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keithyp00 · 23 days ago

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・┆✦ʚ♡ Ghost Code ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!ex-hydra!reader

Warnings/Tags: mentions of: violence, trauma/PTSD, torture and experimentation and mind-control. brief mention of attempted suicide. nightmares, depression, mentions of Hydra, mild blood, slow burn romance, healing, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 3.0K

Author Note: Hello guys! Sorry I didn't post last night as well as sorry for posting this one so late :/. I hope you enjoy this one even though it's kind of a cliche but this has been in my drafts for a while and I finally had the inspiration to finish it so :)

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The cold didn't bother you anymore.

You couldn't remember when it stopped mattering, when the numbness in your bones became part of your biology. When your cells are rewritten and twisted under needles and coercion, things like climate and comfort lose their meaning. So, when you stood barefoot in a puddle of melted snow at the edge of a collapsed Soviet-era bunker in Belarus, you didn't flinch.

You just waited.

Waited for orders. Waited for the voice in your head that no longer came.

Because they're all dead now, you had to remind yourself that. Hydra is dead. You're free.

But freedom didn't feel like freedom. It felt like silence. Unfamiliar. Heavy. Cold.

Your name had once been Y/N. At least, you thought it was. You whispered it sometimes at night, tracing the sound with your breath like prayer. But in the long decades trapped in cryo between missions, you'd been called other things: Asset 12. Variant Echo. The Mirror.

A design parallel to the Winter Soldier, but different. Meant to compliment him, control him. If Bucky Barnes had been Hydra's precision scalpel, you had been the hammer.

The serum had worked. They made sure of that. Strength, agility, rapid cellular regeneration. But Hydra didn't stop at making you strong. No. They made you lethal.

They gave you Reflection. That's what Dr. Kravchenko called it. A mimic-based neural weapon: if you saw someone use a skill, technique, or power, you could duplicate it- perfectly. Temporarily. Sometimes for seconds. Sometimes hours. The longer you watched, the longer you could hold it.

You'd once copied a telekinetic asset for sixteen minutes before your brain hemorrhaged.

Worth it, they said.

Because when you fought, you moved like them- like anyone. Like everyone.

And they sent you after ghosts. Targets like Barnes. Untraceable. Untouchable. Unstoppable.

You saw him once. Back in '89. He didn't remember. But you did. You'd never forget the look in his eyes. Not rage. Not purpose. Just- hollowness. The kind you can only wear after losing everything you never knew you had.

It was the same expression you saw in the mirror every morning.

~~~~~

It was Sam who found you first.

Well, not exactly. The mission was to dismantle the last of Hydra's remaining data catches buried in Kazakhstan. Your cryo pod had been sealed in the basement of an outpost, hooked to a nuclear-powered AI set to wake you if anyone came close.

The AI failed.

You woke anyway.

And you ran.

No orders. No handlers. No conditioning. Just you.

Three months passed. You stole, hid, slept in forests, watched cities from rooftops. Sometimes, you thought about walking into traffic or starving yourself just to stop feeling like a weapon on standby.

Then Sam found you.

He didn't try to capture you. He just sat on a bench. Talked. Waited. Like you were some injured animal that might get curious enough to come close.

"I'm not who they say I was," you'd whispered to him one night on a park bench in Budapest. "But I'm not someone else either."

"You don't need to be," he said. "You just need time. A name. And some space to find your own damn way."

He was your first friend.

~~~~~

That's how you met Barnes.

By then, Bucky was trying. He was healing- sort of. Therapy, small apartments, government tracking. He was mostly quiet, all awkward silences and apologies that he never actually voiced.

You both met in Sam's kitchen in D.C.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," you said first.

Bucky didn't look at you. Just stared at the cup in his hand. "I'm not."

You tilted your head. "But you recognize me."

His jaw clenched. "I remember missions. Flashes. The file that said you were dead."

"I thought the same about you."

When your eyes met, it wasn't hostile. It was tragic. A mirror, held too long between two people who only saw ghosts looking back.

~~~~~

You didn't get along, not a first.

He was guilt-ridden and private. You were feral in grief and defensive as hell. You trained at the same facility Sam brought you to. You'd spar with agents while Bucky glared from a chosen corner, arms crossed.

You fought like Natasha. Like Steve. Like him.

He hated watching it.

Because it reminded him of what you both were.

But one day, he asked.

"How long can you copy it?"

"Depends. Ten minutes max if I'm moving.

"And if I don't stop moving?"

"Then neither will I."

You fought for fourteen minutes straight. You passed out. He caught you.

~~~~~

Your second real conversation wasn't much of one.

It was a stakeout- low-tier arms dealer connected to Hydra. You and Bucky sat in silence, rain drumming on the rooftop above you.

"You ever sleep?" You asked.

"No."

You nodded. "Me neither."

"...Nightmares?"

"Worse."

He glanced over.

"Dreams where I'm happy," you said. "And then I wake up, and I remember I'm still here."

For once, he didn't offer advice, He just listened. Stayed.

That was enough.

~~~~~

Months passed. You learned to coexist. Then to fight side by side. Then to talk.

One night, after a mission gone sideways in Morocco, Bucky found you on the edge of a crumbling rooftop.

He sat next to you, soaked in blood and silence.

"I read your file," he said. "Everything they did to you. How many times they rewrote your brain."

You didn't respond.

He looked over. "You still think you're their weapon?"

"I was," you said. "That's all I've ever been."

Bucky shook his head. "Not anymore."

"How can you say that?"

"Because I was one too."

You finally looked at him.

"And you're still here," he added. "Still trying. That's not something weapons do."

~~~~~

The first time he touched your hand, it was an accident.

The first time he held it, it wasn't.

It happened during a debrief. Sam was scolding you- again- for going off mission parameters and nearly getting yourselves killed. You were still shaking. Your fingers curled tight into the seams of your jacket, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

The Bucky's gloved hand slid over yours.

You didn't flinch. And you didn't let go.

~~~~~

You had your name again now. Y/N.

A home, sort of. Sam helped you set it up in a tiny brownstone three blocks from the river. You painted the walls yourself, picked a couch that didn't match anything, bought a toaster you didn't know how to use.

Bucky stopped by sometimes.

At first, it was to check in.

Then, it wasn't.

You learned that he liked his coffee black and that he never sat with his back to the door. That he liked books but didn't finish them. That he kept your photo on his nightstand- not a romantic one, just a snapshot Sam had taken when you were laughing, wind in your hair.

He said it reminded him that healing didn't always have to hurt.

~~~~~

You kissed once.

It wasn't planned.

You were hiding out in a safehouse, bodies aching, blood drying, adrenaline fading. He was patching up your arm, quiet and focused. You looked up and saw the concentration in his eyes, the way his brow furrowed just slightly when he was worried.

"Why do you care so much?" You asked.

He paused. Met your gaze. "Because I know what it means to feel unworthy of being saved."

Your breath caught.

He leaned forward- slowly, like you might bolt. You didn't.

The kiss was tentative. Warm. Painfully human.

You didn't know if it meant more. But it meant something.

~~~~~

You still dreamed of cold tiles and screaming metal.

Of numbers.

Of pain.

But now, when you woke, there were sometimes texts. From Sam.

Or a knock on your door. From Bucky.

And for the first time in your fragmented life, you didn't feel like a weapon on standby.

You felt like a person.

A broken one, yes. But not beyond repair.

Not anymore.

~~~~~

The knock on your door came at 2:17 a.m.

You were already awake.

The nightmares had been merciless that week- so vivid you could still smell gun oil and blood in your sheets. You'd taken to sitting on the floor in the corner of your bedroom with a knife in hand, your back pressed against the wall, knees pulled to your chest.

But when the knock came, you didn't move right away.

Because you knew it was him.

"Y/N," Bucky's voice was low, muffled through the door. "It's me."

Of course it was.

You dropped the blade, crossed the room, and unlocked the door without a word.

He looked like he hadn't slept either.

"You okay?" He asked.

You nodded, but he gave you that look- the one that said he knew you were lying.

"I had a dream," you admitted. "Not mine. One they gave me. The kind where I wake up and forget that it's over."

He didn't speak. Just stepped in and closed the door behind him.

You didn't expect the way he reached for you- not rough, not rushed, but deliberate. His hands touched your face, cradled your jaw, thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones like he was grounding himself.

"I hate when you look like this," he said. "Like you're still trapped."

You swallowed hard. "I feel like I am."

"You're not."

Then he kissed you.

No hesitation this time. No chaos.

Just warmth. Gentle pressure. A silent promise.

You melted into it. Let yourself cling. Let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a version of you that wasn't just created for destruction.

He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against yours.

"I don't want to be afraid to want something good," he whispered.

"You think I'm something good?" You whispered back.

He nodded. "You're the only thing that doesn't make me feel like a monster anymore."

~~~~~

You didn't sleep much that night. But not for the reason that people would assume.

You laid on the couch in your living room, your legs draped over his, your fingers tracing the metal of his vibranium arm while he stared up at the ceiling.

"You know," you started, "I used to think if I ever felt this close to someone, I'd ruin it. Or they'd ruin me."

"Maybe we're both already ruined," Bucky murmured. "But maybe we're still worth loving anyway."

You laughed softly. "You're getting good at this therapy thing."

"I stopped going."

"Why?"

"Because I talk more with you than I ever did with Dr. Raynor."

Your chest tightened. You turned, tucked yourself into his side, and closed your eyes.

"Okay," you said. "Then keep talking."

And he did.

He told you about the time he lost Steve in the war, and how he still dreamed of chasing him through fire. About the way he still couldn't sleep in a bed some nights, and how his neighbor's cat made him cry once by sitting on his porch for three hours straight.

You listened. And you told him things, too.

About the weight of mimicry. How sometimes you didn't know which movements were yours anymore.

And how his were the only hands you let touch you without flinching.

~~~~~

Your first mission together after that night was a blur of bullets, sweat, and unspoken tension.

You were sent to intercept a rogue lab in Lithuania, one that was housing modified versions of the serum. Most of the intel was useless. The building was a maze. Enemies were prepared. It should have gone sideways.

But it didn't.

Because you moved like one body.

You fought with his patterns, he mirrored yours. You covered each other's blind spots. At one point, you took a hit meant for him- caught a knife to the ribs.

He panicked.

"Y/N-"

"I'm fine," you gritted out, blood soaking your shirt.

"You're not fine."

He scooped you up before you could argue, carried you through the smoke and fire like she weighed nothing.

You didn't protest.

Didn't want to.

~~~~~

Later, in the extraction van, you leaned into him while Sam drove.

"You're warm," you mumbled.

"You're bleeding." Bucky shot back, but his arm curled tighter around you.

"You kissed me."

"I remember."

You looked up at him. "Do it again."

He did. Right there, in the back of the stolen van with Sam sighing heavily and muttering something about gross super-soldier PDA.

~~~~~

That night, he stayed with you.

You didn't speak much.

But in bed, his hand found yours beneath the blanket. Your fingers tangled, like wires, old and frayed but still carrying a current.

You could feel it.

The ache of maybe, The sting of something real.

~~~~~

Weeks passed.

It didn't fizzle out.

It deepened.

He started keeping a toothbrush at your place. You brought him black coffee and cinnamon rolls. You shared books and swapped stories they hadn't told anyone else.

He never said 'I love you.'

Neither did you.

Not yet.

But every time you woke up screaming and he was there to hold you- every time he caught your hand in the middle of a fight just to remind you he was real- it felt like the words were already there.

Waiting.

~~~~~

One night, they were sitting on your fire escape, legs dangling into the dark.

You glanced at him. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"If they could undo all of this- everything in your head, everything you've done- would you let them?"

He didn't answer right away.

Then, slowly: "Not if it meant forgetting you."

You didn't cry. Not then. But you let yourself reach for his hand.

And this time, you held on tight.

~~~~~

Sam caught you in the kitchen at 9 a.m. on a Sunday.

"Jesus Christ," he said, stepping backward like he'd walked into an actual crime scene. "You could've warned me. That's my coffee table, man."

Bucky didn't flinch. Just kept pouring coffee into two chipped mugs like nothing had happened.

You, however, looked properly mortified from where you sat on the counter, wearing one of Bucky's henleys and exactly none of your own shame.

"Relax," you said coolly, hopping down. "We didn't touch the table. That's where your magazines go."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "I don't trust either of you."

"You never did," Bucky deadpanned.

"Because I know you. You're a disaster in a leather jacket. And you-" he pointed at you, "- you were built in a Hydra basement and somehow still think I can't take you in a fight."

"Because you can't," you said, hiding a grin behind your mug. "But I appreciate the confidence."

Sam groaned and walked away, muttering something about 'therapy bills' and 'ruined upholstery.'

~~~~~

You were a team now.

An official one.

After Lithuania, Fury approved your for joint deployment when needed- Winter and Warden, as Sam jokingly referred to you.

Your skills were brutal, efficient, too well-matched. And though no one said it aloud, people noticed you always returned from missions in one piece.

Together.

~~~~~

One evening after a quiet recon in Estonia, you returned to Louisiana to lay low. Sam insisted.

"You need a break," he said. "Both of you. And I need help fixing my sister's boat."

You looked at Bucky. "You ever fix a boat?"

"I fought a Nazi on one in 1943. Same thing."

Sam laughed from the front seat. "You're both idiots."

~~~~~

You worked on the boat all afternoon. Your power- and experimental Hydra derivative of the Super Soldier Serum- let you manipulate kinetic energy through your body like an amplifier. In close combat, it turned you into a living weapon. But today?

Today, you used it to lift the engine block with a flick of your fingers.

Sam stared at you, casually walked with the engine block propped on your shoulder. "I take back everything I ever said. You are a gift."

Bucky sat back on the dock, shirt halfway unbuttoned, oil on his metal fingers, watching you like you'd hung the sun.

And Sam noticed.

"You're gonna tell her?" He asked under his breath.

Bucky didn't look away. "Tell her what?"

"That you're in love with her, you emotionally repressed snowman."

Bucky's lip twitched. "I don't know if she's ready."

Sam elbowed him. "Maybe. But you are."

~~~~~

Later, after dinner, when the docks had quieted and the air had turned sweet with salt and pine, you found him sitting on the deck of the boat.

Alone.

Moonlight silvered his profile.

"Should I be worried?" You asked gently. "You look like you're about to brood yourself into another century?"

He smiled, barely. "Come here."

You walked to him slowly. Sat beside him. He reached for your hand like it was second nature now.

"I used to think," he started, "that I didn't really deserve this."

"This?"

"You. The peace. The softness. All of it."

You leaned into his shoulder. "I used to think that I was too broken to love anyone."

His arm slipped around you.

"We were wrong."

You nodded. "We were."

A pause.

Then- quiet, raw-

"I love you, Y/N."

You stilled.

Not because you didn't feel it. But because you did. So much you could barely breathe.

"I love you too, Bucky."

And the way he kissed you after that wasn't like your first, or your second.

It was slow. Reverent. A kiss from someone who had lost everything once and had finally found his place to land.

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam walked in on you again- fully clothed, curled up together under a blanket on the couch, fast asleep.

He stared for a long beat.

Then pulled out his phone.

Snapped a photo.

"Blackmail," he said to himself with satisfaction. "Priceless."

~~~~~

Later that day, you caught him smirking.

"You're up to something."

He shrugged. "Just enjoying your domestic villain redemption arc."

You rolled your eyes. "You're so lucky I like you, Wilson."

He grinned. "Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you keep that cyborg wrapped around your finger. He's better now, you know."

You glanced toward Bucky- standing at the grill, trying, and successfully, flipping burgers with his vibranium hand while muttering curses under his breath.

"I know," you said softly. "So am I."

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read-marx-and-lenin · 9 months ago

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heyo- a friend is trying to get me to read 1984 because 'it'll totally change your worldview on government and anarchism', but i've heard some bad things about the book itself/george orwell. should i read it? is there anything similar/more theorylike i could read instead?

thank you! your blog rocks <3 <3

Go ahead and read it if you want. It's a classic entry into the genre of dystopian science fiction and it has spawned many imitators since its publication. However, if you're looking for actual theory or history, you won't find it there. I would recommend Pat Sloan's "Soviet Democracy" or Anna Louise Strong's "The Soviets Expected It" and "The Stalin Era" if you want real accounts of the Soviet Union under Stalin.

Orwell never actually visited the Soviet Union, and 1984 is based not on his own personal experience with the country but instead on Western propagandistic views of the country and his own displeasure towards the fact that during World War II, when the UK and the USSR were allies, the British press was much less keen to publish anti-Soviet works right at the same time he was trying to get Animal Farm published. You must also understand that his wife worked for the UK's Ministry of Information as a censor and Orwell himself worked at the BBC producing wartime propaganda. It is not a coincidence then that the main character of 1984, Winston Smith, is a censor and propaganda official working with the fictional "Ministry of Truth" and eventually finding himself battling against state control of information.

Ironically, after stylizing himself so much as a defender of liberty and freedom against the "totalitarianism" of the time, Orwell would write up a list of alleged subversive writers for the British Information Research Department, a secret department tasked with publishing anti-communist propaganda during the Cold War. Some of this propaganda would end up being a comic strip version of Orwell's Animal Farm. There is a significant throughline in both Animal Farm and 1984 that clearly betrays Orwell's political views. In both works, the proletariat are depicted as nothing more than idiots and sheep who follow the orders of anyone willing to give them work and are easily duped by intellectuals. In 1984, he phrases it as the proletariat being more "free" simply because they're so insignificant as to warrant no government surveillance.

In 1984, the fictional society of "Oceania" is a far cry from a dictatorship of the proletariat. The proletariat have no political power, they all live in slums and are mollified by bread and circuses. How is the building of the slums organized? Where does the money go when one buys their bread? We are not told anything about this except that the process is slow and inefficient. The story isn't interested in material concerns. The "proles" do their work, we are told, but we are never shown much more than informal labor. We don't know who is telling them to work or how they are getting paid. The "Outer Party" is supposedly the white collar "middle" class of Oceanic society, but despite the amount of focus the story has on this class, we are never shown a single Party member managing a workplace or poring over receipts. We are to believe that the proletariat are simultaneously left to their own devices and unmolested by the state, while also completely under the control of the state through invisible mechanisms that are never elaborated upon. While Winston will complain endlessly about his own quality of life, not once does a single prole gripe about their job. The cost and quality of goods come up sporadically and only to illustrate the deterioration of English society under Party rule, never to illustrate any material basis of said rule.

Even more at the periphery are the colonized peoples (although never described as such) within the war-torn areas never under the permanent control of any world power. All three of the global superpowers are said to be in a constant struggle over the control and enslavement of these super-exploited workers and the resources of their nations, which are said to make up a significant proportion of the material resources of each superpower, however at the same time they are not considered to be part of the proletariat and are dismissed as entirely disposable and unnecessary for the maintenance of any of these superpowers. To Orwell, it seems, colonialism is simply a thing the colonizers do out of habit and not a phenomenon with an actual material basis or actual material effects. In turn, the colonized are not actual people who might take umbrage with the constant conflict imposed upon them, but rather chattel that is perfectly content to be traded back and forth among the colonizers.

The importance of the middle class in society is a recurring theme in 1984. For example, the Trotsky-esque political treatise Winston reads within the story, "The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism", begins with a twist on Marxist historical materialism - while it recognizes the role of class conflict in human history, it asserts a transhistorical narrative of the eternal existence of three separate classes within society since "Neolithic times": the upper, middle, and lower classes. It is then asserted that it is the middle and only the middle class that is ever revolutionary, and that when it appeals to the lower classes it does so only to use them as a cudgel against the upper classes and never out of a genuine concern for their wellbeing. The treatise, idealistic as it is, provides little definition of these classes. The lower classes are described as "crushed by drudgery" and in a constant state of servitude that places them incapable of achieving political consciousness, something reserved solely for the upper and middle classes. The upper class is defined simply as the "directing" class, and the middle as the "executive" class. The identity of the middle class within Oceania is made clear: they are the "Outer Party", the white collar intelligentsia and managerial class which Winston and Julia belong to. One must assume Orwell viewed himself as a member of the middle class as well. If this section of the book is at all reflective of Orwell's own views (and to be clear no part of the book refutes this outlook,) then Orwell's rejection of Marxism-Leninism is rooted in his view of the vanguard party as simply a mechanism for the intelligentsia and bureaucrats to trick the stupid proles into overthrowing the bourgeoisie, rather than as a genuine means of proletarian liberation.

The politics of the Party are entirely idealistic in nature. "Big Brother" dominates through control of ideology and speech. The goal of Ingsoc, the ruling ideology of Oceania, is to make dissent impossible through the thorough alteration of language and the removal of words which could represent ideas that are not in line with Ingsoc, a process called "Newspeak". It is explicitly stated, however, that none of this ideological control is directed towards the proletariat, which is said to make up 85% of Oceania's population. The proles are not expected to learn Newspeak, they are not monitored by the telescreens, because as is stated quite frankly in the book, "the masses never revolt of their own accord, and they never revolt merely because they are oppressed." That this line is given by the villain of the story is unimportant, because the story never refutes it.

While Winston routinely repeats his belief that "hope lies in the proles", he is consistently met with scenes that challenge his faith whenever he winds up interacting with the proletariat. His conversations with proles reveal their total lack of concern with politics or history. He hears a crowd erupt into chaos and briefly hopes it's the proletarian uprising he is waiting for, only to find it's simply a riot over consumer goods. They are more than once compared to animals. While it is said in exposition that intelligent members of the proletariat who might end up fomenting dissent are eliminated, this is never actually depicted. We don't see Winston meeting with a single intelligent and politically conscious prole. The most intelligent prole he meets turns out to be a secret member of the "Thought Police". And so, the concept remains theoretical.

Winston is depicted as an ardent materialist, desperately defending the notion of external reality against deranged idealists who believe that through control of thought, control of reality becomes possible. But the world he lives in is not material. It is fictional, of course, but more than that, the fictional world described operates on idealistic principles even from Winston's own perspective. Winston's worldview is a faith based one, appealing not to any material basis for liberation but purely to emotion. It is love and the spirit of humanity that is the basis of freedom, and material freedom springs forth from it. Anyone who thinks otherwise is merely a trickster trying to control the masses.

Orwell rejected the material basis of history because he rejected the idea of a revolution on a material basis. To him, the revolution must be an ideological one, and the problem lie not in how society and the economy are organized but in the existence of hateful "authoritarian" ideologies governing the world. He believed the material basis was already here, that industry alone was the solution to material inequality, and so we must concern ourselves now only with the idea of equality and freedom, and from an abstract and universal viewpoint to boot. It is intolerable to him that a revolution be fought against an actual enemy in the real world. The problem is not that the capitalists are in control of the means of production, the problem is that the workers are too stupid to disobey them. A real revolutionary class would spontaneously throw off its own shackles through thought alone. It doesn't matter that Orwell was a lackey and a snitch, because in his mind he was freer and smarter than everyone else.

The bravery of Winston Smith was in recognizing the existence of a material reality that lies and propaganda could never destroy even while being tortured into believing such absurd notions as "two plus two equals five". But Orwell was never tortured into any of his incorrect beliefs. His incorrect beliefs stem purely from accepting the official narrative that he was fed and refusing to investigate its veracity for himself. Orwell's writing was used as propaganda against the designated enemy of the UK throughout the Cold War, adapted countless times in the forms of radio plays, TV shows, movies, and comic books. He never made an effort to actually travel to the Soviet Union to find out if what he was told about the country was true. All the other upper middle class "left-wing" intellectuals he hung out with seemed to be just as concerned as he was with the rising tide of "totalitarianism" and the supposed excesses of the Soviet Union, so why shouldn't he agree? He was in this regard no different than the Western "socialists" of the modern day who have no shortage of vitriol towards China or North Korea. Yes, he might performatively rail against chauvinism and nationalism, but only enough to ensure that he wouldn't be seen as a conservative. He still knew in his heart that his country was surely better than those barbarous communists in the East.

Yes Orwell was sexist and homophobic, and despite his best efforts he remained plagued by racist and antisemitic attitudes, but in addition to all that his books promulgated a view of the world entirely in line with British bourgeois values, which is why they were so eagerly used as propaganda by the British government. The Nazis were bad and the Soviets were bad because they were both authoritarian, and the differences between them were negligible and unworthy of mention. The references 1984 makes to the shifting alliances in Oceania, "we are at war with Eurasia" becoming "we are at war with Eastasia" and vice-versa, are most likely allegories for the shifting alliances of Britain at the time, how they viewed the Soviets as an enemy before the war, as an ally during the war, and as an enemy again once the war was over. Orwell viewed himself as above all of this simply because his view of the Soviets never changed at any point throughout this.

#communism #socialism #leftism #anti capitalism #politics #orwell #george orwell #1984 #ask

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iwacura · 2 months ago

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when we say RGU is about "the cycle of abuse", we refer to gender-based violence, particularly perpetuated through "romance" (or a manipulation of it), and even more particularly through incest and grooming—and i have no intention of erasing that because it clearly is the central theme of the show. but part of me wants to focous on the idea of RGU representing political cycles, too. on taking the word "revolutionary" by its communist meaning. because weirdly enough, the way the anime conceptualizes time, history/myth (if they can even be separated), eternity and cycles is so....marxist?

i can't stop thinking about utena as a girl born within a system that lives off of exploitation—akio's exploitation of anthy as the archetype, and all others who emulate it. and she is so desperate to liberate her from that exploitation, to revolutionize ohtori. she is full of drive and good intentions, but so were all the other duelists that came before her. all the others that upon reaching the last duel—the duel named Revolution—allegedly were told by akio give up your sword, abandon your aspirations to revolutionize the world, and instead join me as my bride at the top of the tower. and they did, only to last two or three years as akio's chosen princesses—like kanae (re: The Palace Perspective)—and then be discarded. like so many socialists that get convinced by parliamentary social-democracy and abandon communism for reformism, only to last what? a brief decade-long political cycle and then get replaced. the Podemos and Sumares. the Die Linke to be. all leftist parties in mult-party systems that claim to be moved by good intentions but end up achieving nothing because they don't pose an actual alternative to the bourgeois system—they've just joined it. and the cycle continues.

except with utena, the cycle breaks. because she refuses to participate in the exploitation, rejects the system, and leaves to find an alternative. she is utena, the revolutionary girl, in the communist sense. her actions destroy ohtori entirely—as the school's power is founded on convincing its prisoners it is the only real world. ohtori is a parallel to capitalism in this case (bear with me on this).

in the post-soviet era, after the existing alternative of a socialist state was crushed, there spread a general idea that. this was it. "there was no other alternative", as Margaret Thatcher's campaign motto kindly put it. socialism didn't work in the USSR, which means it will never work, and we are stuck with capitalism forever. this thesis is famously developed in Mark Fisher's Capitalist Realism, that picks up from Zizek and Debord's concept of the "perpetual present" (*). it is also the control device akio uses to get no student to leave, trapped in the stasis of adolesence forever, where they are easily exploitable. that is, until utena reminds them that an alternative is possible, that abandoning the exploitative system is feasible. you could say she restored class consciousness.

this ties into RGU's thesis of "eternity as something fake", too. in a way that this post explains better than i could:

"There is no such thing as something eternal" is reframed as a positive. eternity is Not Good. eternity is everything staying the same forever, never changing for the better. it's the opposite of revolution. it's what akio wants, perpetuating the system that benefits him at the cost of everyone else forever and ever. and no matter what utena might have thought, it is not what she wants. —transmascutena

"Perpetuating the system that benefits him at the cost of everyone else forever and ever" is just capitalism. and the relationships of abuse he subjects his students to should be understood as an iteration of capitalist relationships of production (not literally, as students aren't workers akio is stealing surplus value from. im just trying to say the dynamics of exploitation are very much the same im both cases). ohtori isn't eternal. ohtori is the opposite of revolution. capitalism is just the same. and utena's role within the story is to shatter it.

and there's also the whole double meaning of revolution RGU uses, that is also so post-soviet (or postmodern if you want to open the chronological window). revolution as change, and revolution as cycle. but aren't those contradictory? once upon a time they were, when marxist's viewed history as a linear succession of modes of production. slavery > feudalism > industrial capitalism > communism. a stable accumulation of progress, if you will. but pretty much no marxist stands by that conception today, except they very dogmatic ones. instead we see revolutions—revolutionary experiences—and a part of a cycle. things change, but the change is not final, not stable. we must continue to polish our methods, change again and again in the future. instead of linear history, a spiral. hopefully a staircase going up.

and we could interpret "nothing is eternal" in a different way too. marxian thought was based upon a specific idea of "man", a supposition of what "human essence" entailed—allegedly stable from the appearance of homo sapiens till the explosion of the sun—that guided Marx when envisioning the future under communism. and what is eternity if not that? an essence that remains unchanged no matter how far into the past or the future you go? post-soviet times have destroyed any belief in an unchanging "human essence". nothing stays forever. RGU shares this vision too, trying to chase eternity—or human essence—is futile. though i admit this point is more controversial philosophically speaking as some people still do consider "human essence" to be worth defining.

(*) and to warp it up, i bring up Debord because his Society of the Spectacle has definitions of history, spectacle, myth, eternity, cyclical time....so similar to RGU's. im not going to get into it because the audience for this post is already basically just. me. but maybe another time. here's a sneak peak from Theses 127 & 131 so yall get what i mean. read this while thinking about the Himemiyas as mythical (whether genuinely, or as akio's pretension doesn't really matter, because he weaponizes it either way) and using their magical role in the story to shape it world:

Eternity is within this time, it is the return of the same here on earth. Myth is the unitary mental construct which guarantees that the cosmic order conforms with the order that this society has in fact already established within its frontiers.

The masters who used the protection of myth to make history their private property did so first of all in the realm of illusion. In China and Egypt, for example, they long held a monopoly on the immortality of the soul; and their earliest officially recognised dynasties were nothing but imaginary reconstructions of the past. But this illusory ownership by the masters was the only ownership then possible, both of the common history and of their own history. As their real historical power expanded, this illusory-mythical ownership became increasingly vulgarised. All these consequences flowed from the simple fact that as the masters played the role of mythically guaranteeing the permanence of cyclical time (as in the seasonal rites performed by the Chinese emperors), they themselves achieved a tive liberation from cyclical time.

#revolutionary girl utena #rgu #rgu analysis #revolutionary girl utena meta #girl idk #i just wanted to talk about utena and marxism #if you have different conceptions of history and marxism than i do please don't attack me....talk to me first im nice #i don't get rageful over theoretical disputes and shit #👍

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xxxecuted · 8 months ago

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70s estonian inflatable toy deer

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typewritingyip · 6 months ago

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The Arcturus Missions

Part Twenty - Missions

Part Nineteen

———

Initially from an outside perspective, one might think that every country was rapidly ready to work together after the initial invasion of Earth. Those early days of 1984 certainly felt like the start of something changing. Dozens of events happened before September 17th that year.

83 people were killed in a mine explosion in Japan, the Los Angeles Raiders won the Super Bowl, Apple launch the Macintosh computer, the first untethered spacewalk happens from the space shuttle, US troops pull out of Beirut, a national drinking age is set in the United States, the Olympic Games open in Los Angeles while the Soviet Union boycotts, multiple booms are set off in multiple airports during the year, and NASA space shuttle Discovery takes its maiden flight.

Even the days around the initial sightings the world still turns; Australia abolishes the death penalty on September 5th, genetic fingerprinting is developed on September 10th, Prince Harry is born September 15th, the US Embassy in Beirut is bombed September 20th, and October 12th has an assassination attempt on British Prime Minister Margret Thatcher.

Just because the world was under attack by an entirely foreign enemy didn’t mean that everyone was ready to work together.

Japan, the United States, the USSR, Ireland, and China were the first five countries to have mech suits ready for deployment and they all were entirely different. Japan had redesigned theirs from the base suit under production to resemble familiar animation from the country's entertainment industry, very colorful and reassuring to their public. The United States initially had very militaristic designs, using majority military contractors to build the suits but painted similarly to war planes of different eras. In the USSR, they also were very militaristic but unlike the US kept coloring to a minimum, they used the citizens of the outer parts of the USSR to build the suits. Ireland wanted to quickly join the game, they quickly started to repurpose the disrepaired oil rigs from the North Sea. Lastly, China effectively was able to contract certain works from other countries to assist them in their manufacturing of suits, mostly from the USSR.

The world kept spinning even while under attack, but for most of the first attacks it was remaining in either country sanctioned waters or off the coasts of major cities. With the Cold War going on, each country was on its own unless it had a major ally with suits.

—

Sunstreaker sat at the window, frowning out at the glowing city, fidgeting with his hands. Breakdown and Sideswipe were asleep but Jazz was pacing nearby, “Do you think the meeting would be this long?” Already shaking his head, Jazz sighed, “Not for Hound and a few others. Command will still be in the meeting but not one Hound could hear.” Sunny’s fist hit the window and he stood, “Then where the hell is he? Do you think he could have crashed already?” Jazz winced and absently rubbed at his implants, “I don’t think the crash would happen this soon, no.”

The Crash (verb): the overtaxing and overuse of a mech suit to the point of biological deterioration.

He looked back out the window, “Then where the hell is he?” Jazz sighed a bit, finally sitting down, “He’s probably talking with other mechs from the meeting. If half the people I know were there then it’s entirely possible the poor man is stuck in a conversation with Tracks.” The look Sunstreaker gave Jazz had the man lifting his hands, “We’d have gotten an alert if anything really bad happened. Sunny, Hound is fine. You don’t have to worry.” Raking his hands through his hair, the curls stand on ends and Sunstreaker shakes his head, “He’s the only one with experience commanding a group like us, I mean Jazz, if something were to happen to him it would either be you leading us or Breakdown and he’s down for two weeks with a concussion.” Nodding slowly, Jazz sighs, “I’m sure he’s just at command asking far to many questions, look, once Prowler gets back we’ll have an idea of what’s going on.” Sunstreaker turned back to the window, lightly scratching at his implants, Jazz scowled, “Don’t mess with your hardware so much, we don’t have a medic out here and it’s a pain to try and salvage.” Jazz’s own tech was older than Sunstreakers’ and betting integrated.

That was one thing about Sunstreaker, his tech matched his brothers exactly but it had taken him longer to integrate it, and the skin around the hardware was always a little red. Even after passing compatibility testing, the body preferred to reject the hardware whenever it could, a person who didn’t have the strongest bond with their tech would deal with a lot more of the compatability side-effects, such as nightmares. If it wasn’t for Sideswipe, Sunstreaker would have never been a pilot and would currently be sitting in a jail cell back on Earth probably still awaiting trial.

Jazz moves over and rests a hand on his shoulder, “Hound wont have crashed if he is just starting to experience overuse symptoms. And even if he did, the mechs here in Iacon wouldn’t have just left him on the street.” The door pinged behind them and Sunstreaker looked over, deflating at the sight of Prowl whose face was staring intently at a data-pad, but another mech came in behind him, staring around in bewilderment, “Wow,” Bluestreak’s hand reached out to touch one of the suits just as Prowl’s hand smacked his, “Don’t touch their suits, the humans are probably asleep.” He glances up and pauses, staring at Jazz and Sunstreaker, “Or not.” Jazz was grinning, but Sunstreaker dove for his helmet, cringing at the smell as he pulled it on and started to adjust settings. Waving an arm, Jazz is able to speak up first, “Hey, welcome home!” Bluestreak was grinning, walking over as Sunstreaker finally gets his helmet to pipe in the translations, sighing as they feed him both audio and captions on the visor.

Mecha are able to cross the room in only a few strides, generally Cybertronians’ are slightly smaller than the average suit but they move just as quickly, next thing Sunstreaker knew was he was back in Bluestreak’s palm stumbling against it, “Damnit!” Sunstreaker desperately grabs at one of Bluestreak’s servos before Prowl moves over just as quickly, “Bluestreak, do not pick up any humans.” Sunstreaker just manages to get the microphone in his helmet on, a small speaker opening up on the side, “Bluestreak, this isn’t funny!” It was as if the room stopped for a moment, Bluestreak was frowning at Sunstreaker and looked to Prowl, “But he is so small and hard to see from far away.” Jazz was struggling not to laugh as Sunstreaker flips him off, “I can understand you now, asshole.” The room shook slightly as Prowl walked over, resting a hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder, “I’d recommend putting the human down before he starts to pull at your plating.” The result was Sunstreaker hitting the window sill surface from a few feet up and groaning, rolling onto his side briefly.

Prowl sighed deeply, “And they are fragile without their armor, like if we were to walk around without our plating, having exposed protoform.” Bluestreak winced and tried to reach out again but stopped, “I, I…” Sunstreaker slowly got back up, rubbing his arm painfully, “I’m alright Blue, but fuck, please be careful.” Jazz had already climbed for the window to Prowl’s open palm, then up his arm to his shoulder, “These guys don’t have the magnets that I do Blue, especially Sunny and Sides, their suits are too new and didn’t need those parts.” He leans back against Prowl, smiling as the mech moves to sit, already pulling out a tablet, “The humans will have to sleep soon, so whatever you wish to talk about I’d recommend doing so now.” They stare a glance before Bluestreak turns to Sunstreaker, offering his hand, “I’ll be careful.” Slowly and carefully, Sunstreaker climbed onto Bluestreak’s palm, sparing a glance towards the window before looking at Blue.

They didn’t go anywhere, Bluestreak just held Sunstreaker a bit closer, “I can hardly see you down there, without your suit.” Sunstreaker rolls his eyes, “That is such bullshit Blue and you know it, you just want to be able to hold an organic.” “Maybe.” They shared a smile, but Bluestreak shook his head, “No, I just, I want to say I was sorry for what happened. I didn’t realize.” Nodding, Sunstreaker fixed his helmet slightly, “That is kind of the point. We know there are some of your kind that don’t particularly like organics like us and even only part organics are seemingly shunned.” He sighed slowly, rubbing at his implants briefly, “Us pilots are very much leaning towards that inbetween.” Bluestreak nodded, keeping his hand still, “Well, I’m glad you’re on our side in this fight, Sunny.” It almost made him feel better, almost.

Looking back out the window, Sunstreaker sighed, “Do you know how the meeting with Hound went?” Bluestreak shrugged and josulted Sunstreaker a bit, “No, not really. I wasn’t in the meeting, why? Has he not come back yet?” Shaking his head, Sunstreaker rubbed at his face, “No and now I’m starting to worry, Hound is the kind of guy to push himself to the limit to protect people, and those people probably would be us.” With a bit of a nod, Bluestreak slowly sets Sunstreaker down, “Why else are you worried?” Glancing back, Sunstreaker stared at Bluestreak, “Cause he’s the only one who can actually lead us, keep us alive, and on mission.” He pauses for a moment, glancing towards the other room, “If he’s not okay and we fail, then I’ll have doomed my own brother to death.” Sideswipe might have made sure Sunstreaker got a place in the pilot program, but Sunstreaker got them on Arcturus One, “Oh.” Blue nodded and crouched to be at eye level with Sunny, “You’ll have to explain that to me at some point, I, I know organics age faster than we do. Sure, we die but not as quickly as organics.” Smiling sadly, Sunny turns back to the window, “I’m a young pilot Blue, I’ve got at least another twenty years in me.” And that made Bluestreak’s spark clench painfully.

—

Everyone was asleep when Hound returned, headache back to a painful degree that even the dimmed visor and diminished audio could no longer help. Mirage had been nice enough to help him back to the building but Hound had insisted on going up himself so as to not disturb the others. The door was even painfully loud when he went in.

The living room was empty, the door to the bedroom shut and the door to their makeshift garden also closed, meaning everyone should be either in bed or at least asleep. Everyone had a preference for where their suit would sit through the night and Hound shuffled as quietly as he could over to his designated space, easing himself to the floor before turning off his assistance suit and visual feed, sighing as he removed the pieces attached to his implants. The areas of his implants throbbed painfully. It took a lot longer than normal to get out of the mobility suit, wincing at every pinched connection, Hound knew this was the signs of overuse but hadn’t expected them yet. Though to be fair with himself, he’d never piloted a mech this long and consistently, ever.

Easing himself out of the piloting chair, he doesn’t even bother with opening the suit, instead shuffling over to the cot he has for missions, pulling off the barrier clothes pilots wear with the assistance suit. It was sticking to his skin both from sweat and blood. It takes another long few minutes to pull on the clothes laid out on the cot before falling onto it face first, trying to relieve the stress on his implants, pressing his face into his pillow Hound moaned painfully. Headaches, body aches, implant irritation; were all the first stage of overuse symptoms and they’d only get worse until the body adapted to the amount of use. Adapt or die.

Hound was laying face first on the cot, hands resting over the implants on the back of his head and sighed slowly, it was dark and comfortably warm. His head was pounding and it felt like his body had been hit by a bus, he was stiff and just wanted to sleep. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to get to sleep.

—

Staying asleep however was not in the cards for him, as only a few hours later something was hitting the chest of his suit. Hound groaned and dragged his hands over his head before getting up, moving over to the suit release and opening the front of the suit. Squinting against the flood of light, Hound kept a hand on his head, “Morning,” his voice was gruff with sleep and Sunstreaker was glaring, “What the hell.” Sighing deeply, he comes out of the suit and nearly falls, “God, damnit..” he sighs and looks back to Sunstreaker, “Yes?” “Where were you? What the hell happened at that meeting? Prowl wouldn’t say anything.” Sighing deeply, Hound rubs his face, “There is a bar in Iacon that plays music from earth.” That quickly dropped Sunstreaker’s sour expression, shifting to one of shock, “What?” Nodding, Hound rubs at his implants next, his hands came away with dried blood and he scowled, “There is a bar somewhere in Iacon that picked up on radio signals from Earth, they put them through some sort of mechanism to clear up the audio.” Stepping around Sunstreaker, Hound starts towards the bathroom, rubbing his hands on his pants, “It’s from thirty years ago, but still.” Sunstreaker shakes his head a bit, “So it’s the best hits of the eighties?” Giving a so-so gesture, Hound shrugs, “Sort of.” He goes into the bathroom, the door closing and locking behind him.

Sunstreaker scowled again, “That doesn’t explain what happened at the meeting!” His fist collides with the door before he turns away, heading over to where Sideswipe was setting up breakfast, he glances up as his brother approaches, “That sounded like a fun conversation.” Huffing, Sunstreaker walked over and picked up one of the bowls, scowling down at the fluorescent contents, “What is this?” Sideswipe was heating the fluorescent noodle like substance and shrugs a bit, “Not a clue, but Jazz made it for me before the last mission and it’s pretty decent. Just kinda tastes like potatoes.” Nodding a bit, Sunstreaker sits and starts to eat, shaking his head a bit, “I can’t believe him, the guy looks half dead.” Sideswipe hums, “Let the old men be old men, come on Sunny, just relax about it.” Scowling, he starts to shake his head, “I can’t relax about it cause you don’t give a fuck.” Sideswipe was fast, but Sunstreaker was faster, just dodging the bowl full of hot food.

Hound came back out of the bathroom to chaos, which he didn’t appreciate. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were on the floor, shoving at each others faces, Prowl was standing to the side with Jazz perched on his shoulder like a pirate, Breakdown was frowning down at the twins from the table and Bluestreak had appeared from god knows where. Rubbing his face for a moment, Hound takes a breath, “What the hell are the two of you doing!” Both twins shot up and pointed at each other, “he started it!” They shouted in chorus and Hound started towards them, “I don’t care who the hell started it, it’s over now. Get your helmets on, we aren’t leaving anyone out of this conversation.” His head went back to pounding, the shower having relieved it for hardly a moment. Glancing towards Breakdown, he nodded slightly as he too was giving signs of a headache. It took a moment for them all to get to their suits and get their helmets on, Hound wincing as it connects and Breakdown doing the same.

It was likely that his signs of overuse would be exacerbated with the concussion, Hound hoped silently that he’d follow the two weeks of rest order.

“So, do you all need those helmets to understand us?” Bluestreak bends down towards Sunstreaker, offering a hand carefully even as Sideswipe kicked at his wrist, “Don’t fucking touch him.” “Stop arguing, now!” Hound’s voice was loud but slightly strained, climbing up to the table. Everyone fell silent, Bluestreak helping Sunstreaker to the table, Prowl lowering Jazz to the surface and helping Breakdown up before Sideswipe, stepping back slightly to take a seat. Sighing, Hound rubbed his face a bit, swearing, “Fuck, my head is killing me and your arguing is not helping.” Everyone stayed quiet as he slowly sat down, “Firstly, as I briefly mentioned to Sunstreaker earlier this morning. Yesterday, Mirage saw that I was struggling with a migraine and brought me somewhere quiet and dark to rest for a little while. After that, I found out that the specific bar he took me to clears up intergalactic radio waves for entertainment.” he sighs a bit, smiling some, “They were playing music from Earth.” The reaction all happened at the same time, Jazz shouted, Sunstreaker grins, Sideswipe practically jumped for joy and Breakdown smiled, “From when?” Breakdown’s voice was quiet but distinct, “From about thirty years ago, they were playing a radio station out of Los Angeles.” Sunstreaker paused and nodded slowly, “We really are thirty lightyears from home.” There was a weight that settled over them, Jazz nodded slowly, “But we're alive.”

Hound nodded, adjusting his visor for a second, “We are and were out here for a reason, so that does bring up what was discussed in my meeting with command yesterday.” Jazz shifted a bit, “Hound, are you sure now is the best time to discuss this?” Nodding a bit, he pushes off the ground, “You all deserve to know what plans have been made.” Sunstreaker reaches out and holds his arm a bit, “It can wait till after you’ve eaten and taken something for your headache.” Shaking his head, Hound holds up a hand, “We’ve all got new assignments, separate from each other.” The silence would have been welcoming were it not so compressing, “What?” Sideswipe was slack-jawed, “The hell do you mean?” “I mean, we all are getting new assignments with different commanders for our safety and for the sake of Cybertron.” Sighing slowly, Sunstreaker let go of Hound, “Is this the cause of the overuse or cause of me being caught?” Hound shook his head, “It’s neither, we need to be at our best and the five of us fighting together is not it.” “That’s such bullshit, you’re having us separated because of Sunny.” Sideswipe moves over and shoves Hound, who shoves his back, “This isn’t about that! This is about keeping all of us alive and from killing each other, damnit!” Hound almost tore off his helmet just to throw it.

Instead he kicked one of their empty bowls across the room before turning on Sideswipe, “We aren’t made for following one pilot's orders and I sure as hell wasn’t made to be a commander 24/7, yet that is where we were currently standing.” He spreads his arms wide, “It’s only for three months, to see which works better. Sides, you and Sunny won’t be far from each other, your commanders are deployed together.” He holds up a hand, turning, “Jazz, you will be returning to your previous post under Prowl, it was recommended.” Jazz glanced back to Prowl with a smirk, “I’m sure it was.” Hound’s face almost burned, that look was certainly more than just a friendly one before he turned to Breakdown, “You’re still on rest for two weeks, but once that’s done, you will be under Megatron’s command with me, technically but we won’t be stationed together.” The twins were both glaring and Breakdown nodded a bit, Jazz almost looked lost in thought, “It’s only three months. If this doesn’t work out then we return to what we’ve been doing.” Sideswipe scoffs, “Oh yeah, like that’s been so great. Bluestreak trying to kill Sunny, you suffering from overuse, and Breakdown down and out with a concussion. Face it, you're in over your head.” Hound looked at him, clenching his jaw before looking at Sunstreaker, “You will be working under Ironhide with Bluestreak and a few people from the Primesgaurd. I hope while you’re there you learn to be more intelligent than your brother.” Sunstreaker winced as Sideswipe turned to gawk at Hound and started towards him, “Hound,” “Sideswipe, you’ll be working under Elita-One, it’s about time you came to understand the chain of command cause this shit ain’t cute.” He steps forward, pointing at him, “If this doesn’t cool your head, then you’ll be grounded and your mech will join the Odyssey in storage. Am I clear?” Sides mouth open and closed silent before Hound nodded and turned away, heading for the ladder, “I am going to take the rest of the day off to get rest, I suggest you all do the same, overuse is coming for us all and it’s coming fast.” He slides down the ladder easily.

—

“What the hell did I do to deserve that?” Sideswipe was pouting, scowling towards Hound’s mech which had been closed off for hours now. Jazz had left to go into Iacon with Bluestreak and Prowl, Breakdown had returned to rest as well, leaving the twins sat together on the window sill, staring out at the shining city, “I don’t know Sides, what could you have done to deserve that? Be serious, you shoved and insulted our commander.” Sunstreaker sighed, eating a protein bar and frowning down at it, “Of course he’s not going to put a lot of trust into you now.” Sideswipe scoffed and went back to repainting his assistance suit, “Who asked you?” Sunstreaker gave him a look and leaned back, “I don’t know and honestly, you’re being a bit of a dick right now.” He moves over and starts down the ladder, “I’m going to get some rest, I’d suggest you do the same. It helps with the side effects of overuse.” “I’m not suffering from overuse. I’m not the old man.” Sunstreaker stared at Sideswipe, at his twin, “Sides, we all are showing symptoms, you might want to check your implants, your bleeding again.” His feet hit the floor and he starts walking towards the bedroom, “That and being a bigger asshole than after the Bermuda mission.” “Fuck you.” Shrugging slightly, Sunstreaker went into the bedroom to get some rest.

Sideswipe reached up and touched at his implants, which were sticky with fresh blood and he sighed deeply, heightening irritability and aggression, one of the many stages of overuse. It really was coming for them all and now they’d be spread thin at best, separated from each other. Sideswipe through the sealed paint can across the room. He needed a drink but the first batch wouldn’t be ready for ages. He swore and laid back, staring out at Iacon.

———

A/N

Wow, that took a while for me to actually be able to sit down and write this. I probably won’t post another part till the New Year but we will see.

I want to thank you all for all your support and love, it has meant a lot to me. I can’t believe that we’re 20 parts into this crazy journey and it’s only just starting.

Tags!

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @childofprimus @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @dimencreasatlas @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @starscreamloverfr @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @blue-wrens @sirassban @astridkolch @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @osqindaxend @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc

And once again thank you to @keferon for this amazing AU! 💜

#transformers #tf mecha universe #mech pilot jazz au #the arcturus missions #maccadam #hound #breakdown #sunstreaker #sideswipe #prowl #jazz #bluestreak

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oftlunarialmoon · 1 year ago

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MOVIES ON YOUTUBE

Cats Don't Dance

The Borrowers

Osmosis Jones

Bratz Live Action Movie

Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer

Ugly Dolls

Old/B Horror Movies (scary warning)

Maya the Bee Movie

Sailor Moon S the Movie

Sailor Moon SuperS the Movie

Alpha & Omega: Journey to Bear Kingdom

Anastasia

Snow White

A Stork's Journey

The Ant Bully

Quackerz

Uncle P

I Am T-Rex

The Clique

Hoot

Pixies

Dan Vs. - The Wolf-Man

The Breadwinner

Just My Luck

Penelope

Twilight Zone: The Movie

Daisies (1966) (one of my favourite art films from Czechoslovakia in the pre-soviet era)

Into the Woods (2014)

Fantastic Mr. Fox

Sailor Moon (Original Japanese)

The Carol Burnett Show

Popeye Cartoon

Naruto (English Subtitled) (Subbed)

H2O: Just Add Water

The Dick Van Dyke Show

Hunter x Hunter (Subbed) (Subbed)

Ghostbusters

The Neverending Story

It Takes Two

Peanuts: Race for Your Life Charlie Brown

Thunder And The House Of Magic

Quest for Camelot

Adventures Of Shark Boy And Lava Girl

Arthur's Missing Pal

Ghost Hunters International

The Big Comfy Couch

Me, Eloise!

Kitchen Nightmares

Wow! Wow! Wubbzy

Death Note (Subbed) (Subbed)

Candid Camera

Flash Gordon

Street Fighter - The Animated Series

Hell's Kitchen

Captain Simian & the Space Monkeys

Hello Kitty

The Storyteller

The Weird Al Show

Treehouse Masters

Inuyasha (Subbed) (Subbed)

Care Bears: Grizzle-ly Adventures

Wow, I Never Knew That!

Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader

Bruno & The Banana Bunch

Care Bears: Welcome to Care-A-Lot

Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction

Patchwork Pals

ALF

Storm Chasers

Little Rascals Shorts

The Lone Ranger

All Dogs Go To Heaven

Baby Einstein Classics

Baby Einstein: The Sandbox

#agere class #agere classroom #agere daycare #agere school #agere #age regression #sfw agere #sfw littlespace #age regressor #sfw age regression #agereg #age dreaming #sfw little blog #agere blog #Ciao lovelies #Agere diys #Agere diy #Agere craft #Agere crafts

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spectrumspace · 1 year ago

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soviet era animation loves to have sounds and noises

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 2 years ago

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☈ your bones singing into mine ii

one - two

nikto x gen!bio-weapons engineer reader (no use of y/n) 3.4k words cw: honestly just the relationship being dysfunctional, also like warlord sugar daddy overtones, but that's just how this cookie is gonna crumble Nikto has swept you out of the darkness, and into an intact world burning full of ugly lights. He meets your every need as you work to create weapons to supply him an armory of shock and awe. He buys for you a place in Bruges, a rowhouse right on the water, and your only desire is a romantic dinner with him. He does not have it within himself to deny you.

Nikto brings you out into a world that is bright and burning, but mostly whole. He tells you that things are tied on a shoestring of balance, that any strong enough blow of breeze could tip the whole house of cards, and he has a look in his eyes that names himself typhoon.

He is one of the most complex and deeply locked men you have ever met in your life, and you have met a great many men with secrets that could turn cities into subatomic particles in a blinding flash of a second. He wants to father a new world, a savage paradise, and, yet, he holds you in the palm of his velvet-covered iron fist as his finest treasure.

Penthouses are cleared out for you–places high in the sky, in any number of cities, so far away from the ground and the dark. He pours money into your comfort like hemorrhaging, and he cares not that his funds bleed, because he can always dump more into the wound.

It’s a wound he wants to sustain, because he likes to see you clean, and comfortable, and sparking electricity as you work. He provides makeshift, mobile labs for you. Thousands upon thousands of dollars for computers, and programs, and security. Though he lifts you into the light, he makes you a small space of darkness, allowing you to run and return to your work.

He begins to call you Spider, or Pauk, depending on whether his English is dropping your name like a threat, or if his Russian is soft and trying to entreat you.

There is a place in Bruges, right on the water, that he pulls together for you. It is smaller than your other hideaways, cozier. Bulb-lit with warm wooden flooring and tall walls. He walks stiffly through the halls, watching for your reaction, and his shoulders relax when you turn from the window watching boats on the water to give him your cracked grin.

“It’s out of a book,” you say, “the buildings are such bright colors. How is this real?”

“It’s always been this way here,” he tells you. He shuffles a moment, bringing his clasped hands from his back to his front, before he adds quietly, “We’re glad that you…find it acceptable here.”

Surely he is remembering the blocs he grew up on, all the colorless brutalist construction from the Soviet era. Houses for workers, starvation in the streets. You wonder if his place had heriz rugs all over the floors, to insulate sound and cushion steps and provide color.

You press your fingertips into the cool glass, looking at him, wondering about him. You’d like to see his face, though he’s told you that it is a nightmare. You’d like to kiss him. You know he loves you, just as you love him.

“It’s perfect. I’m going to like it here,” you tell him, and your heart swells and patters when his shoulders raise a little bit, proud of himself for his pick. With his hidden face, you’ve become an expert in his body language. All his little tells become clear to you, the more time you spend with him.

He is slow with you, cautious. Not as if approaching a wild animal, he would never treat you with such base suspicion and wariness, but as if he is the animal, well-aware of exactly how powerful his bite is. He treasures you too much to damage you.

Such brutality is held within this many-faceted man, vast and damning. He is a gentleman though, through accident or practice, and he puts that hardwork into effect with you.

It causes you to make the first move most of the time.

“I want you to have dinner with me tonight,” you say, tapping your fingers against the glass, feeling the condensation cling to your fingerprints.

He shakes his head. “Your value is too high for us to allow you out of the flat, Pauk,” he says gently, misunderstanding, as if reminding you. There are so many beautiful homes he has carved out for you, but you’ve never stepped foot outside of them.

He thinks you want to, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The reality is that you are brimming with hatred at the fact it still stands. That your suffering was for nothing, and the apocalypse still lies dormant but rumbling, a stalled birth. You love your closed spaces and your blackout curtains that hide the world and your tall walls and bright lights.

“We can have something ordered and brought to you,” he continues, trying to soothe the blow that never landed.

A grunt of annoyance snaps out of your throat, hand pressing flat to the glass. “Nooo,” you draw out, turning to face him in full. “I want you all to eat here, with me. Only us, none of the guards making all that fucking noise with their heavy boots. And I want to pretend that we’re all just having a nice night. And there are no contagions or stadiums or belt-fed guns.”

In shame, his head drops a degree, arms tightening in front of him. The supple leather of his gloves creak. “Apologies, Pauk.” His head remains that one slice lower, but his eyes flicker up like a bird’s from beneath his rippy lashes. “We…” he pauses, trying to formulate the words, “we will put that together. For you. What do you want to eat?”

Your hand comes away from the glass, and you press your palms together like a prayer, holding the sides of your hands to your lips. “I want something bloody and buttery. Something good made by someone that doesn’t love me.”

A small noise like a laugh sounds behind his heavy mask, and his neck relaxes. It puts together a picture of thought: it’s a good thing we do not cook for you, then. “We will find something.”

Neither of you cook. It’s a sad reality. You were too built up for epidemiology and plague-practitioning to have the room or time to learn the skill, and Nikto readily admits that he’d long ago lost his sense of smell. “Nova gas,” he explained, funnily enough. “That was your grandfather’s work, yes?” It was. He and his team. You are a legacy leper-making, just like God and all of his followers.

The sun has settled fully in the city of Bruges, and the light of street lamps, the running lights of boats on the water, and fairy lights around shopfronts make the water glitter. It is warm here, with all the brick and cobblestone soaking up the yellow light, and for once you are fine with the curtains open.

Nikto has spoiled you rotten with clothing, all of it fine and soft and rich. You dress comfortably, beautifully, and wander the flat, looking over things leftover from past tenants, waiting on his return. He always leaves you with a guard when he is gone, and tonight it is a short but sturdy woman from Montenegro who does not speak. She sits on the small leather couch in the living room, reading a book with horses on the cover, rifle across her lap. You do not bother her, but you cannot wait for her to leave.

When Nikto arrives, it’s with yet another guard, this one in plainclothes, carrying two large paper bags in their arms. It’s always seemed funny to you that he just goes out in the mask, nightmare beneath it or not, and that people must have reactions in public. But, you don’t think Nikto travels anywhere that people would dare comment on it. He has lackeys for embarrassing, mundane duties.

He takes the bags from the second guard, and dismisses the woman on the couch, letting you approach to lock the deadbolts on the back of the door when they’re out. It is your comfort and your right, he will not interfere with it.

Meeting his eyes, you grin a cracked grin at him. “Smells good. What is it? What was the restaurant called?”

He makes another laugh-noise, looking skin-close to bashful. “We do not know. We sent Dejanović to get it, he knows the city.” He peers into the bag. “He said foreign dignitaries enjoyed the place. We don’t feel like that always speaks well to quality.”

You try to take the bag into your hands, but his arm tightens. He does not like you doing menial tasks. He likes it only when you are free to tend to your work and whims. It is much preferable to him that your needs are met, and he is glad to tend to those tasks when he is with you.

“If it’s all rot and garbage, we can make zakuski instead, and wash it down with vodka,” you tell him, swaying a little, hoping the promise pleases him. “Tahumi brought me a can of caviar, and even found a mother-of-pearl spoon for it.”

His eyes grow hard at the mention of Tahumi giving you a gift. That is another thing that heckles him. He does not like others knowing about you, much less providing for you. That is his honor, and an honor he thinks it is.

Your mouth starts to curl. “Don’t eat yourself with knots,” you instruct him, but his eyes only grow harder, his posture stiffer. “I wanted it, and Tahumi saw it, and he bought it. He did it to please you, because you are so here-and-there with your underlings. Your favor can’t be curried because it doesn’t exist.”

“They are warm, walking corpses, and nothing more,” he says, stone-solid, cold. “We don’t need them for anything more than catching bullets and carrying out orders. You are not a tool to buy their way into security. There is none, and you–you’re–”

He turns his head and breathes out hard. His body is held so tightly it paints pain on the walls behind him. His molars squeak as they grind together, trying to collect himself, but he is upset.

“Andryu,” you say, pulling his diminutives, trying to pluck the chords that will bring him back to you. You bend your body to swerve, attempting to capture his eyes. “Andryusha.”

There is a little break in the armor, a crack where you can push your fingers in, to find contact with him. There is a little light in his eyes. “We cannot allow you to be taken advantage of. Your wholeness is…” he trails off, struggling, and you provide him the territory to prowl, find his words. He turns and meets your eyes, and there is his passion. “Our last shred of warmth is you. If you are pained, or used, or discarded–it is a blow that would destroy the last human thing in us.”

And, here, your scant humanity answers his. You fold, slope, ease. You nod in agreement. “I know, Andryu, I do. But all of you know where my loyalties lie. You know I wouldn’t hesitate to find you if I felt targeted.” You want so horrendously to reach out and touch him, but you don’t. You have to allow him to initiate, otherwise he cannot handle it. “My lot is in your lot. I go where you go. Everyone else is a corpse that forgot to lie down and die.”

Using his language in ways that he understands it unlocks him to you. His gloved hand comes up, hovering just to the side of your jaw. But he doesn’t touch, he only traces the air in a line down the bone structure.

He allows—or, rather, you give him no in allowing you to stand in the kitchen as he unpacks your meals to plate. It could be call an awkward affair, if either of you had the social graces to register that feeling in your minds.

He’s taken his gloves off and swatted at your hand trying to take the paper bag for recycling, giving you a sharp look borne of the love he holds. Again, not allowed to lift a finger.

There are faded Cyrillic characters tattooed across his knuckles, the black ink bloated and faded to blue. SOS across three fingers: either spasi, otets, syna or Suki Otnyali Svobodu. Save me, father, your son. Bitches robbed my freedom.

He’s never told you which in specific, though he’s offered both as options. Tattoos are carved into so much of his skin, and he’s given you brief walking tours of them when he’s stripped down enough for them to appear. A warping on Russian prison tattoos, repurposed for the Spetsnaz.

Epaulets on his shoulders—horses die from work. Devils just below those, oskals, hatred of authority. ‘I Fuck Poverty and Misfortune’ in Cyrillic, riding his Adonis belt. A lighthouse on his forearm, yearning for freedom. His skin tells his story, hard-lived, a language known to few.

His plating skills are what cause him minor self-consciousness. He’s not an artistic man, and he has no eye for aesthetics. The blood-rare ribeyes are just placed and pushed to one side of the plate, crumbled blue cheese dumped artlessly on top. Creamed potatoes end up slopping over roasted asparagus, and he growls in his throat, frustrated. He is trying incredibly hard to make it pleasing. The more he moves it around, trying to be careful, the worse it looks.

He wouldn’t care if it was solely for him. His frustration is because you will not be eating something pretty. In his mind, the only things you deserve are pretty and perfect.

His hands stop fussing, resting on the edge of the counter, glaring down at the plates. “It looks like shit,” he renders his verdict. It sounds like he is considering throwing it away and ordering something else.

“Pelmeni look like shit. So does poutine. But it all tastes good, so we still eat it,” you push back. “No one eats shiny plastic or tinsel.”

He grunts again. “People eat shiny plastic and tinsel all the time, because they are fucking stupid.”

“If any of you are insinuating that any of us are fucking stupid, you’re being a fucking child.” Despite the content of your words, it is not said with heat. It is an olive branch, trying to reach him across the expanse of his dissatisfaction. You’re not sure you’ve made contact until his fingers start tapping on the counter, and he hums Krokodil Gena’s Birthday Song deep in his chest. He is calming, rectifying reality with himself.

After a few, long moments, he picks up the plates, nodding at you, and carries them to the dining table outside the kitchen. It is situated in front of a set of big picture windows that he honestly does not like you standing near, ever, but it is for the sake of the evening. He sets your plate down, and pulls out your chair for you, before he seats himself. There are already sets of silverware and water on the table. A bottle of vodka, and two small glasses to drink from.

You start by pouring two sips of vodka, offering him one. A toast falls out of your mouth, unthinking, and he clinks your glasses together in agreement. When you put your shot back, he hands you his glass, and you shoot that, as well. He has not removed his mask. He will not. But he overturns his glass next to yours.

It’s an odd affair, how the meal goes. Conversation picks up, on plans and your work, on the state of the world as it stands. That will run out, and you will both turn to other topics. Books, movies, cars. Oh, Nikto has such a soft spot for cars–he could talk about them from dusk until dawn. Luxury cars, supercars, performance and rally cars, working vehicles, even an astonishing breadth of consumer cars. He has opinions that stretch the globe, and you soak it up like a dry sponge.

The oddest thing is that you eat, and he does not. He keeps his hands resting on either side of his plate, guarding it as if he was a prisoner, but he does not once touch his silverware. He won’t eat in front of anyone. He can’t, not without taking the mask off. It’s something he didn’t have to explain to you, you just understood it by studying his patterns. It’s something that made him even softer toward you.

You finish, part of your steak left–you intend to slice it up and put it on some grilled crusty bread with piles of caramelized onions later–resting your fork and your knife on the edge of your plate. “That was good. Despite the dignitaries and dog shit. I want a copy of their menu, to tear up and eat bit by bit. I want all of you to have more dates with me, this one dripped romantic. All the seams were splitting up, and it went drop by drop by drop.”

“Date?” he queries, looking at you across the table as he reaches for your plate.

“Date.” You nod once, emphatically.

He shudders, smothering something that sounds like a sigh, averting his eyes. “We…will make sure there is a menu for you, next time,” he starts, unphased by your request. “Roses, if you like.”

You shake your head. “No use for roses, they wilt and die. Flowers all-wilted smell like the dark parts of the bunker, and my stomach eats and eats away at me because of that smell.” You send an apologetic look across the table, thinking. “I’ll take tokens in trinkets. Whenever you bring me jewelry, I don’t take it off.”

As if in example, you pull up your sleeves, showing him the bracelets he’s brought you, left for your discovery on desktops and dressers. Next, you tug at your collar, showing him a pile of necklaces.

His fingers twitch, looking at you helplessly. Not even he can prevent the swallow that goes down his throat, when he sees that you hoard the fine things he brings back for you.

Another long moment passes, and he is hoarse when he agrees, “Jewelry. We will bring you jewelry, then.”

In as much of a rush as you’ve ever seen him, he collects your dishes, and the bottle of vodka, storming back through the kitchen door. It doesn’t latch behind him, and you know he will be a while. It feels dirty, destructive and found and deceitful, but you sneak up to the crack, wanting to watch him.

His back is turned, his mask removed. Hair so deep in darkness it shines white under lights sticks up from his head at all angles, some of it missing from the side of his skull, along with an ear. He eats quickly, in clipped bites, gorging himself, stopping only to tip back the vodka bottle. It’s almost an ugly display, brutal necessity, and you know as well as you know the own pounding of your heart that he is uncomfortable, that he hates this. He hates to be bare.

You cannot see his face, and you would not try to see it. You want to see it someday, and that will only happen when he is ready to show you. You will not steal that freedom from him. You will not sneak looks when he is unawares. It is the same courtesy he has afforded you, and you are hellbent to pay it back in kind.

With that prickling your skin, you back away from the door, allowing him his needs.

When he returns, sitting next to you on the couch, he is warmed-through and softened by the alcohol and food. He takes hold of your ankle, pulling it into his lap, rubbing the knob of your bone with his bare fingers. His masked head tips back, resting against the back of the couch, and he heaves a heavy sigh.

Your stomach clenches, and your heart races. There is so much love between the two of you, so impossibly massive that it cannot ever be feasibly dealt with, and that is something you are fine with when his eyes meet yours in a crinkled smile.

Perhaps your union will kill the world as it stands, but you don’t particularly mind. His hands are warm against your bones, reaching deeper than any other human possibly could, and he looks at you as if you are his only purpose in life, even if that is not true.

“Andryusha,” you greet him quietly, turning your leg in his touch so he can have more skin.

Another small noise, pleasure, and he rubs deeper, followed by a soft, heartsick request, “Say it again, Paukya.”

#nikto #nikto x reader #cod nikto #mwii nikto #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod mw x reader #my work

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