… for the first few days or so. we quickly realized that this was probably disney’s way of telling but never showing considering their infamous prejudice against lgbt+ rep. it was quite literally the bare minimum — a throwaway line so to say that could easily be forgotten by the average viewer. i recall that lots of people were huge shippers of loki x mobius and thought that maybe, just MAYBE, there would be something more explicitly romantic between them and hey, maybe there will be in season two! but it’s disney. you can understand that there’s not a whole lot of hope.

then comes loki’s genderfluidity. to start off, the whole existence of sylvie is the most damaging. in agent of asgard, loki has confirmed that no matter how she presents, she is always loki. there’s no “female/lady loki”, it’s all JUST loki. so to change up loki’s name, bleach her hair, and contradict whether or not she IS actually loki throughout the show is… questionable.

the line of “have you ever met a woman variant?” was just insane writing. all lokis can identify/present as women if they please!!! their shapeshifting abilities give them an advantage of presentation being easy for them, but all in all, every single loki can canonically identify as a woman. when that line was delivered, all the other loki variants looked confused as if they didn’t know. loki’s genderfluidity was never at the forefront of the writers’ minds, writers that were caught to be fucking weirdos on twitter! you can find what old tweets i’m talking about on twitter… but i digress. why would the loki variants not know such an integral part of their identity?

and the KISS. THE FUCKING KISS. we’re not angry that loki kissed a female-presenting character instead of mobius like many wished, no no no that’s not the big issue because bisexuals should never have to prove their bisexuality to anyone and they can kiss whoever the hell they want. we’re angry because loki kissed a female-presenting variant of HIMSELF. all throughout the first season, the writers went out of their way to try to differentiate sylvie from loki despite sylvie having been born as a loki variant, but there’s literally no way to separate sylvie from their lineage because at the end of the day, that’s who she was born as. no amount of bleach will change that fact. (i hope i made this easy to understand; not a lot of people get why this is an issue.) and regardless of whether or not that kiss was romantic, the fact that it even HAPPENED was a slap in the face to genderfluid fans of loki, and if the leaks for season two are right, that whole thing between the two will be continued since most of the season one writers worked on season two as well.

on top of this awful rep, known abuser jonathan majors will be in season two as another kang variant. i’ve heard that marvel had bigger plans for him, but due to these allegations, they’re limiting his presence as seen in the trailer, obviously meaning that they know.

hence why i ask fans to boycott/simply not tune in for season two if you care about queer people. if you’re desperate to watch, at least don’t use disney+. just because s2d is gone doesn’t mean other websites don’t exist. i also recommend reading ‘agent of asgard’. if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask me and please be respectful; your feelings about the show don’t dictate how hundreds of others feel, especially if their concerns are valid.

[spacelazarwolf]

i technically have a twitter x account and someone in a local activist group chat shared a link, so i clicked on it and found that the person they shared it from has been retweeting like. straight up propaganda. like horrific, nazi level propaganda. earlier today in the group, someone said that jews should know better because of the holocaust. i said it made me uncomfortable, and people were apologetic, but. clearly they don’t actually care abt not being antisemitic or they wouldn’t be sharing from people posting abt the neturei karta being “role models for jews” and that “zionists are rats that need to be exterminated.”

these are people i have marched with, sat on panels with, been in support groups with. i don’t know how i can ever feel safe around them again. i don’t want to isolate myself and only surround myself with other jews but if you can’t recognize literal nazi propaganda how can i as a jew be in community with you? where am i supposed to go? what am i supposed to do?

[yes-ihavealwaysbeengreen]

My Home Is You Part 1/3

A/N: I am so obsessed with this movie, I've seen it twice. Enjoy. Leave a comment, like, or reblog if you've enjoyed it. Thank you to @kingliam2019 for requesting.

Fandom: The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare

Pairing: Gus March-Phillips x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, Nazi's, canon typical violence, possible spoilers for the movie, and mentions of sexual assault.

Part 2 Part 3

“What’s that?” Freddy points to the lump behind Gus’s coat. 

“Nothing,” Gus shrugs, “shall we.” 

“We shall not,” Freddy shouts exasperated, “it’s moving! Unless you became the hunchback of Notre Dame in the ten minutes I left you, you got something hidden behind your back!” 

“He’s got a point, boss,” Hazy shrugs. 

Gus sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I think the jig is up,” he pushes the coat up and out you pop from behind his side, disappearing behind him with a shriek. 

“Where the hell did you find a woman?!” Freddy looks around, then goes silent putting two and two together, “Oh, I see.” 

“She’s coming with us,” Gus reaches behind him and you grasp his hand, trembling hard at being surrounded by so many men. His touch is warm, and you take a moment to breathe before stepping out from behind him at your full height. 

“Hello,” you whisper, giving an awkward wave. 

Gus lets go of your hand and claps making you jump and his face quickly turns apologetic, “Fuck, sorry about that, love. These are the boys,” he points to each man giving you a quick rundown on his merry band of miscreants. He turns to you with a proud smile, “I never did catch your name.” 

“Let me get this straight,” Freddy puts his hands on his hips, sticking out one finger towards Gus, “you find a random woman hidden in a Nazi garrison, fight your way out with her, and decide to bring her with us, without asking her name first?” 

“Probably did it a bit backward,” Gus rubs the back of his head with a chuckle, “but I’m making up for it now.” 

You clear your throat and they all turn towards you as you say your name, a small smile spreading across your face when they repeat it to you. “Welcome to the team,” Anders bows before putting his bow over his shoulder, “shall we get back to the boat, we got somewhere we need to be.” 

“After you,” Gus says, frowning when he realizes Anders is already halfway back to the boat. “That’s the spirit Lassen, lead the way!” Gus slings an arm around your shoulder and helps you walk, it’s slow and painful; your foot aches with every step but you keep it to yourself. These men have already done enough liberating you and agreeing to take you with them. The last thing they need is for you to be injured. But nothing gets past Gus. 

He doesn’t ask, just leans down and swings you up into his arms. You gasp, quickly wrapping your arms around his neck. “Wh-what are you doing?” you whisper. 

“You’re limping,” he whispers back, almost like two children sharing a secret, he grins. “I’m not about to let you hurt yourself worse before I can take a look at your injuries.” 

“I’m fine,” you bite your lip looking away, “you’ve done enough already.” 

Gus stops, the others moving around him to toss the rope down the cliff side, “Darling, I know you’ve just spent gods knows how long with the worst creatures imaginable but not all of us are monsters.” 

“I didn’t say you were,” you turn back to him, and catch your breath when you notice how close he is. “I don’t think you’re a monster at all,” you whisper, swallowing hard, “I just don’t want to cause you any more trouble.” 

“Do you know what I thought when I saw you tucked behind that wall crying and holding your ears?” You shake your head, and he grins, “She looks like just my kind of trouble.” 

The first smile in months spreads like wildfire across your face and you nod. “Ready?” Apple interrupts, “We managed a pulley to get her down.” 

Gus nods, lifting you into the makeshift pulley and working with Apple to lower you down. When you reach the ground Lassen lifts you into his arms while Gus and Apple come down and re-wrap the rope around their arms. 

When finished, Gus reaches his arms out for you and Anders smiles, tugging you closer. “I think I’ll hold on to her for a while. Give you a break,” he looks down giving you a conspiratorial wink. 

“Give me back my damsel,” Gus holds out his arms wider, “I’m not going to ask again.” 

“Who are you calling a damsel?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest, and Lassen lets out a joyful cheer. 

“You tell him, honey,” he turns walking with you back towards the dinghy. His glee makes a ghost of a laugh appear in your throat before you toss your head back in delight. 

Apple pats Gus on the back as he climbs into the boat and you look back to see Gus smiling, a full-blown smile just for you and you rest your head on your arm and look back at him. “It’s good to see you laugh,” he mouths, and your cheeks ache from smiling as he sits down and begins to row. 

“Row row, row your boat,” Lassen mumbles under his breath, the lull of the waves and the feeling of safety making your eyes droop. “Oh, the little lamb is tired, no?” he whispers in your ear, “You rest, no one will harm you ever again.” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you repeat your fathers words aloud. 

“Little lamb, with the way Gus is looking at me right now. You don’t have to worry about anyone hurting you for the rest of your life.” He rubs a hand over your arm and chuckles, mumbling, “if looks could kill.” 

“He won’t always be there,” your words are drowsy as you burrow deep into his arms, letting out a yawn. 

“Ah, little lamb, I highly doubt that,” Lassen chuckles softly, before you feel yourself being lifted into anothers arms. The scent of smoke, cologne, and leather lull you into a deeper sense of calm and you snuggle into his arms. Gus looks down, brushing a knuckle over your cheek and committing your face to memory as you fall asleep, breathing softly. “Take a picture,” Lassen teases, “it will last longer.” 

“Her cell was next to mine,” Apple interrupts, “she was always so nice to me. Tried to patch me up the best she could through the bars. I tried to return the favor, everytime they brought her….fuck I can still hear the screaming.” The men are silent, the waves crashing against the dinghy as they get closer and closer to the boat. 

“Well,” Freddy clears his throat, “she’s safe now.” They reach the boat, helping Gus aboard and watching as he disappears below deck with you. 

“Heaven help the man who tries to take her away from him,” Hayes clears his throat, and the rest climb aboard and continue on toward Fernando Po. 

Below deck, Gus tucks you into his bunk and watches the rise and fall of your chest before he moves towards the end of the bed, and lifts the blanket to remove your shoe. He curses when he sees the bruising around your ankle. He removes the other shoe and has to control his breathing when he sees the same markings; shackles. 

“Never again,” he whispers, grabbing bandages and ointments and applying them to your ankles. The bottom of your foot is no better, and he grabs the tweezers removing several shards of glass and bandaging your feet. “No wonder you were limping,” he talks to himself. He takes the next twenty minutes checking over the parts of your body he can see, treating every little cut and bruise. When he’s finished he walks over to a basin of water and washes his hands before pouring a glass of scotch and sitting down at the map. 

He loses track of the time, his head snapping up from the table when the screaming starts. He pushes the chair out, climbing over the table to grab your thrashing body. He repeats your name over and over again till your eyes pop open, gasping you reach towards him throwing your arms around his neck and letting out a sob. “I thought it was a dream,” you sob brokenly into his skin, almost crawling into his lap, “I dreamed I was back there,” you take a deep breath, “that they were…” 

“No,” he shakes his head, pulling back to put both hands on your face, his thumbs brushing the tears from your eyes. “You’re safe,” he repeats once, then twice, “do you hear me?” 

“I’m safe,” you repeat back, the tears silently streaming down your face. From the stairs, the men stare at the scene before them. “Uh oh,” Freddy shakes his head, and the others turn to him with various questions. “Look at them,” he points back to you and Gus, “he looks at her like he just realized what love was.” 

“I didn’t know you were a romantic, Freddy,” Apple claps him on the shoulder with a laugh. “I’m not,” he shrugs, “but I’m also not blind. That right there,” he points a finger, “that’s love if I ever saw it. You just wait, I bet you ten pounds she goes home with him at the end of this mission.” 

“I’ll take that bet,” Hayes tosses over his shoulder. 

Apple raises a brow, “you don’t think they’ll end up getting hitched once we’re home.” 

“That wasn’t the bet,” Hayes grins, “he bet that she’ll go home with him at the end of the mission. I think we’ll either be dead or in jail so she probably won’t be going home with him.” 

“Never bet against yourself, Hazy,” Freddy shakes his head, “have I taught you nothing.” 

“It’s your deal,” Henry reminds him before shrugging past to go back to the deck, “let’s go, give them some privacy.” 

Their steps recede and Gus rubs the last of your tears away, “do you want something to eat?” 

“Yes,” you nod, moving from his lap and tugging the blanket around your shoulders. When you step down, you quickly look at the bandages around your feet and ankle before meeting his eyes, “thank you,” you whisper, “for everything.” 

“You don’t have to thank me,” he puts the kettle on, “any decent human being would do the same.” You sit down at the table seeing the maps and confidential files spread across the surface. Gus grabs the papers and puts them into a pile before putting down a cup of steaming tea before you. 

“I have a few questions,” you wrap your hands around the cup, absorbing some of the warmth. 

He takes a sip, blowing the top with a grin, “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” 

“What were you doing in the Garrison?” 

“Rescuing Appleyard,” he takes another sip, “we needed him.” 

“For what?” 

Gus puts down his cup, crossing his arms over his chest and your heart beats a little louder at how strained the fabric is over his bulging biceps. You quickly take a sip of your tea, burning your tongue when you meet his eyes, seeing amusement sparkle. “Enjoying the show?” you cough, the tea spilling down the front of your dress. “Shit,” he shouts, grabbing a towel and pulling out the chair beside you to sit down. You grab it and soak up the liquid from your dress, the top sinking lower with each tug. 

When you’re finished you glance up to see his eyes on your chest before he quickly averts his eyes and clears his throat. “Enjoying the show?” you smile softly when he coughs and lets out a strained laugh. 

“Very much,” he turns his head and your mouth goes dry. Neither says anything for a moment before he goes back to the pile and tugs out the map. You take another sip of tea to prevent being parched when he spreads it over the table. “We’re on a secret mission for the English government.” “Come again?” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter. 

He grins, “We are on an unsanctioned, unofficial mission to destroy a ship and two tug boats holding enough supplies to supply the German U-boats for six months. We destroy those ships and we regain control of the Atlantic.” 

“And how do you plan to do that?” 

“Explosives,” he pushes a tin of biscuits towards you, “tons of explosives. What do you think?” 

You sit there for a moment, processing everything he’s said before reaching into the tin and pulling out a ginger snap. You dip it into your cup before taking a bite with a grin, “where can I sign up?” 

[morbidology]

14-year-old John Hron had no time for bullies or racists. The teenager from Sweden went to school with several people that would fall into those categories. He was a keen canoeist and enjoyed playing the guitar.

On the afternoon of the 17th of August, 1995, John and his friend, Christian, were camping by Ingetorpssjon Lake near Kode, Sweden. Shortly after they set up camp, four neo-nazis approached their tent. Ranging from 15-years-old to 18-years-old, John recognised one of them. It was Mikael Fjalljholm, a bully in his school. John and Mikael had bashed heads beforehand. John was horrified by his racist and cruel behaviour and was known to stand up to him when pushed. But now, Mikael had three friends with him, Daniel Hanson, John Billing and BM, as he was only referred to in the media.

They approached the tent and started to punch John. They told him to say that he “loves nazism” to which he refused and received another beating. They kicked and punched him and smashed beer bottles over his head. The sadistic group would beat him for hours and every now and then, would pretend to be apologetic and offer him a drink before starting the attack again. It was a cat and mouse type attack. They burnt him in the fire and burnt his neck with a piece of burning wood.

At some point during the attack, John managed to break free and jump into the lake. However, the group started hollering that they would kill Christian if he did not return. Barely clinging to life, he swam back and the torture continued. When John fell unconscious, they threw him into the lake where he drowned. Christian hitched a ride back home and called police and named John’s killers. When his body was retrieved, it was said that his injuries matched those to somebody who had been hit by a train.

If the grim murder of John wasn’t shocking enough, his killers all received lenient sentences. Daniel was released after just six years while Mikael was sentenced to five years in institutional youth care. The other two received just a few months in prison. John posthumously received the inaugural Stig Dagerman Prize for free speech and world peace.

[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 10

Summary:

Arnie’s expression clears, briefly, and he blinks up at Tony like he suddenly remembers the other Omega is sharing the cramped stall with him. “Y’told me it wouldn’t hurt, once. Before… before I left. You said—you said it’s what we’re s’posed to do.”

“Arnie,” Tony warns.

“Yeah, you did. You said that t’me. You smelled scared, though. Knew you didn’t believe it. What you were sayin’. But I trusted you anyway. And then… and then…” Arnie swallows, and rubs at his eyes, and Tony’s heart plummets into his stomach.

Perpendicular to him, Bucky shifts. Tony can’t bring himself to look at him. He wants to disappear.

“Roth,” Tony bites out sharply. “Shut the fuck up.”

Words: 9,952

Steve Rogers’ birthday, Tony learns, is Independence Day.

“You’re joking,” Tony sputters, unwittingly, when Steve drops the news in casual conversation. He bites his cheek and swats at Bucky’s hand as it reaches from behind to pinch at his hip bone when Steve turns around to face him, his brow furrowed.

“What? No, I’m not joking. Why would I be joking?”

It’s late on Wednesday evening. The Brooklyn boys, ultimately deciding it was too warm to heat anything on the stove for supper, had pooled together their pocket change and set off for the nearest Horn & Hardart Automat.

“Horn and Who?” Tony had asked warily, albeit delighted, when a soot-smudged and bright-eyed Alpha appeared outside his window to whisk him away from his ivory Omega tower.

He had only dropped him off there earlier that week, two days prior. And he had seen him every night since.

“You’re sweet, you know that?” Bucky had replied, shifting his weight onto his forearms and leaning over Tony’s window to grin at him. “The automat, princess. Where us workin’ class-type go to pay ten cents for a sandwich when our butlers can’t be bothered to make one for us.”

Tony nodded sagely. “Sounds humbling.”

“Y’gonna come out here? Or am I gonna have to carry you down?”

“I’m all booked up tonight, sorry,” Tony sighed. He shoved his socked feet into his shoes and reached for his suspenders, dangling loosely at his waist, to pull each strap over his shoulders.  “I’ve got a swell date with my footman. He’s bringing hot pastrami on rye.”

Bucky laughed, loud and beautiful, and Tony’s stomach swooped. Somewhere down on the street below, a blonde Alpha groaned.

“For cryin’ out loud, can’t you two make moon eyes at each other later? I’m starvin’.”

“Aw, jeez. Shut your pie hole, Rogers. We’re comin’.”

Twenty minutes later, the young Alphas, hungry and irritable, bicker and grumble incessantly at each other as the trio slowly inch up a line stretched halfway down the block for their ten-cent suppers.

“We still haven’t even made it to one game this season, Rogers.”

“Last time I checked, Buck, I wasn’t the one pulling weekend shifts.”

“Don’t be a punk. I pick up Sunday doubles to help Nan and Pop with Becca’s tuition.”

“Not worth it,” Tony mumbles under his breath.

“Please. You were picking up Sundays so Hendricks would let you skip out early on Thursdays to chase skirts at Ruby’s.”

“Nice,” Tony says.

Bucky flicks Steve in the ear. “Quit bein’ a wiseass.” His tone is casual, but the scowl he delivers to his best friend over Tony’s head is dirty enough to send the angriest Nazi retreating with his tail between his legs.

He hooks his arm around Tony’s waist and rests his chin on the Omega’s head. Tony accepts his wordless apology easily and sags into the embrace, hoping his scent doesn’t show how secretly pleased he is to be touched like this in public. Bucky’s dating history is none of his business—besides, with how tactile Bucky’s been in the few short days since they started their…courtship? Entanglement?—anyone in a twenty-mile radius can smell Bucky’s unofficial claim on Tony like a forest signal fire.

Either way, he’s a silent sucker for the Alpha’s groveling.

Steve, to his credit, manages to look properly contrite as he casts an apologetic wince in Tony’s direction.

“I mean, not anymore, of course. Chasing skirts, and whatnot. Or, um—”

Tony snorts.

“The point is,” Steve continues haughtily. He begins waving his hands in the air for emphasis. “I’d be happy to go watch the Dodgers. I love the Dodgers. ‘The Pride of Brooklyn’, y’know? Let’s go Dodgers.”

Tony squints. “I don’t think anyone calls them that.”

Bucky yanks at Tony’s earlobe.

“I just don’t know if I want to spend my birthday at a baseball game.”

“But it’s a holiday,” Bucky points out, and the three boys shuffle up the sidewalk as the line slowly dwindles. Behind them, a surly Beta man in coveralls with grease stains on his fingertips occasionally leers in Tony’s direction. He smells like rotten seaweed and moldy plywood. Steve doesn’t seem to notice, too busy drowning under the plight of his current misfortunes, but Bucky shields Tony’s body with his own and keeps the Omega close. He keeps an arm slung around Tony’s chest, or a hand on his waist, or fingers curled around his hip. The primal, possessive creature inside of Tony thrums happily. “I don’t have work. You don’t have work. Tony doesn’t have work.”

“Hilarious,” says Tony.

“C’mon, Steve. Think about it. What’s more patriotic than baseball? America’s favorite pastime. Drinking shit beer and heckling the Phillies with my best pal—” he squeezes Tony’s waist “—and my best boy.”

My best boy.

Steve frowns again, and this time a crease forms between his eyebrows. “It just doesn’t seem right, I guess. Celebrating the country. While everyone else is off fighting for the country.”

“No need to be so contrite, Steve-o,” Tony says, reaching out and squeezing Steve’s bicep in sympathy. He hates it when Steve frowns, but more importantly, he hates that Steve continues to carry the incomprehensible weight of war-riddled guilt on his slight shoulders. “It’s just a birthday. Everyone has one; if I remember correctly, you even got me drunk and clobbered all of my shoes on the dance floor for mine.”

“You looked great.”

“Shaddup, Buck, I know I looked ridiculous,” Steve scoffs, face flaming.

“Wasn’t talking about you.”

Fifteen squabbling minutes later, they reach the front of the line. Steve admits that his birthday is the fourth of July—Tony guffaws, because of course Steve Rogers shares a birthday with Uncle Sam, the Star Spangled sap that he is —and Bucky orders Tony a hot pastrami on rye. When Tony tries pulling out his wallet, Bucky snatches it from his hands and tucks it into his own back pocket before Tony can even blink.

Eventually, once sandwiches find their way into the hands of cranky Alphas and appetites are satiated, the best friends manage to reach a compromise: they’ll attend the Dodgers game—it’s an afternoon game, anyway, and the Dodgers are having a stellar season, says Bucky, who apparently despises the Phillies with a vitriol Toby usually reserves for things like poetry class, and his mother’s homemade meatloaf—and then stick around Flatbush to watch the fireworks that night. Steve mentions something about a picnic blanket, and Bucky asks him if he’s going to weave his own wicker basket, too, and then Steve Rogers is wrangling Bucky Barnes into a headlock as Tony Stark happily munches on the worst sandwich he’s ever tasted.

Tony doesn’t mention that he has never watched the fireworks with anyone before or seen a baseball game; he's only listened to games on the radio with Ana (a devoted Yankees fan).

“Promised to buy me dinner, my ass,” Steve grumbles, wiping the crumbs of Bucky’s Reuben out of his hair. “I offered to cook tonight. That potato soup ma used t’make, with the onions. You liked ma’s soup.”

“Didn’t want no soup, Steve. S’too hot.”

“Dragged me out here… made me pay for my own damn sandwich…”

“—I told you I’d take you to dinner. Last time I checked, you made your own money, y’damsel.”

“Semantics. You bought Tony’s.”

“S’different. Gotta woo my fella.” To prove a point, Bucky hooks a finger into Tony’s belt loop and pulls him close until their chests are touching. He presses a light kiss to his nose. Tony blushes. “How’s the grub, doll?”

Tony feigns a sigh. “Passable. Don’t know what I’m going to tell Gaspard, he’ll be crushed.”

Bucky quirks a brow. “The footman?”

“Maybe. I’m still workshopping pretentious, self-absorbed French names. I’m open to suggestions.”

“Raoul,” Steve pipes in.

“Bertrand,” offers Bucky, voicd muffled around a stolen mouthful of Tony’s sandwich.

“Bertrand’s not French,” says Steve. “Is it?”

“You’re a real wisecrack today, you know that?”

“Bertrand’s French,” says Tony. “A snooty, French variation of ‘Bertram’. German.” He pauses, contemplative. “There’s a mathematician named Bertrand. I read his dissertation on non-Euclidean geometry back in grammar school. Not bad, if you don’t mind analyzing core mathematic principles served up with a heaping side of philosophical-yuppie-bullshit.”

“German?” Cries Steve, aghast.

“Love it when you start talkin’ etymology to me, honey,” Bucky husks into Tony’s ear, not bothering to drop his voice low enough to spare his best friend, who sputters indignantly in the background. Tony scoffs, amused, but Bucky smells like he means it: rich and tangy. Heady.

The warmth of it curls into his nostrils and settles pleasantly at the base of his spine. Tony tips his head back and grins at Bucky, eyelashes fluttering.

“‘Bertram’. Comes from the Old German words ‘beraht’ and ‘hram’. Means ‘bright raven’.” Tony’s taking the piss, honestly, but to his delight, he watches Bucky’s pupils dilate. “It’s very Shakespearean,” he finishes, a little out of breath.

“Jesus,” Steve mutters. “Get a room.”

“Don’t mind if we do,” Bucky snarks back, slipping his hand into Tony’s and tossing their trash into the nearest bin. “What time’s curfew, darlin’?” Like he doesn’t know.

“Uh. seven? Room checks are tonight.” Tony’s tongue feels dry in his mouth. Bucky’s looking at him the way he does when he—

“Great. Wanna go fool around?”

“I hate you guys,” says Steve, dropping his head into his hands. “I need new friends. Single friends. Beta friends…”

Tony’s lips twitch. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Spend the night.”

Tony pokes his tongue into his cheek to suppress his smile. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can. We’ll sneak out after curfew. I can have you back before the sun’s even up. No one would ever know.”

“I’m on thin ice. My room smells like you. Every week at room check, Tompkins sniffs around like a Basset Hound, hoping to find my secret rotating horde of Alpha lovers hiding in the closet.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky grins. “Who else do you keep on deck?”

Tony crumples his ethics homework into a ball and playfully lobs it at Bucky’s head. It bounces off the Alpha’s forehead and he catches it in his hands, cackling. He’s sprawled out on Tony’s bed, looking devilishly handsome and entirely too irresistible in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the Omega’s small dormitory.

“Humphrey Bogart. Lou Costello. That guy at the bodega in Gowanus who calls me ‘angel face’.”

“Knew I outta be worried about that guy. Looked far too pleased with himself to just be sellin’ you some canned vegetables.”

“Have to keep my roster fresh. In case my current rotation gets bored of me.”

Tony’s joking, mostly—mostly?—and he’s still smiling because Bucky does that to him. Makes him grin until his cheeks hurt, these past few days. He’s scribbling some nonsense onto a piece of paper so that he has something to turn in for class tomorrow—it’s not like he’s done an Ethics reading since he was sixteen, anyway, and he’s fully prepared to fail his final exam next week because who cares, honestly—but Bucky’s behind him, suddenly. He stands at Tony’s desk chair, wrapping his arms around Tony’s chest and pulling the Omega back against him. He leans down a bit, resting his chin on Tony’s head.

“Hi,” Tony says quietly. He feels Bucky’s heartbeat against his shoulder blades.

“Hi,” Bucky says back. He presses his lips to the crown of Tony’s head.

Despite Bucky’s jab at Steve earlier, the two of them haven’t done much fooling around since that fateful, heated morning in Bucky’s bed. True to his word, Bucky accepted Tony’s tentative approval of their courtship like a gentleman. He kept him close all weekend and doted on him—tending to his bruises and staying a noble three steps ahead of his seemingly predictable, blubbering outbursts.

Tony wept incessantly for two straight days, leaving him both outraged and deeply mortified. Regardless of his most valiant efforts, even the tiniest action seemed to trigger waterworks.

He cried on the telephone when he called Jarvis. He cried when Steve cooked him breakfast in the morning, and when Bucky pulled him into the shower and washed his hair—both boys in their underclothes—intimate and gentle and nonsexual. He even shed tears when Steve returned from the dry cleaners Sunday evening, carrying Tony’s godawful suit.

“Aw, Christ,” Tony gritted out, pressing his palms into his eyes to stave off the familiar burning pressure. He didn’t know how he had any tears left to spare, good God. “Thanks, Steve. Just—you could’ve tossed it in the trash. Or—I don’t know, burned it. Fed it to the pigeons, or something.”

“It’s a nice suit,” Steve protested, a little stunned and a lot wary. He cast a panicked look at Bucky, who was observing the unfolding situation with amusement from the kitchen table, casually biting into an apple. “It doesn’t… it’s as good as new. It doesn’t even smell like that Alpha, anymore. Honest.”

“Swell,” Tony said, voice wavering dangerously.

And then he started weeping.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky crooned. He pulled Tony into his lap and wrapped his arms around his midsection. “Of course we’ll get rid of it. Maybe we’ll spare the pigeons, though. I bet there are plenty of hungry termites in Brooklyn.”

“Buck,” said Steve, appalled.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Tony wailed. “M’so embarrassed. I’m not usually like this, I swear it. I just—I feel insane.”

“You’re perfect. Everything’s perfect,” Bucky said consolingly, hugging him tighter. “You’re letting go of eighteen years of shitty, repressed emotions. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to sock one of us in the face yet.” Bucky gestured to his roommate, who was stealthily hanging the suit on the far-facing side of the coat rack. “When Steve’s ma died, he got so drunk on Jim Beam; I found him passed out on the side of the road outside the cemetery. Had to throw him over my shoulder and carry him three miles home. Halfway there, he threw up down my back.”

“It’s true,” Steve said sagely. “And Bucky bawled like a baby the night we moved Becca into The Institute.”

“She was cryin’ all over me, begging me to take her home. She’s my baby sister, it was brutal.”

On Sunday night, he and Bucky finally went out. Bucky took him to a cozy mom-and-pop diner—somewhere he used to frequent with his parents after church on weekends. He held Tony’s hand, and paid for his food (much to Tony’s protest), and when they got back to the apartment, James Barnes pushed Tony up against the threshold of the doorway and kissed him like it was the one thing he was put on this Earth to do.

Bucky gripped his waist with one hand and cradled his cheek with the other and slicked his mouth over Tony’s with a spiritual sort of reverence. Tony, useless as always, sagged, his eyes fluttering shut as he choked out a desperate whimper. Bucky responded with a low chuckle of his own that carried an unmistakable sense of dominance, hauntingly Alpha.

He rewarded the Omega by sinfully curling his tongue around Tony’s own and Tony shuddered and sighed as he was greeted with a familiar roaring in his ears and a soft buzzing under his skin, his submissive instincts kicking into overdrive as he succumbed to Bucky’s unhurried, devout ministrations. His glands throbbed in a way that had him squirming and shuddering, and when Bucky’s thumb trailed delicately against the suck mark on his neck, he almost keened.

Bucky responded by pushing into the bruise harder and growling into Tony’s mouth.

“Good boy.”

Tony moaned lowly.

It was dangerous, the effect that Bucky Barnes had on Tony’s physical being. He found himself unable to do anything but submit as he yielded over control of the kiss, happily allowing Bucky to assert control in a way that felt so simple, so innate, it made his toes curl.

“James? Is that you?”

Bucky ripped his mouth from Tony’s and pushed him behind his body, Tony stumbling with the grace and discretion of a newborn animal. He latched onto the back of Bucky’s shirt for purchase, sucking oxygen into his lungs to put out the fire in his blood.

“Mrs. Lombardi,” Bucky croaked, before clearing his throat. “Hi, yeah, hello. It’s just me.”

Bucky’s elderly neighbor narrowed her eyes as she peered at the two of them from her doorway down the dimly lit hallway, three rooms away. “Is that Steven with you?”

Tony pressed his forehead into Bucky’s back and bit down on his lip to stifle his laughter. Bucky reached behind and gave his waist a warning squeeze.

“Not Steve, ma’am. This is Tony. My, uh… cousin.”

Tony almost choked on his spit.

And because he’s a terrible person, he stepped out from behind Bucky, nodding.

“On his mother’s side,” he improvised. “From Indiana.”

Bucky’s lips pressed together tightly, his mouth twitching. “Uh-huh. Visiting for the summer.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Mrs. Lombardi gushed.

“Isn’t it swell?” said Tony, grinning.

Bucky dropped Tony off at school early Monday morning before his shift at the docks. He followed him through his window, cornered him against Arnie’s bedpost, and kissed him slowly (and far too indecently for six in the morning) before promising to stop by after work.

“You don’t have to do that,” Tony objected weakly, chasing Bucky’s lips as the Alpha moved to pull away.

“Want to,” Bucky murmured, conceding. He curled his tongue around Tony’s and stole the protest from his mouth; Tony’s hitched whine tugging the corners of his mouth upward. “Goin’ steady, remember? I’m tryin’ to win you over.”

“Uh-huh.” Tony’s next breath tripped into a staggered moan as Bucky fisted his fingers into Tony’s unruly hair and sucked at the hinge of his jaw. His eyes rolled back in his head, hips stuttering for desperate purchase against Bucky’s firm, unyielding body. The hard outline of Bucky’s erection against his belly was a teasing, familiar presence after a weekend of sharing a twin bed—though, like usual, the Alpha seemed perfectly content to ignore his own arousal.

“You’re gonna leave marks,” Tony griped with all the conviction of an incensed Labrador. Bucky’s teeth dragged across his pulse point and Tony’s bones pulverized to dust, his head lolling back as if his spine had vanished inside his body. The only thing keeping him from braining himself on the wooden railing was a firm set of fingers urging his chin back in place.

“Babydoll,” Bucky husked into Tony’s jaw, grinning wickedly. Practically sinking his molars into Tony’s strangled mewl. “How am I s’pposed to leave you, huh? All dizzy and sweet for me like this.”

The air that Tony sucked into his lungs tasted like Bucky. It made his vision soft around the edges. “Gonna skip morning classes. Jerk off until I cry.” He swallowed audibly. “Or pass out. Maybe both. Then I’ll probably sleep ’til noon.” With his eyes glazed and his inhibitions ash, Tony hardly registered the candor spilling out of his mouth. He was so pent up he could combust.

Because it was the truth—while the near-constant physical contact Bucky offered over the past few days worked wonders in stabilizing his wonky, imbalanced hormones, all the exposure to the Alpha’s pheromones had also worked him up beyond belief. At this point, he was pretty sure he could come at the drop of a hat, if Bucky commanded it.

Bucky bit out a curse, his scent spiking sharp. He pressed his thumb into Tony’s bottom lip and Tony, feeling petulant and turned on and ten million other things, bit down on the digit. Bucky’s gaze turned molten.

“Good,” Bucky swallowed, throat bobbing.“You deserve it. Better be thinking of me, though.” He pulled away, but not before one last tug to Tony’s bottom lip. Eyes blazing. “You can tell me all about it tonight.”

“Roger Barnes?”

Steve flushes crimson, swiping the selective service card out of Tony’s hands. The ink from the "4-F” stamp smears on Tony’s fingers, still fresh.

“I’m running out of options, alright? I tried ‘Grant Stevens ’ just last month.”

“Ahh. Very stealthy, Nancy Drew.” Tony reclines, releasing a puff of smoke into the cloudless sky above. “Congrats on the impending nuptials, by the way. Where should I expect a wedding invitation from, Washington Heights?”

Steve squints down at the form. “Er, no. Bayonne.”

“NEW JERSEY?” Tony cries, scandalized. He pushes himself up on his elbows, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. “Hate to say it, pal, but it’s no wonder they rejected you this time. Not even Nazis are afraid of schmucks from ‘The Garden State’.”

Steve is smiling again.

Jackpot.

“Now you’re just bein’ mean. You’re uninvited from me and Buck’s wedding.”

“Shame,” Tony sighs. “I would have made the most fetching flower girl.”

“The mouthiest one, maybe.”

“Since when are they mutually exclusive?”

“Aren’t you supposed t’be studying?” Steve reaches for Tony’s long-discarded, school-issued study guide and flips to a page of practice questions. “You’re distractin’ me. We’re supposed to be going over…” he flips to another page and makes a vaguely constipated face. “…‘The Art and Duty of Childrearing’. Hell, is this actually one of your classes?”

Tony’s eyes roll back so far into his skull that he can see his brain.“Go on, then. Let’s review all the ways Mother Nature has blessed my fertile, bountiful womb.”

It’s warm outside, reminiscent of the first day Tony decided to bask in the sunlight on top of an old brick studio in downtown Brooklyn. Just like that first Thursday day, he lies on his back, his shirt untucked, collar unbuttoned, his cheeks turning pink from the sun. 

Just like that day, he inhales small doses of oil paint, and charcoal, and turpentine, and lets the safe, tangy aroma of his friend’s pheromones soothe the jagged edges of his anxiety. Where the low hum of a trusted Alpha's voice—an Alpha he cares about—makes his eyelids droop and his spine soften.

And this time, he lets himself float a little. In a quiet, submissive space.

Or he would, perhaps. If Steve Rogers wasn’t so determined to disrupt his feeble grasp of serenity with questions about his—

“—endometrial lining? This certainly doesn’t seem relevant,” Steve mutters, scratching the back of his neck and peering down at Tony’s study packet as if it were written in Latin. “Are you sure this is yours?”

“Do you reckon the childbirth chapter for fellas would offer better insight?”

It’s not like he was even carrying around his final exam guides for these absurd classes on purpose, mind you. But Rebecca Barnes had cornered him during yesterday’s mealtime, halfway to hysteria with a crazed look in her eye, demanding a study partner since ‘None of the girls would partner with her, not since Sally Mendelsohn told the entire grade that she had been disguising dirty messages in her needlepoint using Morse code.’

“Have you?” Tony asked, impressed.

“It doesn’t matter!” Becca cried. “Sally’s a rotten busybody who wouldn’t know romance if it bit her on her stupid, powdered nose. She wishes she had a fella to send suggestive handkerchiefs to.”

It didn’t matter that he reminded her—repeatedly—that he had never once studied for an Institute exam during his two years of enrollment. His professors would pass him anyway; no one would risk holding back Howard Stark’s pain-in-the-ass son. In fact, Tony had it on good authority that most of the staff were anxiously ticking off his remaining days as a student on their desk calendars.

Becca had stuffed the study guide into his satchel anyway and called him a spoiled swine.

“Some of us can’t risk summer school in this loony bin. Quiz me, before I tell Jamie you’re being a real cad.”

Steve only found the stupid thing because he was digging around Tony’s satchel for a pencil. Which, you know, Tony had so generously offered him in the first place.

Nosy, meddlesome Alpha.

“Rogers, if you care about me at all, you’ll stop using the words ‘gland secretion’ in my presence.”

His complaint falls on deaf ears. Steve scans a paragraph—with excessive concentration, if the lines on his forehead are any indication—mumbles something under his breath, and makes a pencil notation onto the paper.

“Are you… correcting my ‘Art and Duty of Childrearing’ study guide? God, enough of this bullshit. We’re supposed to be criticizing your reckless life choices right now. And your clearly misguided death wish. And how all of this contributes to a self-sacrificial disposition that is, frankly, alarming.” Tony sits up and snatches the packet out of Steve’s hands. “We’re going to have a safe, wonderful time. Contributing here. On home soil. Pinning up posters and, I don’t know, helping old Roosevelt sell war bonds.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve replies. He’s biting back a smile, even if he smells a little sad. “How are we plannin’ on doing that?”

“Betty Grable auctioned off her stockings at a rally last month for forty thousand. How much do you think my tightie whities will go for?”

“I’m not answerin’ that.”

"What happened to that steadfast patriotism, Lieutenant Liberty?”

“Jesus, Tony. These nicknames keep getting worse and worse.”

Tony shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette. “Don’t be a drip, that one was catchy. You already shot down ‘Sergeant Spangles’.”

“That’s Bucky’s ranking. Why not sic him with some dorky comic book alias?”

“How many times do I have to remind you that comic books are neat, Rogers? Not dorky. Stop insulting my prized collectibles, or we’re going to have a separate problem. Y’know what’s dorky? Naming each of your acrylic paints after famous New York landmarks. How is ‘Coney Island’ yellow?”

“It felt right! You told me you thought it was sweet, jerk!”

Tony does think it’s sweet. Tony thinks everything about Steve Rogers is sweet, and safe, and wonderful, and Tony can’t even begin to fathom sending Steve off to war because that would also mean thinking about sending Bucky off to war. And that is an entirely different beast of a problem that Tony’s not ready to poke at with a thirty-foot stick.

“I think some shade names deserve careful reconsideration, that’s all.”

“We’ve already talked about this. I’m not calling my brown paint ‘Tony Stark’s Eyes’”.

“Well, pardon me, Rembrandt. It beats ‘Bronx Zoo’. Do you know what I envision? Mud. Screaming children. Animal crap.”

They’re still bickering half-heartedly when the rooftop door creaks open and Bucky slips through, looking handsome and work-weary and sending Tony’s heart tripping pathetically in his chest. Not unlike their very first encounter. Or any of their subsequent encounters.

“I can hear you two blathering on halfway down the block,” Bucky says, sending them both a look of mock exasperation. He crouches in front of Tony and ruffles his hair. Tony swats the intrusion away without any gusto, pretending he hasn’t been keening for the Alpha’s touch all day. Bucky links their fingers together instead and kisses the back of his hand.

“Welcome home, honey,” Tony says drily. “Thoughts on selling my underwear for war bonds?”

“Very noble. S’this a private bidding?”

Steve’s subsequent eye-roll is so delicious Tony can taste it.

They don’t go to Ruby’s. Bucky’s too tired, and Steve’s too cranky, and Tony’s too hungry. They end up at some seedy Irish pub that doesn’t blink twice at Tony’s designation (small mercies), and Tony feasts quietly on Shepherd’s Pie while Bucky drinks a Guinness and plays footsie with him under the bar.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with staying here, Stevie. We have this same conversation every week. Plenty to do to help out without getting yourself killed.”

“Easy for you t’say,” Steve mutters. He’s only halfway through his own beer but more than halfway to being tipsy. “You enlisted. We both enlisted. Tried to, anyway. Enlist.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky finishes his pint and licks the foam off his upper lip, pushing the glass out of reach in frustration. “Priorities have changed. If I could do things differently, I would.”

Tony shovels a large forkful of pie into his mouth and chews slowly, staring at his plate with fixed intensity.

“They’d take you anyway,” Steve grumbles. “Sergeant Barnes. Whole army’s probably filled with guys like you. Real Alphas.”

“You’re being a real asshole, y’know that?” Bucky replies. He snatches Steve’s beer from his grasp. “You’re cut off. Here, doll.” He pushes the glass in Tony’s direction. “Put me outta my fuckin’ misery.”

Tony scrunches his nose. “Don’t love a stout, personally.”

Steve steals his beer back and sulks.

“They don’t want me either, Stevie,” Tony tries to offer his consolation around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Not even as a nurse. Or, I don’t know, a French prostitute. Like the rest of the Omegas. Not that I’d make much of a healthcare provider.”

“I know,” Steve says miserably. “I watch you try to feed the rest of your paracetamol to Mrs. Lombardi’s cat.”

Tony grimaces.

“Jury’s still out on the French prostitute, though,” Bucky says. “Could definitely picture you in some nice lace garters.” He winks, and Tony’s cheeks flame as he’s reduced to a puddle of goo.

“Anyway,” Tony coughs. He waves his fork in the air. “Fuck ‘em. We don’t need ‘em.” He purposefully does not let his mind wander to a specific set of pencil-sketched blueprints sitting in some government-sealed folder on Howard’s desk.

Bucky reaches out to stroke his thumb over Tony’s warm cheek. “Their loss. No Germans would be a match for this big, beautiful brain.” Bucky is smirking, but he says it softly, meaningfully, and it’s a touch too honest for this shitty pub. Tony almost swoons into his pie.

“Don’t forget my dashing good looks,” Tony says stupidly, instead.

“Couldn’t forget those if I tried.”

“M’leaving,” Steve says, draining the last of his stout and tossing a couple of coins down onto the bartop. He stumbles out of his stool, and Tony watches him warily. “I’m behind on next week’s mockups. And I promised Missus O’Doyle I’d check on her kids before bed; she’s workin’ late tonight.”

Tony watches him with a frown. The Alpha smells dejected and sullen, and the pheromones make his nose twitch. He folds his hands in his lap and tries to ignore the impulses that tell him to reach out and provide comfort, like a good little caretaker.

“I’ll see you on Monday? I promised to reassemble your toaster. Not that it’s… irreversibly damaged, or anything.” Saturday evening’s check-in phone call with Jarvis had left Tony feeling fidgety. He was alone in the apartment—the Alphas had gone to pick up groceries for supper to give Tony a bit of privacy—and the nearest kitchen appliance immediately fell victim to his oldest anxious habit.

When the roommates returned thirty minutes later, they found Tony sprawled out on the floor, surrounded by wires, a screwdriver in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“I’m reconfiguring its heating elements to create a signal that can, uh, disrupt nearby radio frequencies. It’s made of nichrome, so it’s pretty easy to repurpose the material to create electromagnetic interference. Once I modify the power source, it’ll oscillate at radio frequencies instead of, y’know, heating up. ” Tony explained sheepishly. “A portable signal jammer, if you want to get technical. Sorry about the mess. And your toaster. It was kind of a piece of junk, anyway.” He paused his ramblings. “Nope, didn’t mean that. It’s a lovely appliance. I’m certain it’s performed its job dutifully over the years, producing many slices of golden-brown Wonder Bread. I’ll fix it—maybe? I hope you both aren’t too sentimentally attached to it."

Bucky knelt on the floor in front of Tony’s mess of bolts and scrap metal. “We leave you alone for half an hour, and you get bored enough to commit espionage in our kitchen?” He swiped at Tony’s chin with his thumb to remove a rogue oil smudge, eyes crinkling with mirth. Meanwhile, Steve held up the homemade contraption and inspected it as if it were something sacred and not just something Tony hastily soldered together with a Zippo he found on Bucky’s nightstand.

Tony rubbed at the back of his neck. “Nothing that fun. Best case scenario, it’ll work for localized interference. The radius is way too much to cause significant damage, given that it’s a… toaster. I already tested it out on nearby coms, and was able to intercept the local police station. Also, your neighbor’s episode of Stella Dallas.”

Steve leaves the bar with a lukewarm wave and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and Bucky squeezes Tony’s knee under the bar top as he promises his roommate that he won’t be too far behind.

“He gets like this, sometimes,” Bucky says. He waves down the bartender to close out his tab, pulling bills out of his wallet. “He gets so caught up in the injustice of it all, of being turned away, that he doesn’t realize they’re savin’ his life. Sometimes, I wish they’d stamp his damn form just to shut him up. And that the war would wrap up before he realized what he was signin’ himself up for.” Bucky rakes his fingers through his hair, stirring a twinge of sympathy in Tony as he suddenly notices how exhausted the Alpha looks.

“I wouldn’t be able to think straight if I knew he was over there. Kid’s got a chronic illness for every damn letter of the alphabet. It’s bad enough to know that I’ll be leavin’ my own people behind, eventually. But at least… it’s safe here. And he’ll have you.” Bucky gives him a tired, crooked smile. The private one he reserves for Tony. “I have no doubt you two knuckleheads can find enough trouble to get into in Brooklyn without giving the Europeans their own headache.”

Tony considers this for a moment. “Hearing ‘no’ all the time is one thing. It becomes a pretty strong incentive to get the same stubborn jackasses to change their mind and start saying ‘yes’.” He pushes a few peas around his plate with his fork. “Choosing to say ‘no’ for yourself is a privilege, I think. For some people. Like… Steve.”

Bucky—who lives rent-free in Tony’s incessant inner monologue, apparently—hums quietly.

“Let’s get you home, gorgeous.”

“What’s the point?” Tony bemoans, sliding off his stool with the swiftness of a drunken sloth. “I’ve already missed curfew. Byron probably assumes I’m out cavorting with my secret harem.”

“I’ve already told you that you can spend the night. Offer still stands, don’t have to ask twice.”

Tony feels something warm pooling at the base of his spine. Bucky has extended some variation of this invitation to him every night this week, and while Tony keeps deflecting, the allure remains strong.

“Thought you were trying to make an honest Omega out of me, Barnes?”

“Come with me to the restroom, and I’ll make an honest Omega outta you right now.”

Tony doesn’t need to be told twice.

It’s not the most romantic spot, truthfully, to fool around, but Tony Stark has allowed Bucky to kiss him in secluded alleyways that smell a little like dumpster and against splintered doorways that dig into his back, so he’s not overly picky.

So when Bucky gets his hands on Tony’s waist and his mouth on his throat the way that makes him go fuzzy in the head, Tony almost forgets that they’re surrounded by leaking faucets and suspiciously stained urinals.

Almost.

“What if—oh—someone walks in?” he gasps, referring to the four (maybe five, if he’s being generous) other patrons currently occupying the establishment.

“Then they’ll get dinner and a show,” Bucky rasps. He captures Tony’s mouth again before the Omega can squawk in protest and Tony grips his belt for purchase, his whole body useless and pliant. His response to Bucky is always easy and physical, preparing itself for any likely scenario—the warm coiling in his belly and rush of slick that graces his underwear reminding him that yes, that scenario could easily include a random toilet in some sleazy Brooklyn pub.

Bucky always kisses Tony like he has all the time in the world to do so. The intensity changes, as does the urgency, but Tony’s learning that he likes these kisses with Bucky best. Deep, slow. Hard and bruising. The flat of his tongue curling around Tony’s and caressing his own like he’s trying to swallow the sighs and moans right out of the Omega’s throat.

Bucky takes and Tony gives, as much as he can, and he’s rewarded with the glorious ebb and flow of the Alpha’s heady scent. Encasing Tony in a fog thick enough to suffocate him.

“You smell so good,” Bucky growls, voice low. His warm breath fans across Tony’s cheek. “Jesus. Why do you smell so fuckin’ good?”

“That would be eau de toilette. Try not to inhale any more bleach; I think it’s messing with your synapses.” It’s unfair, really, because Bucky smells delectable, too. Practically indecent, really, for a public restroom.

There’s a predatory gleam to the Alpha’s eye that makes Tony think that he won’t be leaving the building with his dignity (or his underwear) intact, and Bucky’s grip tightens on his hip as he moves to drop his mouth back onto Tony’s, but they’re both interrupted, suddenly.

A small, choked sob echoes from stall behind them.

Both boys freeze instantly.

“Did you hear th—” Bucky starts, and Tony slaps a hand over his mouth. His heart takes a stuttering, stacatto beat in his chest.

Another stifled sob. This one louder than the previous.

And there’s no way that Tony isn’t the one hallucinating this time—that he isn’t the one who inhaled too many floor-cleaning chemicals—because he knows the source of that blubbering. He could recognize it in his sleep.

His poker face must be utter shit, because Bucky looks at him in alarm. “Do you know him?” he asks, his hands trailing down to Tony’s elbows. Steadying him.

Tony swallows audibly. “No. Nope.”

A loud, wet sniffle chimes in from the stall.

“Tony?”

Tony curses.

Bucky’s hand tightens on his arm. Tony drops his head to the wall behind him, letting it thump against the wood paneling. He closes his eyes and curses the constant, relentless situational irony that seems to plague his life.

“Arnie?” Tony replies. He scrubs a hand over his face. “S’that you, Roth?”

Please be wrong, please be wrong, please be wrong, please be wrong—

“Hi, Tony,” the voice hiccups. Then, from the seclusion of the corner bathroom stall where he’s huddled away, Arnie Roth bursts into tears.

Tony stares at the ceiling helplessly.

Bucky cocks an eyebrow and turns his head to face Arnie’s outburst. His gaze darts between Tony and Tony’s weeping roommate. Whatever he sees in Tony’s face must make him hesitate, however, and something heartbreakingly gentle slashes across his own features.

Feeling raw and all sorts of strange, he pulls out of Bucky’s embrace and strides over to the stall. “Roth?” He raps his knuckles on the door. “Roth, I can see you sitting down there. Not very seemly, by the way. Probably getting all sorts of weird stains on those nice slacks of yours.”

“M’okay,” the Omega says wobbly. “Floor’s clean.”

Tony’s nose wrinkles. He narrowly avoids stepping on a piece of toilet roll. “Think we have slightly different hygienic standards, but, alright. Sure. Wanna open up?”

He waits. Nothing happens.

He turns to Bucky and shrugs.

“I tried,” he mouths.

Bucky sends him an exasperated look. He’s still standing in the corner of the restroom, guarding the door. Giving Tony space.

Giving Arnie space.

Tony rolls his eyes. He knocks on the door again.

“C’mon, Arnie. Can’t a fella say hi to his favorite roommate?”

“I was your only roommate,” Arnie sniffs primly. “Your favorite roommate was yourself.”

Bucky’s mouth quirks.

Miraculously, the stall door clicks open.

Arnie Roth is as drunk as a skunk. His eyes are glazed with tears and intoxication; his clothes are wrinkled, and he sits with his bony arms wrapped around his knees. His skin is as sunken and pallid as a ghost, and he reeks of booze and distress and Tony fights the instinctual urge to recoil.

“Hey, pal,” Tony says instead. “You look great.” The acid in his stomach does somersaults, urging him to get lost and seek immediate comfort in the arms of his Alpha. He wants to pull his own hair out. He wants to spit the terrible taste in his mouth onto the floor. “How’s the bender?”

Arnie groans and drops his forehead onto the rim of the open toilet. Delightful.

“M’drunk,” he says miserably.

“Uh-huh, I can see that,” Tony replies, whipping around and shooting a frantic look at Bucky. He doesn’t know what sort of desperation he’s signaling, precisely, but Bucky’s locking the restroom door and standing over his shoulder in an instant. Tony can smell the exact moment Bucky perceives Arnie in all his boozed-up glory—an Omega reacting to another Omega’s distress is one thing; an Alpha reacting to an Omega’s distress is an entirely different innate, primal beast.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters.

Even Arnie swims through his inebriated stupor long enough to latch onto Bucky’s pheromones. He squints at the intrusion, nostrils flaring. 

“Alpha?” He mumbles.

“Not quite,” Tony bites out. He edges closer to Bucky until his shoulder blade presses into the Alpha’s sternum. Bucky grazes his knuckles against the small of his back.“Where’s… Marcus?”

Arnie frowns. “Michael?”

“Sure. Him.”

Arnie groans and drops his head back onto the toilet bowl. The unexpected pull drags the wrinkled collar of his shirt downward, revealing the pale, veiny stretch of his neck.

Tony chokes on a high-pitched, strained whine that punches out of his lungs when he’s met with the sight of Arnie’s mating bite. Red, tender. Fresh. Something ugly and visceral pools in his gut and blood pounds in his ears, hot and heavy like thunder.

He tries to stagger back, but his feet won’t move. His hand instinctively twitches for his own throat before he aborts the movement. He feels the burn of Arnie’s mating bite as if it has been seared onto his own flesh. Hot and blistering, like a brand.

For better or for worse, Tony made a conscious effort to avoid thinking about Arnie after his sixteen-year-old roommate was pulled from school. Two months earlier, Arnie’s situation served as both a cautionary tale and a sobering reminder. If Tony wasn’t vigilant, if he didn’t play his cards right, he risked becoming Arnie: stripped of his own choices, forced to bond with some undesirable outcast for whatever social, political, or financial gain his parents deemed fit.

A distant, logical part of Tony knew what Arnie’s fate had in store. He knew that Arnie would go home, succumb to his heat, and emerge several days later biologically linked to an Alpha. He sat through class. He skimmed the textbooks. He knew the science.

He detached himself from Arnie because it didn’t matter that Arnie was the only other male Omega Tony had ever known. They weren’t the same. Tony wasn’t weak like Arnie; he wasn’t compliant like Arnie; he wasn’t going to roll over and show his belly to the first Alpha his parents threw at him. 

And then Tony met Bucky.

And Bucky pressed his thumb into Tony’s unblemished mating gland and whispered soft promises into the base of his throat, and Tony could almost picture the Alpha’s canines sinking into the skin and he wanted it, in that moment. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything, more than he ever even knew he could want. His teeth ached with it.

And suddenly that unfathomable, corporeal promise of bonding didn’t feel so abhorrent. His desires didn’t feel like a consequence of his biology. Tony simply craved, without worrying about the repercussions. And for a few quiet, peaceful moments, his desire didn’t feel like something he had to fight.

Tony wonders if Arnie had wanted it. At the height of his heat, most likely fogged up and overwhelmed by pheromones, controlled by pleasure and need, he felt like he wanted it, too. At least for a moment.

Tony stares at Arnie’s mating bite and it taunts him like a punishment. A cruel reminder of Tony’s ugliest insecurities, his projections onto the Omega boy in front of him who didn’t deserve Tony’s internal scorn just because Tony couldn’t come to terms with his own bleak kismet.

Bucky releases a low rumble, and his hand drifts up to barely ghost the back of Tony’s neck. The Alpha’s pheromones pierce the bathroom to cloud Tony’s own—a terrible concoction of confusion, anxiety, and ill-timed arousal in response to his momentary lapse in judgement.

“Dinner. We were at dinner. ‘Cross the street. Down the street? Dunno,” Arnie slurs. He rubs a palm across his clammy forehead. “Ran into… his friends. From work. They joined. Ignored me. Which is fine. They were borin’.” A loud sniffle. “Had to use the men’s room, but they wouldn’t… wouldn’t let me in, without Michael. Without m’Alpha. ‘An he was busy. So I left. T’find a different bathroom. Didn’t even… didn’t even notice, I don’t think.”

Like most public places requiring Tony to have a chaperone after his presentation, it’s not uncommon for upscale establishments to require male Omegas to be accompanied to and from restrooms. For the Omega's safety and to avoid distracting other male patrons, which is straight crock, mind you, and Tony would sometimes just like to take a piss in peace, thank you very much.

“Ended up here. And… and I was alone. No Michael. Some men were real nice ‘an bought me drinks ‘an stuff. Said I was real pretty.”

“I’ll bet,” Tony grumbles.

“Dunno… dunno what happened. Never drank before. Wasn’t ‘llowed. Dunno if—if I like it. Tastes weird. Head hurts. Stomach hurts.”

And then Arnie’s yacking into the toilet.

Tony lurches forward, throwing himself to his knees to sweep the younger Omega’s hair back as he empties his guts and sorrows into the basin. Bucky curses and kneels next to Tony, rubbing a hand up and down Arnie’s sweat-drenched back.

“That’s it, pal," Bucky murmurs gently. His voice is a soft hum, mirroring the tone he used with Tony when Tony broke down blubbering over something inconsequential during the weekend, and Tony shudders instinctively. Even though he isn’t the one retching up cheap liquor. “Easy, that’s it. Get it all out.”

Arnie trembles beneath their grip, and Tony does his best to refrain from wincing as he blinks up at the ceiling and wonders how he went from necking with Bucky against the wall to holding his vomitous ex-roommate in his arms in a matter of minutes.

Bucky continues to soothe Arnie as the younger boy heaves and sobs, muttering gentle encouragements that make Tony feel bizarrely territorial. He bottles up his horrifically misplaced envy as best as he can while pushing Arnie’s bangs off his forehead, as this is clearly not the time, but the look Bucky shoots him over Arnie’s slumped body lets him know that the Alpha can detect it.

Bucky’s lips twitch and Tony stabs his tongue into his cheek and recognizes quickly that the two of them are completely ill-equipped to handle a situation of this emotional magnitude.

He wishes Steve were here.

“Where’s Matthew now?” Tony asks the ceiling.

“Michael,” Bucky interjects.

“No clue. Prolly out lookin’ for me.” Arnie says, and then pukes some more. Bucky grimaces and pats the Omega on the back. Tony glares at his hand.

“How long have you been hiding in your porcelain tower, Rapunzel?”

Arnie groans and bats Tony’s hand away. “T’many questions. No more questions.”

Bucky takes over. He pulls Tony away and pushes his palm for Arnie’s forehad. Arnie sags. “C’mon, Arnie. Help us out here, you’re doin’ so well. How long ago did you leave the restaurant, kid?”

The Omega whimpers. Tony feels like strangling something.

Or drowning his ex-roommate in the toilet.

Bucky, to his infinite credit, shoots him an apologetic look over his shoulder. Tony glares back.

“Not that long. Maybe… maybe that long. Like, twenty minutes?” Arnie pauses for several seconds. “Oh, no. S’not right. Maybe an’ hour. Or longer.”

“Fabulous,” Tony says.

“We need to find his Alpha,” Bucky says, always the voice of reason. “But I don’t wanna leave him like this.” He’s still holding Arnie upright. Tony resists the urge to grind his molars.

“I don’t… I’m not sure what he looks like. I never met him, or anything,” He says uselessly.

“I’m not leavin’ you here either, sweet boy.” Nothing about Tony feels particularly sweet at the moment, but the endearment is an olive branch to Tony’s hostile body language, so he accepts it begrudgingly. Bucky’s smooth Brooklyn drawl is an easy weakness of his. “We’ll wait ’til he sobers up a little. It’ll help, getting it out of his system.”

“Thank you,” Tony says instead. It comes out as a whisper. He’s sitting on the floor now, cleanliness be damned. His energy has been fully zapped. He gestures to Arnie vaguely. “For… you know.”

Bucky’s expression morphs into something soft, something belongs to Tony and Tony alone. Tony holds it close to his chest. “Don’t have to thank me, doll. What were we gonna do, leave him?”

In response, Arnie echoes something unintelligible into the toilet and then: “Don’ leave me. Feels nice. You feel nice.”

Tony snorts. “I take it back. That’s enough acts of service for one day.”

Bucky’s frowning at Arnie now. “What’s his Alpha like?” He whispers.

Tony shrugs. “Older. Teacher. Has kids, if I remember. Liable for negligence, clearly.”

“How much older?”

Tony picks at a loose thread on his pants. “Late thirties? Early forties, maybe? Could’ve been worse.” It’s the truth.

Bucky says nothing for a long moment. And then: “He’s bonded.”

Tony nods. “Noticed that, myself.”

“M’bonded,” Arnie garbles helpfully.

“That’s right, pal,” Tony says. “Was it everything you hoped and dreamed?” Arnie Roth, with his kind, supportive parents and his hopeless sexual naivety and eager willingness to sacrifice his body for the pipe dream of securing an Alpha who would keep him safe and protected from harm.

Fat lot of good that did him.

Tony doesn’t expect Arnie to answer, so it startles him when the Omega lifts his head, wipes at his mouth, and leans his head back against the wall behind him. Bucky pulls away but keeps his hands braced until Arnie steadies himself.

“Don’ remember much of the bonding,” Arnie says quietly. His eyes are glazed over, unfocused, like he’s talking to himself. “Think I blacked out, by the end.” Tony swallows. He drifts in and out of his own heats, sometimes. When the sensations become too much to bear. “Woke up with the bite. Hurt for a while. Felt different. Could feel… him.” He blinks rapidly a few times, and Tony suddenly wants to reach across and shake the Omega’s shoulders so he doesn’t have to hear anymore.

“Let’s not,” Tony says instead, knowing where a bout of liquid courage combined with a loose mouth can lead. He wants to change the subject but he’s paralyzed, and Bucky’s gazing at him like he doesn’t know what to do, leaving Tony with his jaw wired shut.

Arnie’s expression clears, briefly, and he blinks up at Tony like he suddenly remembers the other Omega is sharing the cramped stall with him. “Y’told me it wouldn’t hurt, once. Before… before I left. You said—you said it’s what we’re s’posed to do.”

“Arnie,” Tony warns.

“Yeah, you did. You said that t’me. You smelled scared, though. Knew you didn’t believe it. What you were sayin’. But I trusted you anyway. And then… and then…” Arnie swallows, and rubs at his eyes, and Tony’s heart plummets into his stomach.

Perpendicular to him, Bucky shifts. Tony can’t bring himself to look at him. He wants to disappear.

“Roth,” Tony bites out sharply. “Shut the fuck up.”

“S’not so bad, every time. Not when… when my body wants it. Like in heat. But sometimes—sometimes, it still hurts. Just thought… y’should know.”

There’s no sound, for several moments. Just the roaring of Tony’s pulse in his own ears.

Tony studies his knees. He yanks hard enough on the loose thread to rip a hole into the fabric at his kneecap. His fingers tremble.

Bucky avoids Tony’s gaze entirely. He stares at the floor with a blazing intensity sharp enough to burn holes into the linoleum.

He smells murderous.

Arnie, blissfully aware of his verbal detonation, lolls his head toward the bathroom door.

“Oh,” he says simply. “Michael.”

Tony and Bucky snap their heads up in sync. The bathroom door is locked.

“No one there, buddy,” Tony croaks. His vocal chords feel as though they’ve been severed by a serated knife.

“Can smell him,” Arnie says simply.

The banging on the door starts two seconds later.

Michael Bech is tall but not as tall as Bucky, with a full head of white hair. His skin is tan and his belly a little soft, and he has smile lines.

For someone whose biological companion has supposedly been missing for more over an hour, he doesn't smell particularly distressed. He tsks when he pulls a moaning, barf-covered Arnie into his arms, and cracks a joke about “Omegas and alcohol consumption, amiright?”

“Couldn’t find this one anywhere, thought he walked all the way back to Manhattan,” Michael says, eyes crinkling. “Had to check every building on the row. Nice fellas at the bar finally told me they saw a wisp of a thing stumble into this here pub, smelling like a fresh rose, and I thought, ’Yep, sure sounds like my Arnie’.”

Arnie sighs and tucks his face into Michael’s neck. Tony turns away.

Michael thanks Bucky for his help, and Bucky shakes his hand with a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Michael doesn’t acknowledge Tony, but he spares him a fleeting, curious glance and says, “Anyhow, sorry for all the trouble. You know how Omegas can be.”

Tony ignores him, accustomed to the slight, but Bucky openly bristles.

Michael tugs Arnie’s collar up over his throat before they leave.

“Call me, if you can,” Bucky whispers. They’re outside The Institute, and Tony is looking anywhere but the Alpha. His blood feels like lead in his veins.

“Sure,” he says. He scrapes at a rock with his shoe.

“Tony,” Bucky says, more firmly. “Tony. Sweetheart. I need to know you’re alright. Can you do that for me? If you have a moment, just… give me ring.” The words sound distorted in Tony’s ears. Warped.

A firm hand grips his chin. “Doll.”

“Mhmm,” Tony answers.

Tony doesn’t like the way Bucky smells. Well, he does—he always likes the way Bucky smells. But right now, Bucky smells like he did when he found Tony in his window. It makes his jaw ache. It burns inside his nostrils, acrid and oversensitive.

In fact, every minute twinge in his body feels heightened. His neck feels stiff, and there’s a dull pounding behind his eyes. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He feels like scratching himself. Or clawing at his skin.

He also feels like sagging into Bucky’s neck and disassociating. Surrendering his thoughts and his body to the Alpha in front of him, who will surely take away the pain and soothe out the ache, if Tony just lets him.

But he can’t. So he just blinks at the street lamps and grinds his teeth and supresses the swooping, churning feeling in his belly and ignores the way his glands throb when Bucky grips his chin a little tighter and lets his vision go a little unfocused.

Tony doesn’t know what Bucky detects, but the Alpha’s pupils dilate in the reflection of the streetlight and he presses his forehead to Tony’s. The Alpha’s body is taut, full of restrained tension.

“Omega,” he murmurs softly. Oh.

Tony sighs.

“Call me, tomorrow night. When you get home. I don’t care how late. Can you do that for me, sweet thing? Can you try and promise me?”

Tony nods slowly.

Bucky exhales visibly. “Good. Good boy. Thank you. As late as you need, okay? Just need t’hear your voice.” Tony trembles at the praise, like Bucky knew he would. When he falls into the Alpha’s embrace, Bucky’s arms are there to catch him.

“I’ll miss you this weekend,” Bucky says into his hair. “Who else is gonna hog all the covers?”

Tony nips at his collarbone. “S’only way to get you t’stop kickin’ in your sleep.” He feels so warm. He feels sore. Every inhalation of Bucky’s woodsy, wintery musk feels like sensory overload. “M’sorry,” he says before he can stop himself.

Bucky’s arms lock around him like a vice.

“What’re you sorry for, baby?”

What is he sorry for? Tony hides in Bucky’s shirt. He could suffocate happily here, he thinks.

“Tony?” Bucky’s hand comes up to lightly scratch at the hair at the base of Tony’s neck, and Tony’s spine goes lax. He drops his head back and shudders. “Words, gorgeous. Talk to me.”

Tony scrunches up his nose. He doesn’t want to talk anymore. He wants Bucky to kiss him.

He wants Bucky to fuck him.

The thought has him swallowing down a moan. God, he wants Bucky to fuck him. He needs it. He would be so perfect for him, and Bucky would make him feel so good, he knows it. His cock perks in interest, and he shivers and presses his hips into Bucky’s thigh to seek out friction.

Bucky goes still. “Tony,” he warns.

Tony likes the way Bucky says his name. Low, and gravelly. He wonders what the Alpha’s voice would sound like saying other things.

The things that Bucky says in his dreams.

Large hands cradle his face. Blown pupils find his own. Bucky peers down at him, expression carefully guarded. He presses a thumb into Tony’s cheek, steadily adding pressure to pull Tony back down to Earth.

“What’s goin’ on, Tony?” Bucky’s thumb traces the slant of his cheekbone. Tony blinks at him blearily. “You smell…” The Alpha stops, mouth twisting. His nostrils twitch, and so does Tony’s prick. “Is this because of Arnie? What he said?”

No, Tony doesn’t want to think about Arnie. He doesn’t want to dwell on anything that the other Omega said—the way he blabbed all of Tony’s darkest, most shameful insecurities out loud in a public restroom stall, of all places. Right in front of Bucky.

“I’ve gotta go,” Tony says—mumbles, really—and pulls out of Bucky’s grip. “I’ve gotta—I’ve got. Homework. Studying.”

“Tony.”

“I’ll call you. Promise. I’ll try. From the Jarvises’ phone. Tomorrow night.”

“Tony.” Bucky reaches for him but Tony flinches out of his touch, and the Alpha’s hands drop to his sides. The look on his Bucky’s face morphs into hurt and Tony has to look away so his own despair doesn’t chew at his insides.

“Don’t do this, Tony. Not after last weekend. Talk to me, sweetheart. M’not going anywhere.”

“I’m okay,” Tony says. “Really. I’m… I’m fine. I’m great.”

Tony doesn’t know what he is, exactly. But he’s not great. And he’s probably not fine, or even remotely okay, really.

And he knows this, for certain, twenty-four hours later.

When he’s sitting around his family’s dining room table, stuffed into another godforsaken suit, sandwiched between his mother and Tiberius Stone.

Feverish. Burning. Plummeting straight into heat.

[olderthannetfic]

People have said this in the reblogs, but people who are concerned about what Project 2025 might do to AO3 should try to prevent that by voting for Democrats, including Joe Biden (or whomever replaces him if that happens), and supporting campaigns by canvassing, phonebanking, donating, sending postcards. If you're not a U.S. citizen, you can't vote or donate but you can probably find other ways to support, including by reblogging pro-voting posts on here. It's not a done deal. One person in the reblogs brought this up too but I wanted to elaborate: There's a huge problem on Tumblr with anti-voting propaganda, especially spread by tankies and other kinds of horrible people. I think that more people need to consider that if they're going to decide "hey, the occasional funnee meme isn't worth following a terf or Nazi or other anti-LGBTQ+/racist bigot" that should expand to tankies. Supporting dictators like Putin and Xi is supporting anti-LGBTQ+ politics, supporting racism (these people all violently suppress racial and religious minorities) and is supporting censorship. They are kind of famous for that. Supporting Putin, especially if you are also downplaying or making excuses for the invasion of Ukraine, is also supporting genocide because that is what he is doing to Ukraine right now. That should be a firm line for you, I think, if your convictions aren't like completely worthless lol. Some things should be more important to you than fucking memes! And at least have the bare minimum critical thinking skills to wonder if people who spend so much time doing apologetics for right-wing homophobic transphobic dictatorships, might be discouraging voting because they're ok with the U.S. also becoming a right-wing homophobic transphobic dictatorship.

One of my eternal vent pet peeve things is how many people make excuse for the blogger heritagep/osts (username is without the slash, but they and their friends are name-searchers). This is a person who regularly reblogs pro-dictatorship propaganda including for fucking North Korea, discourages and shames voting, and also is a vicious anti-semite who tries to hide that under supposedly being pro-Palestine. The way you can tell this is they're constantly making "Zionist blocklists" but if you look at the names that are actually on those blocklists, they're nearly all people who are outspokenly ANTi Zionist but who happen to be Jewish and post about that.

The excuse people constantly use for following them is that their blog is about documenting old Tumblr posts. Which just seems so flimsy because there are so many blogs that do that these days? Nearly all the rest of which are not antisemitic transphobic-dictator-apologists. H/eritageposts' commentary isn't even that funny. A lot of it is "anti" adjacent shit acting like everyone who ever liked Hetalia or Shingeki no Kyojin is antisemitic and responsible for rising Nazi sentiment online, which is kind of rich given the antisemitism and pro-right-wing-dictator stuff they've been radicalized into. Like lol call fujoshis "cringe" all you want but hardly any of the people I know who were into Hetalia in 2010 are antisemites in 2024, but you, on the other hand... Like maybe fandom is not in fact the danger and you can be a sucker for Internet extremism even without it!

Anyway, people, please just have bare minimum standards and compassion for who you follow and promote. No one's saying that you ahve to research everyone you reblog from, but there are blogs who regularly post this shit, you'd notice if you followed them or even glanced at them, that people make excuses for following because "funnie posts." Like come on. Have more self-respect and more actual courage of your convictions than that. All you're showing is that when the actual dictators are here you'll fall right in line the second they make a joke you laugh at.

--

Even if that weasel wins, plenty of people have fought horrendous governments before.

Queer people didn't have any fucking rights in the US when I was a kid, so we fought. We'll just have to fight again if it comes down to it.

Always vote.

Even if all the candidates suck, they're never all the same.

[briefalpacashark]

=The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare=

=Plus a Woman or Two=

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Gus March-Phillips. A great, if not slightly mad man stood in a room in front of some very high-ranking men. Who in all their mighty power were in Gus’ opinion, groveling for his help. A welcome and successful change from pervious accusations of insubordination and such. In any case, it gave him a chance to kill Nazis again. And he would not pass up such an opportunity. ”If I’m to do this, I’ll need my own team. You won’t like them.They’re all, uh...” he paused to think of an accurate word. “mad,” he admitted honestly and with the upmost respect. ”They’ll need to be. Give us their names,” a man Gus knew affectionally as M stated, gladdened at the agreement. ”Henry Hayes. A smart, young Irishman who hates the Nazis because his older brother, who was a close friend of mine, drowned after a U-boat sank his fishing trawler. I’ve taken him under my wing ever since. He’s cunning, quiet and wily. More to the point, Hayes is a magnificent sailor and I trust him,” Gus started. ”If we’re going to try and sink a large ship, we’ll need Freddy “The Buzz” frogman. He can swim across the channel with his feet tied together. Admittedly, he’s a convicted arsonist and a terrible misery unless he’s destroying something. But he’s very good at blowing things up,” M listened closely as he lit his pipe. The second recommend man coming at a bit of a shock. ”Next, we’ll need the Danish hammer,” Fleming, the one who was in charge of writing down the names, looked up at the familiar and infamous title. “Anders Lassen. Grew up wrestling bears and hunting elk on his family estate. He’s a legend with a Bowie knife and a bow and arrow. He ran away at 18 to fight the Nazis after the Gestapo tortured his brother to death. He gave up filleting game for gutting Nazis. He then turned up on our shores ready to fight alongside us. He is an uncontrollable mad dog who knows a hundred creative ways to kill a man,” Gus finished. ”Most importantly, we’ll need Geoffrey Appleyard,” Gus stated. ”Yes, we thought you might. That’s why we sent him on a reconnaissance mission to Fernando Po. Unfortunately, the Nazis nabbed him on his return,” Fleming said with an apologetic smile. ”All the more reason. He knows what we need to know. He’s a master planner, a master survivor, a chess grand master and a surgeon with the blade. We spent two weeks together in a Dunkirk foxhole and if it wasn’t for Apple, I would still be there today. No Apple, no mission,” Gus put forth the ultimatum, speaking with nothing but reverence for his friend. ”I’m afraid that’s impossible,” M said with a shake of his head. ”Why?” Gus asked. ”Because he’s being held by an entire German garrison on La Palma,” M’s explanations barley even registered to Gus. Who with a nonchalant shrug said, “La Palma’s on the way,” The beautiful Marjorie scoffed at Gus’s blatant confidence, with heron by her side sharing in her opinion with a shake of his head.

”That’s insanity,” M thought Gus had to be joking. ”You let me worry about that,” Gus said dismissively. ”Alright we have our list,” Fleming stated, moving to set the pen down. ”Uh-ah,” Gus wagged his finger at him. ”It looks to me you're assembling more of a platoon than a team,” M said, taking a long draw of his pipe. ”Only one more. Patience Evangaline March-Phillips,” M sighed at what he knew was long coming. ”March-Phillips? A relative?” Marjorie asked, intrigued at the mention of another woman’s name. ”I’m sorry, a woman?” Fleming asked with a small scoff. Marjorie’s and Gus’ heated looks had him swallowing his earlier statement and writing down the name to avoid their gazes. ”My dear little sister. She’s made quiet a name for herself. The red angle she’s called,” everyone in the room could recall the name. A famous name that had eared its reverence. Yet that fact was overshadowed by the announcement that the owner of the title was a woman. “One of the best snipers the world has ever seen which last time I checked has successfully dispatched every target assigned to her. She can dispatch a man from about 2000 yards away. She’s also a wiz with anything mechanical. Anything that breaks she can fix. She knows how to build a gun from scratch and can name every kind off the top of her head. She’s fluent in seven different languages and she dabbles in aviation. That, of course, only covers the skills she is proficient in,” A beaming pride shone through Gus as he spoke of his little sister. ”Mad like you?” Heron asked. ”Alas, she is the sensible one of the two of us,” Gus chuckled. ”Very well. If you wish to bring your own flesh and blood into the folds of danger, so be it,” M’s statement had Gus glancing down. Of course, he wouldn’t want such a thing. If he had it his way, his sister would be happy tucked away in some country home, falling in love with a farmer with her only care being what to cook for her next breakfast. That was half the reason he threw himself into the war. Only she threw herself in right after him. They had stayed together in their earlier military days. Their time together ended when they were separated and Gus was imprisoned. ”She was put in danger the moment Hitler gave his first salute,” Gus stated. It was true. It was not only the solider’s who were facing danger every day. Air raid’s of Britain left no woman or child safe. ”Very well, you have your team,” M’s nodded. Gus smiled, cocking his head slightly, his eyes raking down M’s body. ”I must get me one of those coats,”

Stepping out into the cold night air, lighting a cigar at his lips, Gus on his person sported several stolen items. A total of 8 Cigar’s, not counting the one alight between his teeth. 1 high quality, gold cased lighter. 1 tailored high end coat. 1 belly full of high grade liquer. And one gleeful smile.

On the other side of the world, sat in a little shack, was a woman. About her allied solider’s shuffled about at their down time, playing cards and such. The only woman in the room, she held in her hands a dismantled hand gun, intently cleaning every nook. The rays of sunlight filtered through the shoddy window slightly, her simple features, her focused brown eyes and her well kept but unruly brown hair bound tightly into a braid. That woman was the sister of Gus. ”Patience, personal message, from a,” a young solider barely wet behind the ears frowned at the name upon the piece of paper. “Duchess Dickward,” her movements stilled, and she slowly turned a glint of familiar recognition passing through her eyes.

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Master List =Here=

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Chapter 2

[victoriadallonfan]

There's Shadiversity drama????

I just know him as the funny shout man complaining about back sheaths.

Oh you have no idea.

Dude is an absolute alt-right moron. He got upset his daughter enjoyed Princess Peach, because Princess Peach wore pants and wasn’t a damsel in the Super Mario movie.

He openly says that he doesn’t believe people of the same sex should be able to get married.

He follows Matt Walsh (open fascist and Nazi), and several other white supremacist/alt-right YouTubers/podcasters/comic writers (including that former Injustice artist who went on to work on the “Blacklist Comic Universe”… because he got banned from mainstream comics for being an asshole)

He openly believes that women are biologically inferior to men and that they should be satisfied with the “soft power” they have as “home makers” and not focus on politics or wanting more rights.

He wrote a book called “Shadow of the Conqueror” which has a Mary Sue Hitler/Stalin/Mao expy who is 90 years old be given a “sexy” 17 year old body and tries to romance one of his many rape victims (who was 14 when the MC raped her as an adult btw, which makes her 40 years old by the time of the story starts…) and then beats her up and mocks her when she realizes he’s her rapist… while also claiming he can’t die because being allowed to live and see how much he’s hurting her is “a punishment greater than death”) to him.

Also when he’s confronted by all his former rape victims, the MC notes that the ones who were REALLY upset were women who didn’t get pregnant from said rape. Also also, any woman who is raped and exposed to darkness in the setting turns into sex crazed succubi (only the women and only by men; men can’t be raped or molested, not even his son whom the MC kills by impaling anally with a broken piece of wood) . Not that you would notice because literally every single woman, especially the sexually abused ones, throw themselves at the MC to have sex with them

You know what, go watch this review of the book

Anyways, after the book came out and more and more people started to realize this book is awful, sexist, homophobic (guess how many times the MC calls his friend gay… even for things as simple as “hey do you want to just walk around town and enjoy the view?”), and rape apologetic, Shad then created a video where he decides to read only positive (some of them non verified book purchasers) recent reviewers but is not smart enough to edit out the negative reviews that he scrolls by, so you can pause the video and read the ones that point out how bad the book is.

He is just a stupid, petty, bigoted man

[wroteclassicaly]

All these people in the gator and fargo tag complaining of people thirsting over gator, calling him a nazi and how dare people find the humanity in him but praising joe for his great job like he didnt find the humanity in this character and played him to be someone you feel for. 🤡

Then being pro munch like he doesnt have problematic traditional values either

Honestly so tired of these people virtue signaling and having no nuance or media literacy for the sake of internet points, its exhausting and they just look annoying and stupid

Okay, so I wasn’t sure if I was going to answer this, because I’m trying to stay out of things. But I’ve gotten several messages like this, and I’m writing for Gator, so I feel like I owe my take on him, which had a major influence on my choice to continue.

TW below the cut, discussing Gator and his issues:

I live in a Midwestern, republican town. Everyone here owns flags like Gator’s, has blue lives matter flags, etc. If you’re raised into that life and it’s all your family knows/the people around you know - you will likely adapt to that way of thinking as well. I was fortunate enough to be able to break away from how the people around me thought and felt, forming my own opinions and expressing my disgust for the blue lives matter crap and the flag, etc. My parents are heavily republican (carry all that side’s beliefs) and so is my brother.

It’s an incredibly suffocating and confusing environment to grow up in, especially if you have no way to safely think and form your own opinions. Again, I’m grateful I could break away and think for myself!!!!

Now, discussing Gator. I just want to say that it never said he was a Nazi! Roy was. Gator was misogynistic and racist.

I’m going to compare Gator to a character called Mickey Milkovich (now this will probably upset people, due to Mickey’s character being a gay man), but I’m mostly comparing fathers/environments. Mickey and Gator were raised by two dangerous and horrific men, who beat and brain washed their sons into one way of thinking - theirs. Products of their environment, (Mickey used slurs, had flags like Gator, weapons, drugs, and even had nazi items on his wall) and what is called ‘learned racism’. They have no safe way to think for themselves, no other people around to show them love or kindness, help lead them towards a different way. Mickey found that with Ian and was able to develop and fully nurture the kindness/goodness that was in him, and he had over ten seasons to grow!

Gator only had Nadine and 10 episodes. When she left he began to let his warped devotion to the only person he had a blood connection with - flood him, outweigh his own personal goodness. Dot said it herself when she said his need to be like Roy outweighed the goodness inside. He was a product of the father and the environment. He didn’t have his own way of thinking, not really, he clung to what was beat and brainwashed into him, trying to find love and approval from his abuser/only blood relative/only person he was around (very common).

Am I excusing that? Absolutely not! Gator was not entirely a good person, and he knew that as well! He made choices he knew were wrong, to impress and gain affection from a sociopathic, demonic man. Gator was responsible for what he did, so this is not me trying to excuse or argue that!!

The only way for him to become free of who he was molded to be (he has no clue who he is, just a weak prototype of what he tried to be, hardly anything that is his own), was for him to become blind in order to see, and start serving his time. They left his ending open, which is a great way for those of us who choose to write for him - to explore his mental freedom and further nurture the soft/good side of him!

We don’t know how Gator would act or think (he was immediately apologetic to Dot and didn’t hesitate to give Roy up when he saw he wasn’t loved or cared for, so he didn’t need to protect his father), now that he is away from the environment and the man that molded him into the character he was on the show.

Gator was still a child trapped in a man’s body in some aspects; his temper tantrums, his knee jerk reactions, his hot headed plans without thought, his bedroom items (the toy cars, the sneakers, etc), his blinding anger towards Dot for leaving him behind (not even faulting her, because baby girl needed to get out and I’m glad she did). The show also alluded to the fact that he might have been addicted to some kind of substance he was stealing, as well.

Feelings on Munch are that he’s got just as much issues, lol. And we hardly knew much on him, tbh? What he did in the past, other than what he said.

Anyways, that’s my take on Gator.

We all have the right to feel how we feel!! Hate or love Gator, see his humanity or not. Some of the things his character represented effect a whole lot of people, so they have a right to be upset! There’s a lot of different factors and feelings involved!! I only look sideways at you if you thought his torture and eyes getting burnt/cut was what he deserved, because that’s just gross!

But at the end of the day, none of us who do love Gator/write for him — condone Gator’s actions! Seeing the layers and humanity in a character Joe put his all into, is perfectly normal/okay!

Sometimes there’s areas in between, and it’s not just either/or.

But I will say that not everyone who feels this way is just doing it for internet points! A lot of people have valid points/feelings about the dislike of Gator, to which I will not/have no business arguing, you know? There’s also other people that make callout posts for clout and false superiority, without even recognizing what Gator actually did and they just pull stuff outta their ass, lol.

If you don’t like Gator fans or writers, then just scroll!! It’s easy, I promise! No one is hurting anyone or being malicious!! ❤️

[redditantisemitism]

Conflating Jews with israel, saying Jews use the “antisemitism card” to ward off “criticism”.

Also, and most obviously, the creator of this comic, stonetoss, is a known neo-Nazi. And I do mean that literally. It’s not hard to find the rhetoric in his comics, transparently shielded by “satire”. But satire is about punching up, so what exactly are his comics satirizing?

[quidfree]

accidentally deleted this ask but for the anon asking what my gripes were with iwtv’s finale / this season:

look i love this show. ive never read the books* and i thoroughly enjoyed the one time i watched the movie mostly bc of tom cruise and kirsten dunst acting circles around bradd pitt. the show to me really elevates the material, it has phenomenal writing, the acting is obviously stellar, i think it does a great job at being that dark gothic romance that is both deeply tragic and fucked up and funny etc etc.

a key element of the adaptation is evidently that they have recontexualised the characters in ways that both add depth and nuance to them. when we meet him louis is a black gay man in a deeply racist and homophobic setting who hardens himself to survive and rise above as much as he can. claudia is a young black woman who has always faced societal violence and neglect because of this. armand’s whole arc as an exploited and fetishised child whose trauma has become his identity is also encased in colonial violence. i’m not from the communities they are so i can’t speak for everyone, but i think for the most part the show is pretty good at having these changes enrich the show and acknowledge what an impact this has on dynamics and the characters. s1 explicitly addresses how lestat handwaves away the racism louis experiences as something he can just overcome because he’s a vampire now, how lestat himself plays into racist imbalances of power in his patriarchal relationship in their home esp wrt claudia, how he goes to capture claudia on the train being portrayed to echo a slave-catcher, etc. s2 has the trial obviously set up like a lynching (claudia says so much herself), with lestat’s testimony framing the two black people he abused as the aggressors and himself as the victim, and even when lestat is genuinely apologetic and remorseful it’s because he’s allowed his tears and victimhood while louis and claudia are not. all this to say there is obviously lot of conscious thought that goes into the way the characters’ races feed into the show and the story and it oftentimes is very effective, as well as aware of audience perceptions of the characters and how the irl audience’s own biases might need addressing.

unfortunately for me there are two aspects of s2 that i feel are kind of outliers in this regard, and not in a way that makes sense/feels intentionally uncomfortable to me. 1) is madeline’s backstory, and 2) is the change of having armand actually have been plotting to murder both louis and claudia at the trial, and lestat have been the one to save louis.

1) to me is just really… weird. i feel like i know why they wrote her that way. it makes madeline a ~morally grey character~ by default so she fits in with the rest of the cast, and there is an element to the very real misogynistic vitriol and violence post-ww2 directed at french women even falsely accused of having slept with the invading nazi occupiers that feels very in line with the things the show likes to examine and point to as examples of plain old human barbarism and othering. but the way they present it in the show, unquestioned, not as a dubious survival tactic or a multi-faceted situation but an actual love story that madeline has no remorse for, is very off-putting to me. madeline is not louis and claudia who ignore the atrocities of the war because those are human affairs and they are no longer human but supernatural monsters. madeline is a normal person whose peers- jewish people, queer people (surely her own community), political dissidents of any kind- have been put down like dogs throughout the occupation, sent to prison camps at best and death camps at worst, and she never even has a line of dialogue addressing conflicting feelings about this? no one ever challenges her on it? the people painting nazi symbols on her shop are consistently framed as villainous? it just feels weird to me that claudia’s “weird white lady” has this saccharine romance with her, a black woman, without the show ever exploring any friction in that dynamic given madeline’s apparently uncomplicated nazi romance. madeline being a femme tondue is a great idea, but the execution leaves to be desired imo.

2) … oh boy. i feel like i’m wading into discourse here bc i’ve seen really confrontational takes on this, esp a lot of “responses to” people who didn’t like this change, where this is presented as those people being dumb babies who are blinded by their liking of armand and don’t Understand The Show. im sure there are those of which this is true (and ppl have explained better than me how antiblackness feeds into everyone jumping into ship wars and defense of louis’ abusive partners in general) but also it feels very reductive of some valid questions people have. people can argue the change is consistent with armand’s characterisation, which, sure, even though i feel like it feels a little flimsy / contradictory for armand to finally Choose The Coven and allow for them to execute louis but then go feed him blood and allow him to revenge-kill all of them immediately afterwards, etc. i don’t mind characters being More Evil on the Evil Vampire show.

my bigger question is why this change was made. bc my sense is that the change is less about armand than it is about lestat, and specifically setting the stage for the loustat reconciliation, and i do not love that. it’s one thing to make it so armand wanted to kill louis too, just for the extra drama of daniel’s reveal and scale of his betrayal, another push for louis to leave. it’s another to make it so lestat was the heroic captive who not only was forced to be there by armand as per but also bravely exerted the limits of his strength to save louis from execution and then nobly didn’t tell him about this. these are both monstrous vampires who have abused and betrayed louis in their own ways (armand has already orchestrated claudia’s death and kept louis in a purportedly protective mind prison for decades! that’s betrayal enough! you could even have armand originally want to kill louis too and then change his mind!), so why at this juncture choose to have lestat save louis in a move that was originally armand’s? just from the way the audience (fandom and casual watchers) is reacting it makes me wonder if the showrunners were just oblivious to how much this worsens people’s takes of armand (the brown man) being the “real villain” and lestat (the white man) being the redeemed self-sacrificing figure. i’m sure people will say this is placing too much weight on race blah blah blah but it was so jarring to me and the change in viewer attitudes so immediate that it left a really bad taste in my mouth.

inb4 the inevitable: i actually really liked the loustat reunion in the finale! i don’t hate loustat! i like all of the dynamics between all of the characters, albeit my favourite louis ship is louis x therapy (an obvious inference from my favourite character being daniel lmao). this is not a change that i hate because i’m a bitter lestat hater. i have no issue with armand doing bad things, episode 5 was my favourite episode! i just think this particular choice was weird, and felt kind of thoughtless in the service of speedrunning a lestat hero role in advance of his season.

i have other less tangential complaints but overall i think this is a great season of television. these are just two points that stood out to me as being handled with less grace than i expect of iwtv.

*i just started reading the first book today on the airplane so. we’ll see how that goes. book loustat is so funny compared to the show. book 1 louis hates his ass 😭

[gay-jewish-bucky]

lmfao thinking about how i got banned from twitter for life because i got mass-reported by peggy fans for calling out their propensity for nazi apologetics when confronted with the fact she knowingly hired nazis and they celebrated when they realized i got banned

[matan4il]

Hi!

Ah, how do you argue with a rabid antisemite who won't even consider for a second that they're wrong? 🙃

Someone I followed posted something about Israel being a "settle colonialist project", so I tried to give them the benefit of the doubt that maybe they're just ignorant and don't know the history of the land and/or Judaism. I sent them a message basically saying that considering Israel a settler colony is super problematic and antisemitic as it entirely erased the deep link between Jewish people and their ancestral homeland.

Well this person then went OFF the rails, spouting some of the most awful rhetoric I've ever read. You know, like 95% of Israelis are just white Americans playing dress up as middle easterners and have no historic claim to the land, Jews aren't the only Semites so she couldn't possibly be antisemitic (🙄🙄), Jews and Israel are the new Nazis and white supremacists, evil murderous baby killers etc.

She insisted that she was incredibly educated on the subject (!!!) and that I was the ignorant one, and I just don't understand how we're supposed to handle people like this, who are so full of hate that they can't be reasoned with. I guarantee that if any other minority told them that they were doing something offensive or racist they'd stop immediately and be incredibly apologetic. What makes us Jewish people so different?

😔

I just really needed to vent and for someone to confirm that I'm not the crazy one.

Thank you! 💞

Hi, lovely!

Let me start by assuring you that you are absolutely NOT crazy. And I am so sorry that you, and so many of us, have had to go through this experience, of encountering someone being that awful. I'm sending you lots of hugs, I know it's not much of a comfort, but you are not crazy, and you are NOT alone.

"She insisted that she was incredibly educated"

I've seen that happening so much. I wish they'd realize this is so false and condescending. No, reading lots of anti-Israel propaganda does NOT make them educated on this. No, using the propaganda to de-legitimize and silence the people most affected by the conflict, way more than these people are, is not okay, it is NOT the sign of an educated person (those truly educated can carry a debate about it, they don't need to silence others. In fact, many times they want to have a debate, because they're secure enough in their knowledge and information, that it does not threaten them. They don't need to block out challenges in order to be sure that their narrative won't fall apart) and it is INCREDIBLY patronizing. It's like a straight person lecturing me on what it's like to be gay, except only presenting the most homophobic idea one can picture of it. It's condescending on top of being hateful.

And I say this as someone who has lived this conflict her entire life, but also works at a Holocaust museum, which researches the Holocaust in particular, genocide in general, and Jewish history, including this specific chapter. You think any of these Israel haters care that they're lecturing someone with way more knowledge and experiences of this conflict than them? With more real life Israeli AND Palestinian friends than they have? Who has probably done more in her line of work to combat hate and the path to genocide than their keyboard fighting ever will? Do they stop and listen when we talk about the actual definition of Zionism, genocide, or even just some basic facts about the current war, like how many Palestinian terrorist organizations Israel is fighting? Nothing gets through.

So the most important thing I wanna tell you is to PLEASE not feel bad if you don't get through to this person. I think it is noble and brave to try. I have with some people who I mistakenly thought there was a chance they'd listen. And I never do it from a place of hate for Palestinians, because I do not hate them. I know enough of them who are great people, and I sincerely want the good people on both sides to have a better life. I always speak from a place of looking at the facts, current and historic. I believe it matters. We can't solve a conflict that we don't understand, and we aren't promoting any understanding (we're not helping in solving it) by spreading intentional lies about the essence of the cnflict. I've been translating the docu about Amin al-Husseini, because he's someone who infused the conflict with religious hate and antisemitic thinking. If we don't understand that, if we pretend this is just about land and liberation, we will never be able to address the true core issues of the conflict, and we won't be able to solve it, and provide the good people on both sides with this better life they deserve.

That's what I can offer to you, to speak about your experiences, the experiences of those you know or have heard of, who are affected, to speak from a place of care, and to insist on truth and facts.

That said, as you can understand, it doesn't always work. Some people I've tried with, they were just not willing to listen. When they stated something wrong, and I gave them a correction linked to a fact checked source, and they still ignored it and repeated their ignorant claims, that means they don't want to listen.

Which means that this false narrative serves some sort of need they have. Otherwise, if the facts that someone is presented with undermine their narrative, that should make them stop and question it. Stop and reevaluate why, if their narrative is true, do they get so many facts wrong? I'm not talking here about something like was this specific tweet or that particular vid true. I'm talking about basic facts, like denying that Jews are from Israel, are native here, and therefore have native rights here, that can't be erased with it being antisemitic.

What's the need that it serves? There are different motivations, one person can have more than one reason to choose to ignore the suffering of Israelis and Jews, but at the end of the day, what they all have in common, is that they're enabled by a certain degree of either antisemitism, or ignorance, or both. Antisemitism can be a sense of indifference regarding Jews, our well being, our safety, our rights, and it can also be based in a certain distorted view of Jews. And I just have to say that a certain lack of knowledge can lead to the latter even among Jewish people, even when it doesn't lead to antisemitism and hatefulness. It's just... Jews are so misrepresented, so... under-discussed. You will not believe how many times I've asked American Jewish visitors to our Holocaust museum how many Jews there are in the world, and they greatly overestimated the number. It doesn't point to anything bad about them, but it does reflect that they're a product of American society, where Jews are (even culturally) misrepresented as being far more omnipresent than we are (while also barely giving us our own voice).

Sorry, I know this got long. I guess because my answer to your first question, regarding arguing with a rabid antisemite is... you try you best, with care, and with facts. But you also mustn't feel bad if it doesn't work. If people have a vested interest in not listening to you, they won't. And it is not your fault. And also, you have to take care of yourself, too. So it's okay to stop and ask yourself every once in a while, whether a specific fight is one worth fighting. If it's someone that matters to you, and that you wanna stay in touch with, it may be even when things don't look hopeful. If it's a public argument, and there's a chance that this person won't listen to you, but a third party might read your replies and get something from them, then it may also be worth keeping up the debate then. But there are also times when, if you tried, and the person is insistent on not listening, and the odds of anything positive coming out of it are slim to none, it's also okay to take care of yourself, to disengage, and stay the hell away from someone that antisemitic.

IDK if this helps, but I really hope so, and I am sending you a lot of hugs, love, support and encouragement! And if you ever wanna ask me anything in order to have that as help in confronting antisemites, I will do my best for you. Take good care, lovely! xoxox

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[strawb3rry-bl0nde]

i fucking hate this, trump winning is the most sickenly thing i have to deal with on this day, week and my fucking birthday month.

bomb threats in pensivala just so you can see your orange fat man win? humanity is fucking doomed

taking nebraska from harris when she had 50%? voting fraud.

and trump says when he loses its targeted.

any of those who voted for third parties need to think. will this really help minorities? NO. voting for harris was the best option for them even if she genocides platasinte,

third party voters and trump dickriders. you have killed and made more people suffer in the future of your fascist, racist, lgbt phobic, ableist, xenophobic nazi apologetic country.

i hope your fucking proud of yourself.