"Oh no, someone's attracted to the aesthetics of my -punk movement but doesn't know the praxis and history behind it like I do--"
OK. Tell them. Make it a teaching moment. Everyone who's in your movement learned the background from somewhere at some point, maybe this is that point for that person. Give them a jumping off point that they can dive into later.
"Oh but I shouldn't be responsible for teaching baby -punks about the history and the how-tos and--"
OK. Then don't tell them. You don't have to be responsible for teaching people with a budding interest in your group the ins and outs and how-tos. That's fair and valid! It can be a lot of work. Someone else will handle it
"But I'm annoyed that they would try to claim to be part of/be interested in my community without knowing all the details that I know after being in it for months/years/decades, they're dumb, they're posers, they're--"
OK. Then don't engage with them, if it's that bad. Maybe someone else will come around and tell them the history, maybe they'll pick it up on their own, maybe they'll just enjoy the fashion elements for awhile.
"But they shouldn't claim to be part of the -punk community if they don't know the--"
I feel like we have a few options here. People can either talk to them, share the history, share the values, share the praxis. Or they can just chase off anyone who even thinks about dipping a toe in their community, and then wonder why it's dying off later down the line.
I dunno, maybe I'm too naive and patient or whatever. But if people are entering your -punk spaces without knowing The Rundown of what you feel they need to know, maybe being nice about it and informing people instead of immediately assuming stupidity and malicious intent could help you make a new friend. Even the loudest voices in a space had to learn from somewhere, and not everyone has the luxury of being in the space as the History was Happening--whether it's an age thing or a not being aware of the space thing. Or maybe I just don't see what the big deal is behind people hating people who like the aesthetic of something and don't know the behind the scenes history about it yet.
Because I believe in the word 'yet.' No one comes into this world knowing everything about everything, and we're all constantly learning new things. I'm not gonna degrade someone and call them a poser for not knowing what I know. Because if it were me, interested in a scene but getting chased out and called a poser? I wouldn't hit the books and study up, I'd go 'that fuckin sucks, those people sucked' and then avoid anyone and anything having to do with it.
So chase people off and call them posers if you want. But if your community starts dwindling, don't be fucking shocked.
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AN: so I know its not exactly simon x reader its all platonic, but I wasn't sure how else to tag this. Actually if you squint it could be Ghost x Soap I'll let you decide :) Sometimes my brain says things should exist so I write them. Loosely borrows the Master of Death concept from the HP series because yes. She's my OC if you want to know more just let me know I mostly just wanted to practice writing Simon idk and wanted him to be comforted :(
"Let's say I believed you," the exhausted lieutenant's voice broke the quiet hiss of sand shifting in the warm breeze. He laid staring up at the cloudless blue sky, knife held limply in one hand. His balaclava was torn off and cast aside, leaving his face exposed to the unrelenting sun.
"Mhm?" Came the sweet voice, acknowledging his words and probing gently for him to continue.
"If I believe you're the master of death or whatever," he croaked out, throat parched, "Why me? Why save me? There're billions of people who deserve to be saved over me."
Her head cocked to the side, observing him for a moment.
"Why do you believe you're not worth saving?" she asked instead of answering. Simon let out a harsh laugh interrupted by a bout of coughing and a resigned grunt of pain.
"y'just need to look at me to know that love. My mask. I'm a killer. Got my family killed. My mum, my brother." he swallowed, voice cracking as he continued, "His beautiful wife, and their little boy."
He gulped feeling the hot sting of tears and used some of his waning strength to swipe them angrily away. When she didn't say anything he turned his head in her direction.
It was hard to believe that he wasn't hallucinating. Sitting next to him in the middle of the desert was a six year old in a pink tutu and a burnt tiara of some sort, perched in her golden curls. Small hands drew shapes and patterns in the scorching sand as if the temperature didn't affect her. Big innocent green eyes bore into him in a way that very much felt like she was staring into his soul.
"The skull mask was an interesting choice," She agreed dryly, "I won't disagree that you're a killer either, given your chosen profession. But you didn't get your family killed. The actions of others are not yours to take the blame for."
"Y'r surprisingly wise for a kid."
The master of death rolled her eyes and smiled, revealing a set of pearly white teeth, "Today I'm a kid."
"Sure. like tomorrow you're not goin' to be."
She gave a shrug of her shoulders, "Maybe, maybe not. It's not exactly my choice."
"Y'didn't answer my question." he coughed again, "If you're the master of death. Why me?"
"I don't make those decisions. I think death would be rather cross with me if that was the case. Everything dies at some point. It's part of the cycle. But death says I'm still ruled by my human emotions. If I had the choice, I don't think I would let people die. And then there really would be no point to life."
He laughed again and then groaned, the side where he'd been shot throbbed horribly.
"You sure you ain't just here to kill me?" Simon wheezed out, hands tightening into fists, "Because it sure feels like it."
Tenderly she reached out and smoothed one of his hands, grasping at it with her much smaller one.
"Of course not Simon." she clucked her tongue as if to scold him, "Pain means you're alive. Keep living. Find your reason to keep living. It's important. You're important."
His vision was darkening with each passing second and her voice was growing murky, like he was hearing it underwater. Gasping in panic he forced his eyes open.
"It hurts," it came out as a whimper. She smiled sadly at him, bright green eyes wet with sympathy.
"I know sweetheart, but it won't be forever."
Then she was gone. The small, but reassuring grip she'd had on his hand disappeared and the panic fully settled in. He tried to call out to her. He didn't want to be alone again. Anything, but having to face the world alone again. He wanted to beg and plead for her to return, but his mouth refused to listen.
Rough hands grabbed hold of him, jerking him back to consciousness. When he managed to get his eyes open again he saw a familiar tanned, if a little blurry, face staring back at him with worry in his eyes. Johnny. Johnny was there.
He saw the sergeant's mouth moving, but he couldn't hear. All of his senses were on fire, everything was too loud, to rough, too painful. No part of him didn't hurt.
He was alive and Johnny was here. Weakly he lifted a hand to grasp the shoulder of the Scottish man's vest.
"You're here." was all he managed to gasp weakly attempting to smile before his mind gave out and he fell into darkness. This time he gave in willingly. He wasn't alone anymore.
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