#and demon stark jumping out was totally justified

[ponytailcoby]

"Are you ready for the episode on Thursday?"

Me:

[loudlytransparenttrash]

It's been embarrassing watching this latest political narrative about America reeling from the latest expression of white supremacy: Anti-Asian hate. The shooting in Atlanta had the media in desperate spin mode to declare that the root cause of the shooting was a white male perpetrating a supposedly all too common hate crime against Asians. And of course, the reason for the shooting and all this anti-Asian violence is... Donald Trump, because he referred to a virus which originated in Wuhan, China, as the ‘’Wuhan virus’’, or ‘’China virus.’’ There is nothing at all to connect this shooting to the practice of naming a viral outbreak after the location of origin. The shooter also had no history of animus towards Asians, and authorities have found not a single piece of evidence to suggest the victims were targeted for being Asian. The loser had a sex addiction, for which he had already been in rehab, and had frequented the same massage establishments he targeted which he blamed for contributing to his addiction problems. Yet the media still continue to push the “blame Trump” and “white supremacy” narrative, as they have done from the moment they started reporting on the tragedy. 

We heard repeatedly how this shooting was an extension of the steep rise in anti-Asian hate crimes, a figure said to have spiked by 150 percent last year. While that 150 percent rise sounds jarring, when looking over the figures, it’s appropriate to point out the numbers were significantly low to begin with. This ‘’spike’’ in hate crimes has been described as ‘’soaring’’, ‘’jumping’’, and any other dramatic adjective. In 2019, the nationwide total was 49 anti-Asian hate crimes, which includes using “racist words,” while last year it soared to an additional 79 cases. While of course that’s concerning, it’s hardly a national epidemic, let alone a product of “white supremacy.” In the latest recorded FBI statistics of victim/offender race, it was black Americans (at just 13 percent of the population) who committed the large majority of violent crime against Asian Americans. Wouldn’t white Americans, being the majority of the population, be the greater violent offenders against Asian Americans, if the media were telling the truth about Trump and “white supremacist anti-Asian racism”? 

They rely on us going blindly along with whatever they tell us. The only examples of violence against Asians the media can use to prove “white supremacy” and “Trump bad”, are assaults and murders against Asian Americans committed by black Americans, the media just leave the race of the perpetrator out of their story to keep the narrative alive. Look at this New York Times article: “The videos are graphic and shocking. In January, a local television station showed footage of a young man sprinting toward, then violently shoving to the ground, a man identified as Vicha Ratanapakdee, 84, who had been out for a morning walk in the Anza Vista neighborhood of San Francisco. He later died.” The Times piece never reveals the name or race of the perpetrator: Antoine Watson, a 19-year-old black man. Look at some other of the most recent violent attacks on Asian Americans: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Who’s really behind this anti-Asian hate? The evidence is the complete opposite of what we’re being told. This is standard social justice practice in today’s clownish journalism. 

In Boulder Colorado, where ten people were killed, these same race-baiting assumptions were prevalent early on. A huge tweet thread was made laying out a lengthy list of certified accounts who jumped at the chance to call the shooter a ‘’white man’’ and justify their own hatred and racism. Then the bad news landed - the shooter was a Muslim migrant from Syria. You could hear the deafening sound of disappointment, deletions and abandonment. It once again exposed the depth of the depravity seen in our media complex today. If you are outraged at the actions of a man who would take the lives of strangers because he is a different race to his victims, why would you not be equally outraged when the same thing happens to victims of a different race, committed by a person of a different race? Why does the media fabricate evidence from thin air of victims being targeted for their race in one shooting, while completely ignores the evidence of victims actually being targeted for their race in another shooting?

This is one way the press has been exposed as craven opportunists in the treatment of the victims. In the Atlanta shooting all we heard about was the racial makeup of those who died because that led to some form of proof of racial bias. The media could then demonize the shooter accordingly, and likewise Donald Trump, by extension. But note the stark shift in the Boulder case. We have heard very little about those all white victims. Now that the killer is known to be Arab and Muslim, identifying the racial makeup of those he killed is notably avoided and is unlikely to ever be mentioned. This means the press is extremely selective in their recognition of those killed and in how they report that information. If their race interrupts the narrative intended, they are not worth mentioning, and if their race fuels a scripted reaction, then those deaths are to be exploited for the intended political hit. In both examples, you have heartless efforts behind the treatment of those lost in these violent events. 

Our media is evolving more and more into a degenerate industry, one willing to use victims in any way they see fit to drive forward a false narrative. The less afraid we are to hear and speak the truth, the less they can get away with it.

[mewhenleg]

sɪʟᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇ

sʜɪᴘ:

ᴘᴇᴛᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴋᴇʀ x ᴘɪᴇᴛʀᴏ ᴍᴀxɪᴍᴏғғ

ғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ:

ᴍᴀʀᴠᴇʟ / ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀs

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ:

ᴛʜɪs ᴏɴᴇ's ɴᴏᴛ ᴍʏ ғɪɴᴇsᴛ sᴏ ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ᴀ sᴛᴏʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴊᴜᴅɢᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴ, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴏɴᴇ ɪ ʙᴇɢ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs:

sᴍᴜᴛ (18+)

ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ: @goshdangitjay

A brother and a sister had been invited to stay at the Avengers Towers; Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, AKA The Scarlet Witch and QuickSilver.

Peter hadn't paid much attention to them when they first arrived. Of course, he introduced himself and smiled a lot or whatever, but really all he'd wanted to do was go back to being curled up under a blanket and watching shitty crime dramas while he cried until his head felt empty over nothing in particular.

It had been about two weeks since they had arrived, though, and Peter really hadn't gotten to know them very well. Just as he was thinking about this, (right as he was in the middle of watching "Cops in NY") none other than the silver haired speed-demon himself came sauntering in through the door. He looked up from his blanket nest and smiled softly.

"I figured I wouldn't see you outside of your room, so I came to say hi." Pietro said, coming to sit down next to him on the couch at the front of his rooms. Peter muted the TV.

"Uh- Hi. Mr, uh- Mr. Maximoff." Peter greeted, stumbling over his words as the man sat a little closer than what would be considered normal to him. His throat bobbed.

"Are you okay?" Pietro asked quietly, and it was only then that Peter realised his face was probably still red from the salty tears that had been falling down his cheeks earlier. He quickly looked away and wiped at his face- to no avail. He shoved the blankets off of himself, the room suddenly too hot and the walls too close. He clenched his hands into fists. Deep breaths.

Peter felt a hand graze his arm for a moment and turned around, but Pietro was just sitting back with that slightly-bored looking grace he always held himself with plastered across his beautiful features. He could've sworn he imagined the touch, but at least now he wasn't thinking about things that would inevitably lead to him breaking down in front of the other man. Pietro raised a brow.

"Oh- right. Yeah, yeah I'm fine. Totally- totally fine." Peter got quieter and quieter towards the end of his sentence, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. Pietro didn't seem to buy it. He couldn't blame him, to be honest.

"What troubles you?" He asked, his Russian accent like a purr against his skin. Peter swallowed thickly.

"Nothing, really, Mr. Maximoff. I've got all this stuff here and- and I'm not unhealthy or anything... and Mr. Stark pays me so much I could live for ten years on the moon if I wanted to." Peter justified, splaying his hands out in front of him as if it would make his point clearer.

"That doesn't mean you have no troubles." Pietro said with furrowed brows. Peter shrugged.

"Look at me- I've got a beautiful face, the perfect body, lots of money and a wonderful place to live in. And still, I am unhappy sometimes. I have troubles." Peter snorted at the oh-so-casual vanity that Pietro displayed.

"Like what? You can't stop checking yourself out?" Peter said before he could think twice. He immediately slammed his hands over his mouth and looked down, only taking them away to apologise quickly. Pietro laughed; a loud, booming sound that made heat rise to Peter's face.

"That is a constant battle I fight in, yes." Pietro supplied, clasping his hands over Peter's wrists and removing his hands from his face before leaning back again. All the colour on his cheeks from before increased tenfold, his face a glaring red. Pietro seemed unaffected and unfazed, perhaps a bit smug, if he was honest. Peter fell silent.

"You do not want to talk about it?" Pietro sort-of asked, more of an observation, really. Peter shrugged.

"I just want it all to go away for a while. I need a distraction." Peter looked up at Pietro when he spoke that last word - 'distraction' - and he wasn't entirely sure why. Pietro threw him a small smirk and leaned forwards, Peter only now noticing how much bigger the male was than him. A firm hand gripped his chin and forced his head up to look at him, Pietro's peppermint-and-honey scent stuffing itself up his nose. He felt lightheaded; drunk on it.

"Let me be a distraction." He said huskily, his voice lower than the farthest reaches of the ocean, a rusty purr that trailed sensuous hands over his body. Peter gulped.

"M-Mr. Maximoff, I- I don't think we should-" Peter protested, but before he could even finish, Pietro was at the door, waving goodbye before leaving. Peter was stunned into silence, his mind racing, heart beating out of his chest.

"You didn't think I'd actually leave, right?" A voice sounded from behind him. He jumped and almost fell off the couch, somehow landing in a pair of strong arms that hoisted him up against a firm chest instead of back onto the couch cushions. His eyelids fluttered shut for a moment as he breathed in his scent, his eyes almost rolling backwards. Almost. He shot his eyes open as soon as he realised what he was doing.

"Mr. Maximoff- We shouldn't- I don't- what if-" Peter spluttered, but Pietro silenced him by dragging his hand along his ribcage and along the top of his thigh in a long, sensuous touch.

"Stop talking." Pietro whispered. His throat bobbed as he refrained from sighing in contentment. It took Pietro less than a second to take him to his room halfway across the tower, quickly laying the boy down on the bed and looming above him with his hands propped next to either side of his head.

"I can tell that you like it, Peter." Pietro's voice was quiet, almost a whisper, and yet it was still so beautifully deep and enticing. It made his toes curl, something he hoped Pietro didn't see, but he obviously did, setting off a dangerous smirk on the man's lips.

"You want more, don't you?" He carried on, his deft fingers now playing with the hem of his shirt, tracing over the sliver of skin beneath. Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek, looking away from Pietro's face as he continued to tease him, the older man tracing featherlight touches near but not quite where Peter wanted him. He fought back against the bulge forming in his pants, a battle he only half-won as his pants didn't tent, but instead only strained a little bit. It was enough for Pietro, apparently.

"See how it affects you?" He murmured, his hands brushing lightly across the small bulge forming. Peter bit back on a moan, no noise escaping him other than his uneven breathing. The battle he'd been having with himself was quickly lost, his trousers almost instantly tenting.

"How it makes you want more." He continued, his fingers creeping up his shirt now, ghostly touches trailing all over his chest, his stomach, his sides.

"How you react so beautifully to the slightest," Pietro paused and laid his hand flat against his sides, dragging it upwards and then down again. Peter arched his back almost imperceptibly, eyes squeezing shut, "Touch." Pietro finished.

"What would happen, Peter," Pietro mused, his fingers moving to tweak his nipples under his shirt. Peter sucked both his lips into his mouth and bit down on them to keep from moaning, "if I were to touch you in all the right places?"

Peter still hadn't made a noise, but it was clear how much this was affecting him by his heavy breathing and slight reactions, excluding the fact that his dick was painfully hard as well. Pietro smirked and reached a hand down to slip just past the hem of his baggy pants, making Peter swallow his own gasp.

"What would you do," He began again, his other hand gripping the back of Peter's head and threading through his hair, forcing him to look him in the eyes for a moment, "if I made you cum for me in a heartbeat?"

Pietro released his grip on the boy's hair. "And what if I touched you as fast as I could?" He asked, tapping different places all over Peter's body and eliciting all sorts of different reactions; lip bites, eye-shutting, toe-curling and fist-clenching being the mildest of them all. "What if you loved it?"

Peter looked up at Pietro with an expression cloudy with lust, then quickly snapped his eyes shut as he saw the expression on his face. He didn't think he could handle that amount of sheer hunger that shone on Pietro's face.

"What would happen, if I touched you so quickly," Pietro indeed dragged his deft fingers all over Peter's chest so fast that it felt like he was being touched everywhere all at once, "everywhere you wanted me to," his hand snuck past the hem of his pants and swiped once over his bulge, making Peter gulp audibly as he tried to stop himself from bucking his hips, "and made you cum in seconds?"

Peter's face was aflame, his heart pounding out of his chest and breathing ragged like a worn-out dog. He refused to look at Pietro, turning his head away defiantly.

"Why aren't you speaking, Peter?" He crooned, brushing the hair out of the boy's eyes with his slender fingers and tucking it behind his ears. Peter shifted his eyes to Pietro, and quickly looked away as the sheer power of his stare hit him like a brick to the face. Scratch that, he knew what that felt like, and it didn't even come close.

"Do I scare you?" Pietro asked, his voice coated with a hint of unease. Peter shook his head, somehow still managing to stay facing away from him.

"Didn't you say you wanted a distraction?" He asked, his hands now stroking idle circles on Peter's thighs. Higher than that. "I could distract you... I could distract you for a long, long time if you wanted me to." Pietro purred, his eyes boring into the side of Peter's head.

"I- I'm not used to- to these sorts of th-things..." Peter mumbled shakily, his eyes focused on the floor. Pietro slid his hand around to cup Peter's cheek, pushing his head sideways so he had to look at Pietro. He leaned down until their faces were barely an inch apart, meaning Peter was now trapped between closing his eyes and risking whatever Pietro would surely do to him - not that he entirely minded -, looking down and risk seeing the beautiful body pressing against his, or meeting his crushing stare. "Let me be your first." Pietro whispered and, like an idiot, Peter chose the first option, squeezing his eyes tight shut.

Before he even knew what was happening, Peter was being heaved up and pinned against a wall, his chest flush against the hard surface and ass sticking out slightly towards the tall, muscled man behind him. He'd almost forgotten about his ability to travel faster than the speed of light, and shoved the thoughts of the other things he could do with that sort of speed firmly out of his head.

Pietro held Peter against the wall by his back and wrists, his groin pressed firmly against Peter's ass. He blushed a dark crimson when he realised that Pietro was as hard as he was- if not moreso.

"You're so pretty, Peter," Pietro cooed, his hands trailing over the curve of Peter's ass. Peter bit the flesh of the arm he was leaning his forehead on, a strangled groan escaping him as Pietro slipped his fingers further down until he was tracing circles over the lump in Peter's pants, "I saw you when I first came here, smiling so forcefully as you greeted us," he went on, his hand now lazily palming him through his trousers. He stopped any noises he would've made this time by biting down on his tongue, "I wanted to know why you looked so upset when nobody was looking," he whispered, groping the top of Peter's dick through his jeans, "is it because there's nobody to pleasure you?" Pietro asked, but Peter knew it wasn't really a question.

"Is it because the people who do pleasure you are not good enough?" Pietro's voice became more growl-like as he spoke about the "people who did pleasure him". Nonexistent people.

"Talk to me, Peter. Your voice is so beautiful." Pietro purred, his hand stroking a long stripe down his spine. Peter gulped.

"I- I don't- I don't know-" Peter admitted in a whine, earning a low chuckle from Pietro.

"I can help you find out." Pietro returned, his hand again trailing down Peter's body and ghosting over his clothed erection. Peter bit down harshly on his bottom lip, but didn't quite stop the low whine that escaped him in time.

"You sound so pretty," Pietro whispered, "why do you hold your noises back from me?" Peter somehow turned impossibly redder, his ears the colour of Hawaiian red fruit punch. He still kept his mouth firmly clamped shut, maybe because he was too afraid of letting go, or maybe he was scared to admit that what Pietro was doing affected him. Peter wasn't entirely sure himself.

"Do you want me to pleasure you, Peter Parker?" Pietro purred, his hand stuffing up Peter's shirt and touching him so quickly, so lightly that he thought he might explode. It took more effort than he'd like to admit to tone down his loud moan to tight whimper. Pietro's hand stilled and Peter cursed his body for betraying him as he whined and tried to get Pietro to touch him again. Pietro chuckled, hardly a huff of breath from his nose.

"Is that a yes, sweet thing?" He purred, sliding his hands over Peter's front again, slower this time. Peter nodded slightly, a firm dip of his head.

"I need to hear you say it." He murmured. Peter drew in a shaky breath.

"P-please touch me, Mr. Maximoff." Peter whimpered, not entirely catching the look of pure lust that shone in his eyes at what Peter called him. Pietro's hands instantly tugged his shirt off, the clothing discarded on the floor before Peter could so much as blink, and then his beautifully smooth hands were on Peter's back, his chest, his sides. He stifled a cry by shoving his knuckle into his mouth, but Pietro slowed down and came to a stop.

"I want to hear your pretty noises, sweet thing." Pietro said, his hand reaching round and removing the knuckle Peter and stuffed into his mouth. Peter whimpered ever so quietly and shook his head.

"Don't- don't wanna. Avengers- the avengers will hear." Peter squeaked out, only a half truth.

"I can take us somewhere far away from them," Pietro whispered into Peter's ear, earning a gulp from the boy, "then you can scream my name all you like."

Peter shivered and nodded his head, and in an instant they were both in a fairly large room in what Peter could only assume was an apartment downtown. He flicked his eyes up to Pietro, worry shining in them.

"It's my apartment, don't worry." Pietro murmured, setting Peter down on the floor and immediately backing him into the wall, the two of them in the same position they had been in at the Towers. Peter pushed himself ever so slightly against Pietro, the man taking it as a signal and snaking his hands over Peter's exposed torso. He started slowly, massaging Peter's back and chest with his hands, then sped up, tweaking his nipples every now and again, and still, Peter held back his noises. No sound passed his lips aside from the occasional intake of a sharp breath when Pietro attacked his nipples with more force than usual.

"Are you holding back, sweet thing? Or does it not feel good enough?" He whispered the last part straight into Peter's ear, the promise of more pleasure dangling in front of his face. He gulped.

"N-no, I just- I don't-" Peter looked down at the floor, "I'm so new to- to all of this and- and I don't wanna mess it up by- I don't know..." Peter mumbled it all in one breath, but assumed that Pietro heard him when the touching started up again, only slightly slower than before.

"You are perfect, sweet thing. Just let go, let me hear your voice." Pietro said soothingly, his hands perhaps not aiming to please, but to soothe, to calm. At least for now. Peter nodded weakly and released a shaky breath, Pietro's fingers grazing over his nipples. His breathing hitched at the slight contact. The taller man ran his hands over the sensitive buds again, circling them lazily before pinching his fingers over them. Peter yelped in surprise, eyes widening.

"You like that?" Pietro asked in a purr, repeating the action and rolling the sensitive flesh between his fingers. Peter nodded with a whine, craving more of Pietro's touch. "Good." He murmured, trailing one of his hands down to Peter's clothed erection, slowly palming him through the fabric. Peter groaned and pressed himself against Pietro's hand, desperately asking for him to go faster.

"P-Pietro-" He whined as Pietro sped up, his hand slipping between the fabric of his boxers and his bare skin, stroking him leisurely.

"Mmm?" Pietro hummed in question, his movements quickening.

"Fe-feels good." Peter moaned, Pietro tearing his jeans and boxers off in a second. The taller male wrapped his hand around Peter's cock and pumped relentlessly, not even half as fast as he could be going. Peter whined and moaned, bucking his hips ever so slightly.

"Want me to speed up, sweet thing?" Pietro crooned, slowing down until he got his answer.

"God- yes-" Peter moaned, and Pietro instantly obliged, his hands quickening their brutal pace, maddeningly quick as he stroked Peter's cock.

"Oh- oh- oh- God- gonna-" was all Peter managed before he spilled all over Pietro's hand, paining the walls with white stripes of his cum. He panted like a dog, his teeth clenched and face flushed, the only thing keeping him from falling to the ground in a heap was Pietro's arm around his waist.

"You okay, my sweet boy?" Pietro asked, and Peter almost trembled at his use of the word 'my'. He nodded as his eyes fluttered shut again, Pietro hoisting him into the bed and slipping in beside him.

"You owe me." Pietro murmured against the crook of Peter's neck.

"Get fucked." Peter grumbled his response.

"That's the idea."