#The erasure of his sexuality

[svvy2003]

Rod Reyes- DJATS. (found on Pinterest) Also,that second to last photo is so funny somehow. Reaction pic material.

[svvy2003]

Fr. Amazon,there better be a deleted scene acknowledging his sexuality. He's literally canonically gay.

i'll never forgive them for making rod's 'but thats a story for another time'.

i want that story. n o w

[thenecromantic]

Look. I'm all for fans shipping whoever they want. But when people make a gay character completely straight... it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. There isn't that much uncensored LGBTQ+ representation as it is without people erasing their sexuality in favour of a hetero ship for your fan fics and art.

You can argue WWX is bisexual if you want (I think there's clear evidence it's compulsory heterosexuality, but that's my personal opinion I got from the novel) but either way, deleting that attraction towards men, his actual queerness, is just wrong.

[deancasforcutie]

romantic comedy fluster <3

OR, they made the character with a love-em-and-leave-em womanizer manwhore persona actually get adorably overwhelmed/in awe at others' romantic expressions. and they made him BISEXUAL 💗💜💙

[beanghostprincess]

Saying Sanji is "straight-washed" might be the funniest thing in the whole world because yes, his character is heavily queer-coded and reflects queer experiences, and no, it is not about his sexuality. It's about his gender. You got it a bit wrong, bestie.

[somepancakeonline5377]

I wish all people who ship/sexualize canon/heavily implied AroAce characters a very DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE

[femmeloverboy]

People are so weird about Neil's aroaceness, I'm so sick of it 😭

[twigstarpikachutroll22]

I will never not be absolutely furious about the fact that one of the Big Three tumblr sexymen is canonically aroace. And most people who are not into the show he’s from probably don’t even know that and would be surprised to find out because the most known thing about him outside of that fandom is the fact that he’s a tumblr sexyman. The fact that people can know a character is canonically asexual and STILL sexualize him to THAT degree is absolutely disgusting.

[andrwgarfields]

how is it do haters want joe to address the whole “erasure of jewish identity” WITHOUT GIVING AWAY HIS CHARACTERS IDENTITY WHICH IS NOT EVEN CONFIRMED YET?

also fans never defended him saying he “doesnt know about it” fans mentioned that what he said was addressing the homophobia which is very much valid, way to take his comments out of context :D also if you dont like him then…dont bother keeping track of what he says lol

[asterdeer]

the notes on the queer sam poll are so interesting (derogatory) because the straight sam truthers mostly say some variation of “sam has never fucked or wanted to fuck a man in his life” whilst queer sam truthers are mostly mentioning asexuality/aspec identities, trans/nonbinary headcanons, and trauma and identity struggles. which is to say that of course the people in the poll who actually give a shit about sam winchester are (in general) the people who have internalized the idea that “queer” is a much broader, nuanced thing than just saying “he doesn’t to want to fuck dudes.” of COURSE. and i will never understand how Loud people love to be about hating sam so much.

[kirkenovak]

Honestly, people should wonder who Bob is. He’s odd, Thunderbolts New Avengers were group-hugging him, he lives with them… who is he? People have theories, people have ideas, people have memes. They think he’s the boyfriend of each of them. John is appalled because he’s married, damn it! (“Aren’t you in the middle of a divorce?” “But we are talking and we are working on it” “she moved in with another guy, John.” “We are working on it.” “Also Lena should be the one most offended since it’s a literal erasure of her sexuality.” “What about my sexuality? I’m straight!” *everybody laughs*)

Except then Sam Wilson and other Actual Serious Heroes Propervengers With No New At The Front and No Z At The End come in to check the madhouse and look at Bob and ask who he is and everybody visibly panics. Because no one can know, no one should know. Sam becomes more and more suspicious so John - who was literally just sent a John/Bob conspiracy theory board by Ava - blurts out “he’s my boyfriend!”. Record scratches. The pause lasts three full eternities. (“Your…” “boyfriend. Don’t tell my wife! Ex wife. I’m divorced.”) And Sam buys it because if there’s one person who’d have a secret boyfriend that no one can know about that would be John; ex military, all American Rockwell family reject, freshly divorced, just coming to terms with his sexuality. Not ready to publicly come out. Team desperate to help him out and cover for him. Yeah. Ok. They get it. They all buy it. (“Ok John but you really shouldn’t keep a civilian around here” “I live here! With Bob. So, you know.” “K”)

And then unfortunately the Other Avengers (The Proper Avengers? The On Brand Avengers?? The Capvengers???) decide to stay in the AvengerZ tower for at least a couple of long long long days and Bob and John have to pretend to be boyfriends. Share a room. Share a bed. Surprise! Thunderbolts New Avengers 2 is actually a comedy of errors Rom-com!

[ellipsus-writes]

Ellipsus Digest: March 18

Each week (or so), we'll highlight the relevant (and sometimes rage-inducing) news adjacent to writing and freedom of expression.

This week: AI continues its hostile takeover of creative labor, Spain takes a stand against digital sludge, and the usual suspects in the U.S. are hard at work memory-holing reality in ways both dystopian and deeply unserious.

ChatGPT firm reveals AI model that is “good at creative writing” (The Guardian)

... Those quotes are working hard.

OpenAI (ChatGPT) announced a new AI model trained to emulate creative writing—at least, according to founder Sam Altman: “This is the first time i have been really struck by something written by AI.” But with growing concerns over unethically scraped training data and the continued dilution of human voices, writers are asking… why? 

Spoiler: the result is yet another model that mimics the aesthetics of creativity while replacing the act of creation with something that exists primarily to generate profit for OpenAI and its (many) partners—at the expense of authors whose work has been chewed up, swallowed, and regurgitated into Silicon Valley slop.

Spain to impose massive fines for not labeling AI-generated content (Reuters)

But while big tech continues to accelerate AI’s encroachment on creative industries, Spain (in stark contrast to the U.S.) has drawn a line: In an attempt to curb misinformation and protect human labor, all AI-generated content must be labeled, or companies will face massive fines. As the internet is flooded with AI-written text and AI-generated art, the bill could be the first of many attempts to curb the unchecked spread of slop.

Besos, España 💋

These words are disappearing in the new Trump administration (NYT)

Project 2025 is moving right along—alongside dismantling policies and purging government employees, the stage is set for a systemic erasure of language (and reality). Reports show that officials plan to wipe government websites of references to LGBTQ+, BIPOC, women, and other communities—words like minority, gender, Black, racism, victim, sexuality, climate crisis, discrimination, and women have been flagged, alongside resources for marginalized groups and DEI initiatives, for removal.

It’s a concentrated effort at creating an infrastructure where discrimination becomes easier… because the words to fight it no longer officially exist. (Federally funded educational institutions, research grants, and historical archives will continue to be affected—a broader, more insidious continuation of book bans, but at the level of national record-keeping, reflective of reality.) Doubleplusungood, indeed.

Pete Hegseth’s banned images of “Enola Gay” plane in DEI crackdown (The Daily Beast)

Fox News pundit-turned-Secretary of Defense-slash-perpetual-drunk-uncle Pete Hegseth has a new target: banning educational materials featuring the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. His reasoning: that its inclusion in DEI programs constitutes "woke revisionism." If a nuke isn’t safe from censorship, what is?

The data hoarders resisting Trump’s purge (The New Yorker)

Things are a little shit, sure. But even in the ungoodest of times, there are people unwilling to go down without a fight.

Archivists, librarians, and internet people are bracing for the widespread censorship of government records and content. With the Trump admin aiming to erase documentation of progressive policies and minority protections, a decentralized network is working to preserve at-risk information in a galvanized push against erasure, refusing to let silence win.

Let us know if you find something other writers should know about, (or join our Discord and share it there!) Until next week, - The Ellipsus Team xo

[boreal-sea]

Transfeminism & Transandrophobia/Transmisandry

You know what, I'm angry about "transemasculation" too.

First, no, outside parties do not get to create terms for marginalized groups they are not part of. That's a HUGE red flag. It's an even bigger red flag when you remember that one of the major problems transmascs deal with is erasure! So not only did an outsider - a trans woman - try to create words for us, she erased the words we came up with for ourselves. It is incredibly patronizing and, frankly, infantilizing - which, surprise surprise, is one of the many prejudices transmascs have to deal with.

Secondly, as many others have said, it enormously flattens and minimizes the true extent of the multiple kinds of oppression transmascs face. It makes the focus "emasculation", as if the primary concern of trans men is other people minimizing our manhood.

I wish.

As any transmasculine person will tell you if you actually talked to one, transmascs face a multitude of intersecting forms of oppression, including but not limited to:

Sexism

Misogyny

Misandry

Racism

Transphobia

Homophobia

Infantilization

Erasure

And more!

And yes, misandry is on that list. Misandry means a hatred of men and masculinity and things associated with men. It does not mean "systemic oppression of men". Misandry becomes a form of oppression when manhood/masculinity intersects with other identities. Feminists of color such as bell hooks and Kimberlé Crenshaw have spoken about this extensively.

It should be common sense for modern feminists to acknowledge that when manhood intersects with transness, it forms a new axis of oppression. This is something any transfeminist should know... if they are speaking in good faith. Unfortunately, that was not what the trans woman who coined the term "transemasculation" was doing. She was not speaking in good faith. She did not want to listen to transmasculine voices, she wanted to silence us.

When a trans man is refused gynecological care because he has an M on his driver's license, that's not emasculation. That's medical transphobia. When a nonbinary transmasculine person is refused a hysterectomy because they might "change their mind" about wanting children, that is not emasculation, that is medical misogyny.

As for misandry: when transmascs are told that testosterone will make us angry and violent, that it will make us ugly, that it will turn us into sexual predators, that is definitely not emasculation. It is misandry. When trans gay men who date cis gay men are described as "predatory cis women trying to force conversion therapy on gay men", that's multiple forms of bigotry including homophobia, transphobia, transmisandry and more. Trans men of color also face misandry in unique forms, and you should go listen to their voices about it.

To reduce all of this to "trans men are mainly concerned with being emasculated" is, honestly, insulting. It is beyond insulting - it is, in fact, transandrophobia.

[psychicwavementality]

Forcing Tsubaki to be transfem is not the progressive, "better", or more "politically correct" reading you think it is

Look.

I'm genuinely tired of people trying to canonically rewrite or force Tsubaki to be a trans female when he's explicitly written to be gender non-conforming, comfortable with what is traditionally seen as feminine, and open with expressing himself without conforming to rigid masculinity in Japan.

Making him a trans female is not the queer activism you think it is. Tsubaki is comfortable being a gender non-conforming man. Erasing his identity by forcing him to be a trans girl defeats his entire message of how men can be comfortable in their own bodies, even if they enjoy things not associated with their societal gender. I don't think making Tsubaki go to an all-boys school if he IDs as a trans female is any good writing either.

Forcing him to be transfem also completely erases the meaning of this scene:

They never say that lipstick is a "girl's thing", that makeup is a "girl's thing", that liking "cute and pretty things" (paraphrasing) is a "girl's thing". Because that's the whole point! Things you like don't need to be gendered! You like what you like, you can be what you are and break gender norms, you are your identity and nobody can take that expression from you. That's the fucking essence of being queer!

"Why do I like this? Normal boys don't like it" / "CUZ YOU'RE A GIRL!!!!" <- this is not the fucking progressivism you think it is!!! You are forcing him into the gender binary of being a female when he sees himself as a queer, gender non-conforming gay man!!!!

He doesn't see himself as a woman. He still accepts that he loves Umemiya. He is comfortable with both his sexuality and gender expression.

Tsubaki literally says he likes "cute and pretty" things, not "girly and feminine" things. He doesn't gender what is traditionally and societally framed as "feminine" because he isn't bound by the hierarchy of gender expectations.

People always say they want more gender non-conforming characters, that they want more men who are comfortable with traditionally feminine attire, but y'all couldn't even respect Tsubaki's identity and the outlying existence of Japan's otokonoko culture as a whole 🥸 Quoting Niisato's interview isn't a cop-out to be openly transphobic. Insisting Tsubaki is transfem does more queer erasure to his character as a gnc and openly gay man.

Like, sure, after you're done reading this and you still insist he's transfem, it means no matter what people say you're not going to change your mind, so go ahead with the queerphobia lol. Speaking as someone who's transneu and genderqueer myself, trans and gnc experience come hand in hand, I understand why people would read him like that even though it blatantly goes against what is established as his character, but I digress. But that doesn't excuse taking away Tsubaki's defiance of labels. That doesn't justify calling Niisato's writing of Tsubaki as a censored version of transness, or a refusal to commit to writing a trans character.

Tsubaki is an intentional and well-written character, he expresses everything he wants to express. He isn't a 'half-assed trans character' that Niisato didn't commit to, he is who he presents as on the tin: gnc, queer, and gay.

"He wants people to call him big sis" -> the whole concept of drag culture is tossed out of the window, I guess. And I suppose genderqueer people don't exist anymore. Anyone can do drag, but plenty of cisgender & queer men also don a drag queen/hyperfeminine identity when dressed up. That doesn't make them any less of a man. That doesn't make them a trans woman. You can also call girl 'dude, bro' and boys 'girlie'... does that change their gender? No lol 🥸

Western fandom has a serious problem of erasing people who present as gender non-conforming by forcing them to fit the binary of male/female. It's like the inverse of toxic masculinity: "this male/female character likes feminine/masculine things, so he/she must be a girl/boy!" <- how is this progressive? How is this better writing for Tsubaki? How is forcing him into another rigid box good for his character?

Let Tsubaki be a gay and genderqueer man, omfg. Gendering the things he likes into 'girly' and by default making him transfem is just an assassination of his character.

There's plenty of transfem anime characters out there that deserve your love. But Tsubaki—and on that note, all the otokonoko characters out there—are men who aren't restricted by the tight binary of gendered items/hobbies.

For the love of media literacy, please accept that men can be men while liking (unnecessarily-gendered) 'feminine' things, and in that vein, it's not that you like "girl's stuff" as a man—you like it because you like it.

Make-up, clothing, sparkly things, and long hair aren't gendered as 'feminine' to Tsubaki, even if he accepts that it is traditionally liked by girls. He likes it and that is it. That is final. He likes it so he wears it, he is honest and true to who he wants to be.

[societyfolklore]

Kuritsa

Title: Kuritsa

Pairing: Winter Solider! Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Female Reader

Summary:  You life has been stolen from you now held captive by HYDRA for breeding purposes, paired with the Winter Soldier. You dreamed of freedom.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: ::Explicit Content:: 18+, Minors DNI, Dub-con/Sexual contact initiated under coercion, programming, and captivity, Sexual Assault/Breeding Context (themes of being used as a vessel), Depictions of Violence and Blood, Brainwashing chair, memory erasure, Imprisonment/Captivity, Psychological Trauma, Mind Control/Programming, Sedation/Physical Helplessness, Dehumanization, Dark Sexual Content, blurring trauma and craving, Smut, Unprotected Sex (DONT DO THIS) ...angst..

A/N:  fic inspired by Bo Burnham's "The Chicken." – In honor of April fools day... well I had the idea I'd post it than.. BUT THIS ISN’T A JOKE FIC.. so to be safe its getting posted now (Yes, technically its April 1st where I am.. But yeah..just.. DONT JUDGE)

You always heard him first. It was the sound that woke you up. A jagged scream, animalistic and raw, that tore through the sterile silence of the compound.

The screams were muffled through the walls, but they still split through you like wire dragged over raw skin. Wet, strangled, inhuman. They had him in the chair again. You knew it by the rhythm- shouts cut off mid-breath, followed by silence. Then the electric hum. Then the screaming again. Over and over. Mechanical. Precise. Cruel.

You flinched every time. Not because it was him. Because you remembered.

The same chair. The same straps. The same cold leather biting into your spine. The sting of the restraints as they tightened around your wrists. The stench of melted wires. The taste of your own blood from where you bit your tongue just to keep from screaming like that.

The same blank faces leaning over you, muttering notes while they pulled you apart neuron by neuron. Probing. Recording. Smiling.

You used to fight it. Kick. Spit. Bite.

That was before.

Then, you began mumbling names into the dark; yours? Someone else’s? A place with sun? The owner of the voice that laughed? The notes of a song you couldn’t quite remember? They were shadows now. Fragments. Ash in your mouth.

Your cage was damp. The walls sweat in summer, froze in winter. Mold crept along the ceiling. You slept curled, knees to chest, like a bird with clipped wings. Sometimes, your shoulder blades ached like phantom wings were trying to burst free.

They called you that sometimes.

“Back in your cage, little bird.”

Sometimes, you thought if you stared long enough at the rusted metal grate in the ceiling, it might dissolve. That maybe you'd float right up through it like smoke, disappearing into some unreachable sky. You used to imagine what that would feel like weightless, free. As if your body would just melt away, and your soul could slip between the bars like vapor. But you never did.

There was no sky. No smoke. Just the walls. Just the dark. Just the screams.

And him.

You would’ve clawed their eyes out if you had the strength. Some days, you tried. Weak swipes, trembling fists. They laughed. Sometimes they hit back. Sometimes they didn’t need to. Just dragging you down the corridor was enough to remind you what you were.

Your life was hell: invasive tests, sterile rooms, long needles that never seemed to stop. You were monitored constantly. Recorded. Measured. Bled. Injected. Re-injected. Burned. Frozen. Made to run until your legs buckled. Made to scream until your throat bled. They treated your body like a blueprint and a battlefield all at once.

Then they’d toss you into his cell when it was time nothing was said. Just the click of the door. The shove between your shoulder blades. The sound of it locking behind you.

And him. Already there. Still. Watching. Waiting.

The Winter Soldier didn’t beat you. Didn’t growl or leer or curse. He didn’t speak unless instructed. He mounted you like they told him to, like it was a drill, like your body was just another mission to complete. Another task in the protocol. Like you were a sheath. A target. A breeding container.

And still you preferred him to them.

You had a warped affection for the Winter Soldier. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was that he didn’t make it worse. Maybe it was the way, just once, he touched your face after. Or the way he sometimes hesitated at the door.

You didn’t know what it was. You only knew it was the closest thing to gentleness left in your world.

You could still taste the metal in your mouth from the bit they used to hold your jaw still. It haunted you; cold and tangy, sharp as betrayal. The phantom pressure of it still made your teeth ache, your jaw clench in your sleep. You had bitten down on it so hard once, a molar cracked.

Your cell smelled of bleach and old blood, the kind of stench that lived in your skin even after they hosed you down. The floor was always damp, the kind of damp that seeped into your bones and never left. Mold crept in the corners like it knew no one would care to clean it. The walls whispered in the dark, a constant hum of pain soaked into the concrete, voices of other girls who didn’t last long enough to be named.

You dreamed of green places, warm hugs, kind smiles. Sometimes, a soft bed. A blanket that smelled like flowers. A kitchen table. Your fingers curled around a mug of tea. A dog barking in the distance. Sometimes, you thought those dreams were real, like they weren’t just fragments of a life someone else lived. Maybe a life you had once. Before.

HYDRA guards mocked you constantly. Their voices were oil-slick and cruel, rehearsed jokes to entertain themselves while you wilted behind bars.

“Back in your cage, little bird.” “Don’t break her- we’ll need her eggs soon.”

Sometimes they laughed when they said it. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they said it softly, like they meant it as comfort. Like you were a thing, not a person. A vessel. A hen.

You were underfed. Frail. Your ribs showed when you breathed. But their mistake was thinking that made you weak. They saw hollow cheeks and shaky legs and thought you’d given up.

But inside you, something still burned.

Because one day, when they came for you, you fought.

~#~#~#~#~

When the moment came you didn’t think. You just moved.

The second the cell door creaked open, something ancient and wild ignited in your blood. You exploded forward, driven by instinct, by rage, by a raw, primal need to live. A scream- feral and guttural- ripped from your throat as you slammed your elbow into the nearest guard’s neck with a satisfying crack. He dropped like a stone, choking.

Another guard lunged, but you caught him mid-motion, grabbing a fistful of his uniform and smashing his face into the concrete wall so hard the sound echoed like a gunshot. A third grabbed your arm, but you twisted under it with a snarl, your fingernails gouging deep furrows into his cheek, hot blood spraying across your face.

There were shouts. Alarms. The buzz of static in radios. Boots thundered behind you, but you were already gone, barefoot, bloodied, sprinting down the corridor like a bullet let loose. The red emergency lights strobed across the walls as your shadow leapt and flickered with every step.

You Ran, You flew.

The thing they put in your veins, the one they’d whispered about while jabbing you full of needles and watching you writhe. It surged now. It made your muscles coil and spring, made you faster, harder to catch. Not like the others, maybe. But enough.

You hurled your body into a security door, shoulder-first, and it gave way with a scream of twisted hinges. It slammed against the far wall, denting metal. You stumbled, caught yourself, kept going.

Footsteps thundered behind you. Shouts growing louder.

You took the corner too fast and your bloodied feet slipped on the polished floor. You crashed into the wall, pain flaring down your spine. But you didn’t stop.

Another door. Locked. You threw yourself at it. Again. Again.

It buckled. You screamed, the sound inhuman, your throat raw.

You weren’t running anymore. You were escaping. You were breaking through.

And still, behind you, they came.

The world outside was warmer than you remembered- oppressively so, like it was pressing down on you, trying to smother the panic clawing through your ribs. Pine needles slashed at your legs, carving sharp little welts into your skin. Branches whipped across your face, drawing blood, blinding you in bursts of green.

The trees blurred past you, but your vision pulsed with black spots at the edges. The air seared down your throat, each breath like swallowing knives. Your lungs burned. Your knees screamed. Your bare, bloodied feet hit roots and rocks, tearing skin, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Somewhere behind you- closer than before- voices shouted. Dozens of them. Radio static barked out garbled commands. Dogs barked. Boots thundered. Gunfire cracked so close it popped your ears. Bark exploded from a tree to your left. The trunk shattered near your ribs. A bullet.

You pushed harder.

You were being hunted.

Your legs were shaking. You weren’t sure if it was pain or adrenaline keeping you upright. Something hot was dripping down your shin. Your vision swam.

But you didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

And then

The trees broke.

A road.

Blacktop. Screeching tires. You stumbled forward, half-falling onto the guardrail. Horns blared. The scent of exhaust and heat and rubber filled your nose.

Across the road, you saw it.

A meadow. Vast and wild, stretching endlessly beneath a sky smeared with lavender and gold. The grass was green and thick, heavy with dew that sparkled like glass in the fading light. Wildflowers swayed- violets, daisies, yellow bursts of something unnamed. The breeze danced through them, carrying the soft hush of the earth breathing.

Above, birds wheeled through the sky, dipping and soaring, their wings catching the sun like flashes of silver. Everything here was alive. Unashamedly, impossibly alive.

You remembered green places, warm hugs, kind smiles. Fingers threaded through your hair while someone hummed a lullaby. The feel of warm earth between your toes. Laughter carried on the wind. Someone calling your name,  not the one they gave you here, but the one that belonged to you before.

For a moment, the world tilted. Something inside you ached so sharply it stole the air from your lungs.

This meadow wasn't a fantasy. It was a memory.

You moved, climbing over the low barrier, the rough tarmac biting into your feet, still wet and blood-slick from the forest floor. Each breath in your chest came sharp and ragged, like your lungs were tearing with every inhale. The roar of engines filled your ears, deafening, and the scent of rubber and oil churned your stomach.

“Kuritsa.”

You froze.

His voice. Low. Steady. From behind you. From the tree line.

“Come back.”

You turned.

The Winter Soldier stood there, framed by shadows and pine. Expression unreadable. Gun lowered but not discarded. His eyes locked on you like he was tethered- like if you moved too far, something in him would snap.

“Don’t fly, little bird,” he said, quieter this time. Almost… pleading. Even at this distance you could hear him. “They’ll clip you again.”

A choice..

You looked back.

The meadow. The other side. Golden, glowing. Wind stirring the wildflowers like hands reaching out to welcome you home.

Your head jerked back and forth, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Left. Right. Left. Right. The cars flew past like metal beasts, one after another, their horns screaming. Your ears rang. Your knees shook.

There- a gap. A breath. A beat of silence in the thunder.

You lunged.

Rubber screeched behind you. A side mirror clipped your arm and spun you halfway around, but you caught yourself, pushed forward, legs burning.

You ran.

You ran like you never had before.

Like your soul depended on it.

You barely heard the gunfire anymore.

You dodged between honking cars, the wind of a speeding van nearly toppling you sideways. Someone screamed from a vehicle, a horn blared, a voice cursed- but none of it registered. Your focus tunnelled to the other side.

You leapt the last guardrail and your feet hit the soft earth of the field- mud, grass, roots all giving beneath your weight. The ground didn’t hurt. It welcomed you. Your knees buckled, but you caught yourself, palms scraping the soil, fingers sinking into it like you'd been starved of its touch your whole life.

The sun hit your face.

Warm.

Golden.

It wrapped around you like a second skin. You stumbled forward, breathless, and the sharp roar of the road fell behind you like a door slamming shut. The farther you went, the quieter it all became. The birds circled overhead. The sky opened up above you. Wind moved through your hair.

The grass brushed your legs like fingers. Wildflowers bent toward you. Every step you took felt lighter, like gravity had loosened its grip. Your chest still burned, your legs still trembled- but it didn’t matter.

You were free.

For a moment, you were free.

~#~#~#~#~

You woke up.

Your body hurt. Aches radiated deep in your joints, muscles stiff and sluggish as the sedative wore off. Your skin prickled like it had been dipped in ice water, and there was a heavy, smothering pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. It was always like this- the return. The slow drag back into a body that felt more like a cage than a home. The familiar fog of waking, like surfacing from a nightmare only to realize the nightmare is where you live.

Your cell. Concrete. Cold. The old mattress on the floor, the spring dug into your spine like punishment, its stuffing long since thinned to nothing. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead like insects chewing through your skull.

The contrast made it worse.

You had just been in the sun. You had felt the warmth on your face, tasted freedom, heard birdsong. And now- this. Gray. Sterile. The walls loomed like tombstones. The air was sour with bleach and mold. Your blanket was gone. The cot felt harder than usual, like it was punishing you for dreaming.

You started to cry.

It hadn’t been real.

You bit your knuckles to keep from sobbing loud enough for the cameras. But it was no use. The pressure in your chest cracked open like a fault line, and the whimpers slipped free, shaking, hopeless. Your body curled tighter, trying to fold in on itself, to disappear into the cold concrete floor.

You pressed your forehead to the ground. Tears smeared across the filth. Your shoulders heaved.

You had felt it. The wind. The sun. The way the earth gave under your feet instead of fighting you. You’d tasted freedom- and now it was gone. Ripped from your ribs like something delicate torn apart by teeth.

You were breaking.

Just the soft scuff of a boot on concrete. A shift in the silence.

You froze.

Your breath hitched.

Slowly, you lifted your head.

He was already inside the cell, standing just feet away, still and silent. Watching.

The Winter Soldier. Motionless. Built like a monolith. Cold light caught on the metal of his arm.

His eyes found you- and they were blue. Flat. Empty. As emotionless as frost.

He said nothing.

He just looked.

He stepped forward slowly, like you were a wounded animal, like he was afraid you’d break. His boots barely made a sound against the floor, each one placed with deliberate care- as if you might vanish if he moved too quickly.

"You had to be good, Kuritsa," he murmured, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it. "They wouldn’t tell me to hurt you if you were good."

There was something in the way he said it- like he wanted it to be true. Like he needed to believe it more than you did.

He reached for you. Not like a soldier following orders, but like someone trying not to scare the ghost in front of him. His hand hesitated in the air between you. Waiting. Wanting.

And you let him.

Because no one else reached for you. Because even this broken, programmed shell of a man was gentler than the rest. Because his touch- hesitant, calloused, human- was the only thing anchoring you to the world in that moment.

He stripped you gently. Despite the cold, he was warm. You both were. His body radiated heat, and when your skin touched, it felt like something real- something grounding in a world where everything else had become unrecognizable. Your body, your mind, your freedom- all had been twisted, burned, broken. But this? This was contact. Connection. A fragile thread back to something human.

He murmured "umnitsa" when you trembled instead of fought. The word fell like a feather against your cheek- foreign, yet almost soft, almost kind. You hadn’t heard kindness in so long that it carved through you like a blade.

His hands were rough, but careful. The callouses rasped across your hips as he steadied you. He traced the bones of your ribs, your stomach, like he was trying to memorize something forbidden. Like you were fragile and holy. His touch made you shiver, not from fear, but from the aching ache of being touched at all.

He waited for your nod. And when you gave it, small and tear-soaked, something in him relaxed. Like permission mattered. Like you mattered.

You were still weeping. You didn’t know why you needed this so badly. Maybe to kill the aching weight in your chest. Maybe to drown in sensation, to burn out the cold that lived in your marrow. Maybe to feel like anything other than a thing in a cage.

You gripped him- not out of lust, but because you needed something. Something alive. Something solid. A warmth to hold onto while the world around you blurred and cracked. But the longer you held him, the more that need twisted, deepened, darkened into something else. Something desperate.

His body pressed closer, the weight of him grounding you, overwhelming you. And when he aligned himself against your entrance, his thick, hard cock nudging at your core, you gasped. The heat of him seared through the cold in your bones, and for a moment, all you could do was hold your breath.

Then he pushed in.

Slow, steady, unrelenting.

The stretch burned- sharp and aching- as he filled you inch by inch, your walls fluttering around the thick length of him, your breath shattering with every heartbeat. You whimpered as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, buried to the hilt. The sting of the invasion was real, raw, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

It was the only invasion you ever craved.

He stayed there a beat, chest heaving against yours, his breath ragged. You felt the tension trembling in his muscles as he tried to hold back, as if even now he was waiting for you to break. But you didn’t. You pulled him closer.

Because the ache of being filled by him was the only thing that ever made you feel whole.

You both needed this, even if neither of you fully understood why. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was programming. Or maybe it was the only act left that made you feel like you had a body at all.

He moved inside you with no rush, no violence.

At first.

Just heat. Flesh. Friction. But you felt him grow bolder with every thrust, felt the rhythm change from tentative to possessive, like your body was something he was rediscovering and claiming in the same breath.  You whimpered as his hips snapped forward, rougher now, grinding against the deepest parts of you. You gasped- your head thrown back, legs trembling from the effort of taking him, from the pleasure spearing up your spine.

"Soldate..." you whispered, shocked at the sound of your own voice, he only grunted in reply.

The slap of skin against skin filled the room. Your nails dug into his back, clawing for purchase. He braced himself over you with his metal arm, the cold of it ghosting across your ribcage while his other hand gripped your thigh and hitched it higher. He fucked you like he was trying to bury himself inside you, deeper, deeper, until you didn’t know where he ended and you began.

You moaned for him and that seemed to break something open in him. His teeth grazed your neck, just a scrape, just a warning. You shuddered. His hand slipped between your legs, and when his thumb circled your clit, it was almost too much. You bucked against him, your orgasm cresting like a wave you couldn't stop.

"Cum." he growled, and you did. Your whole body arched, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open on a sob. You clenched around him, and he followed, rutting into you with a strangled groan before freezing, twitching inside you, his release hot and thick and undeniable.

For a moment, all you could do was pant beneath him, your body boneless and trembling. His forehead rested against yours, and his breath warmed your face. His fingers still moved against your thigh, slow now, almost reverent.

He didn’t speak. Just held you. Just stayed.

And for one terrible, perfect moment, you could pretend you weren’t in a cell at all.

He stayed inside you after. Heavy. Warm. You didn’t move, neither did he. Instead keeping himself pressed deep within you, like he could hold back the world by just staying there. Like if he stayed inside, the moment might stretch, safe and untouched.

You felt every twitch of him, the slow pulse of his cock still buried in your heat. He didn’t pull out, didn’t shift away. He just stayed. Ensuring nothing would spill. A painful reminder of your true purpose here.

The weight of him inside you was grounding and cruel all at once- comfort and control, tenderness and protocol.

His hand cupped your cheek. The same hand that had killed without pause.

“Good, little bird,” he whispered. “They won’t hurt you now.”

For a moment you believed him.

~#~#~#~#~

You were still sore. Still warm from him when they came after removing him from your cell.

You didn’t fight. He had made you promise. Whispered it against your skin while he was still inside you

“Be good Kuritsa. Be good for them like you were for me.”

So you didn’t fight. You just stared at the ceiling, empty and aching, when the guards returned.

“Not supposed to cross roads, little bird,” one of them sneered, voice dripping with smug cruelty. You barely blinked before the needle slid into your arm, sharp and fast. The sedative burned as it entered your vein, and within seconds, your limbs began to go heavy.

Still, you felt it all.

Their rough hands grabbed you by the arms and legs. One of them lifted you by the underarms while another gripped your thighs, dragging your limp body out of the cell like a broken doll. Your toes scraped along the concrete floor, leaving faint streaks as you tried- and failed- to move against them.

The corridor was a blur of fluorescent light and iron stench. You tried to twist away, but your limbs wouldn’t obey. Sluggish. Leaden. You whimpered, barely audible.

You recognized the hallway. The turns. The shape of the door at the end.

No. Not again.

When the door opened, you sobbed. That awful room. That awful chair. Waiting.

They hauled you inside like trash, flipping your body onto the leather seat. Cold restraints snapped over your wrists and ankles. Your head lolled to the side as you tried to resist, tried to pull your arms back, but they might as well have been made of stone.

You didn’t want this. You wanted the sun. The flowers. The breath of wind across your face.

But you weren’t in the meadow anymore.

You were back in the chair.

You wanted to plead. To beg. You were sorry, you wouldn’t do it again. You just wanted to hold on to something, to keep even a shred of that warmth inside you. But your lips were too heavy to form the words.

But he had said they wouldn’t do this. Not if you were good.

And you’d been good.

One tech hesitated, glancing down at you with something almost like pity. You tried to lock eyes with him, to will him to stop, to see you. But it was too late.

Another tech snapped, “Erase it. She’s dangerous now.”

Rough hands held you down tighter as you struggled weakly. A guard’s fingers pinched your jaw open. You whimpered. The bit forced into your mouth was hard and rubbery, pressing down against your tongue and teeth. The pressure made your cracked molar throb.

Then the seat began to tilt.

Slow. Mechanical. Inevitable.

You felt the world shift with it, the room pitching as gravity settled you deeper into the chair. The jaws of the machine descended- cold metal bracing your skull, clamping over your head like a vice. Your heart thundered. One side of your vision darkened as the rig covered your left eye.

Your panic rose, sharp and feral, tearing through the fog of sedation. You tried to twist, tried to scream around the bit, but your limbs barely moved. You could only writhe in slow, pathetic motions as the restraints cut into your skin.

You weren’t in a meadow. You weren’t running. You were here.

This time, it was your memory they erased.

Your escape.

They couldn’t let you know you could fly.

You screamed the words in your head, over and over, desperate and wild:

Birds fly. Meadow. Other side.

And then it came.

The pain.

White hot. Blinding.

Your back arched.

All you could hear was your own screams now, louder than the hum of the machine, louder than your racing heart. There was no world outside of that sound. Just your pain, ripped from your throat and thrown into the void.

[robynochs]

Alan Cumming reminds us once again: he's bisexual. This clarification is crucial in a world where bi-erasure often renders bisexual identities invisible. In a new interview with BuzzFeed, he discusses the importance of accurate representation and the fluidity of his identity.

Read more about his thoughts on sexuality in the article from Them: https://www.them.us/story/alan-cumming-traitors-host-interview-sexuality-bisexual-queer-labels?utm_source=nl&utm_brand=them&utm_mailing=THEM_Weekly_040225&utm_campaign=aud-dev&utm_medium=email&bxid=5d39dd8a2ddf9c47992023a4&cndid=25475098&hasha=b174d27f7a8ad21d5349683ba9a8566c&hashb=1ddb3af0e68b1cb9bc7fe604d99e8ff5a5d6dc02&hashc=9c1a7463cc382b0c09e73190fc45d6a32349b86af9a26cea96dcc3eed294d3e3&esrc=verso-hp-midpage&utm_term=THEM_Daily