#so if you see a middle-aged woman punching Nazis

[stinalotte]

Why I'm not a pacifist

Note: sorry for the Tiktok newspeak, apparently they're not allowed to say certain words on there which is why OP had to write "not-see" instead of Nazi.

I grew up in West Germany in the 1980s. My parents' whole social circle consisted of peace activists. One of my earliest memories is being pushed in a stroller at a peace march. I've always considered myself a pacifist, until a couple years ago. (Any last remnants of that were thoroughly destroyed at the beginning of last year, but that's another story)

You cannot have a peaceful conversation with a Nazi. You cannot negotiate with them. You cannot reason with them. They are not interested in exchanging ideas with you, they are not interested in coexisting with you. They want to destroy anyone who isn't them. Yes, you too. Maybe not today because you're white and cis and straight, maybe not tomorrow because you're able-bodied and "a hard worker". But eventually they will come for you too, and no amount of tolerance will save you.

You need to shout them out of your streets, out of your restaurants and bars, out of your schools, out of your places of worship, out of your gyms and online spaces. If you don't, they will take root and fester until they are so established that you can't get rid of them anymore. They will not spare you because you were nice to them.

This is why tolerance is a contract: if one party violates it, the other party is not obligated to keep it. You can't tolerate Nazis.

But Stina, not everyone who disagrees with you is a Nazi!

"Pizza with pineapple is not good" is a disagreement. Basic human rights ARE NOT UP FOR DISCUSSION. END OF. If they say Nazi things, they are Nazis.

I'm German. The Nazis in 1933 didn't fall from the sky. They don't fall from the sky in 2023 either. One of our great writers, Berthold Brecht, said, "the womb is still fertile from which it crept".

If you belong to a marginalised group and can't confront Nazis like the guy in the video, that's ok. But we need those guys too. Lots of them. If you are in a position to be the guy in the video, do it.

We do not negotiate with terrorists, and we do not tolerate Nazis.

[bruciemilf]

A Ratatouille type AU where Bruce takes his tentative first steps into detectivism.

Gotham's so massively drowned out in crime that he's barely making a scratch surface level.

But you know who does know Gotham? Knows every nook and cranny among the narrows? Knows no fear? Stole Batman's tires when no one had the guts to?

Jason fricking Todd.

" Wait, -- no no, that's not when Penguin makes his deliveries anymore. That's when the pigs buy from him and take everything for free. You're gonna wanna bust him tomorrow, genius,"

"Jason," Bruce weights his trust carefully. " If I let you go... Are we in this together?"

Jason snorts, imaginary spit in his hand, shakes Bruce for it. And then runs. Leaving Bruce in a golden street light. Leaves him staring with his shoulders down.

"Oh, brother."

It's a pretty good deal; Jason gives him tips, he gets a comfy, puffy head, fresh food, and surprisingly?

Lots of hugs. Sunshine kisses on his nose and cheek and forehead.

" And how," Alfred rubs his temples around Bruce so much Jason thinks it's a reflex at this point, " Will you explain to the public why Batman carries around a sidekick with a curfew?"

" An unjust curfew."

" Jason will work at the Batcomputer."

" On my batchair, sipping on some bat-hot chocholate, from my bat mug. I mean, -- it's Gotham. We're not going anywhere."

Except. Lex Luthor, as most middle aged men who grew up with too much freedom and too little consequences, never learned what a rejection is.

"...The justice league?"

" Yeah, hot shot! I mean, you've been giving us some issues in the popularity department, my friend," He doesn't like the smirk on Lex's smile; As if he owns the whole world and wants to own him, too,

" The people are crazy for Superman punching a nazi, -- I don't like violence in my politics, but agree to disagree, -- Flash running for charity, Wonder Woman visiting some dying kid at the hospital. Everyone likes them. But nobody trusts them. They trust you."

" And it'd look very good for you to have a human on your team. After... That happened."

That includes the suspicious assassination of his political rival. Bruce begins to suspect its not suspicious at all.

" Bingo! See? I know a showbiz kid when I see one. Superman can show you the ropes. Guy's a better liar than me. That's saying something."

Jason's voice is protective and hissing like an angry viper in his ear, " I don't like this, Bruce. Don't take the deal."

But Bruce wanted to meet Superman outside of his city. Wanted to weight the risks. Wanted to see how big the man behind the symbol really is, and If humanity's lifespan is ended at one bad day.

So he accepts. And Superman Is nothing like he expected.

Passionate, angry, and uncomfortably handsome. That's who's got Bruce pinned to a wall, staring with barely surpassed annoyance,

" When I think he can't go lower, he surprises me."

" We're in this together, superm-"

" Oh no no no no. Your position as a citizen was secured the second someone shoved that silver spoon in your mouth. I didn't suffer years under that sentient ballsack so a tax dodging bastard like you can just walk in here, --"

" But I'm no--"

" I know who you are, Wayne. You're a troubled brat who gets what he wants. But I'm not daddy, or mommy, or your seriously scary butler. So if you wanna survive out here, you play by OUR rules. Got. It?"

"...Tell him to shove the biggest piece of kryptonite up his a--"

" We get it."

Superman's brow quirks, "We?"

" Me and my...Mental illness."

"...You're a weirdo, Wayne. I hope you know that much, at least."

[wild-at-mind]

I skipped a reblog on the last post tbh even though it was overall fine, because it did the whole 'of course there is a place for violence in our activism!' thing and I no longer endorse that, honestly. Ever since Richard Spencer got punched on camera I've watched people practically salivating for an opportunity to do the same to an acceptable target.

But so much of activism is about optics. The optics of Richard Spencer being punched on camera are extremely good, because not only did everyone know he was on record saying stuff like 'Heil Trump', he was also right in the middle of giving an interview about his shitty views, and he was putting on that calm, composed and dignified act that he was using as a way to raise respectability for his movement. (I remember Kat Blaque a few years after described it as dressing like a church boy.) The anonymous assailant punching him shattered all of that. It was unquestionably a triumph during one of the dirtiest and ugliest times for US right wing politics in recent memory. In the years after this happened, I remember seeing a number of left wing people, online and in person, who clearly were not normally comfortable with violence suddenly paying lip service to the idea, and it just felt so disingenuous. I wanted to ask them what they meant specifically- were they about to go out and start something? Or did they just mean they didn't condemn every incidence of violence in activism? (Which as I hope I have shown, is the category I fall into.) But the thing is, very few opportunities are as clear as the Richard Spencer incident. You can say punch nazis all you want, but many of them do in fact realise that going around being obviously nazi in public is an escalation, so they hide it. The man who killed UK MP Jo Cox was found to have a large amount of materials in his house from extreme right movements from across the world, and had some of the most extreme views imaginable, but he had sense enough to hide it in his day to day. If before he committed the murder you found out somehow and punched him, you'd just be seen as punching a random middle aged man.

The times there have been violence against TERFs have, I guarantee, done nothing but handed them the moral high ground plus an even bigger victim complex on a silver platter. Their entire movement revolves around being the downtrodden victims of some kind of organised trans agenda looking to victimise them. Even though I am certain they have started some physical fights and trans people reacted in self defense, trans people will always be framed as the aggressor in these encounters, and no that is not fair, but I think it is reason enough to do everything you can to avoid putting hands on a TERF if you are ever in that situation. (No matter what your gender identity is, you will be called a trans woman in any backlash also, leading to more harm for trans women specifically.) I feel like people try and hand wave this as respectibility politics, but I prefer to see it as optics. And your audience is people whose first and only idea about the issue of trans rights will be this encounter. At some point while particating in non-violent direct actions in the environmental movement, I realised random people are very eager to overstate the harm of anything you do. For example, if you block a road for any length of time, someone will find a way to say that cause a death, through some convuluted means. I've told this story before, but one time during a longer period of protest I was involved in, a friend of mine had a random woman run up to her and scream at her that a little boy had died because of the road blocking, I guess he was supposed to have been in a car and not an ambulance (NHS cuts yadda yadda) and couldn't get to the hospital in time and it was the fault of my friend specifically that he had died. This upset my friend very much. I have heard of stories like this many times, the person who died because of our road blocking, a couple of which are verifiably true stories but most which remained rumour, like this one.

Road blocking is a non-violent action, but people still find a way to twist it into a violence you personally have done if you participate. The only way to make some people happy is if you never do anything that might inconvenience someone in any way in the course of your activism. But it's not hopeless, because there is a massive freedom to realisiing this. After I saw my friend accused of murdering a little boy because she maybe sat on a road with some other people, I lost interest in any idea of deliberately violent activism. I do not believe that violence is never justified, but I do think that when you try and use it as an activism tool, it's like lighting a fire. You can control it up to a certain point, but then you can't, and it escalates. People talk a lot about rioting on here as if riots are a special advanced kind of protest, but they are not things people plan. They happen because of tensions coming to a head, and once the riot starts, you no longer have control of what it does. Property damage is not inherently violent but it works best when strongly targetted, and during a riot there is bound to be a tonne of collaterel damage done to the everyday lives of people who live in the area. And even though rioting can lead to changes for the better, this is not a situation you can manifacture in a lab, just go out and do one day. And when you see that quote the rioting is the language of the unheard, remember that applies to the right wing as well. The people rioting against immigration in Dublin I'm sure felt unheard.

I hope this not particularly thought out post made sense.

[1greenameba]

Yeah , irish and italians wheren't considered white for a long time , and it seems we are going back to that with all the italian stereotypes and jokes i heard recently as an italian ...

Let's also prepare for a lot of anti-slavic sentiment in the next years , there is a lot of material for reactionaries to deem them a "scape goat" and do the same as it was done for arab-muslims in the 2000s :

-russians are regularly called "orks" by many pepole on the internet

-i am really sure when time will come to help ukraine there will be two camps the "this how much money we gave them in weapons do you really want to give money to their homless instead to our doctors" camp and the "we the enlightened westerns should impe.. Help the ukranian pepole by buying whole sale their leftovers homes and in general exploiting their resources , or by doing what china did in east africa for years only we are the good guys now" and i shouldn't say that both camps are wrong or both are essentially arguing over where to point the oppression beam : either domestically by removing workers rights or abroad by doing the same exploitative crap they have done for a long time

-poland has been taking a lot of EU fundings for a long time , and their governament isn't too progressive , so i can see liberal parties creating resentment towards poland and claiming that it's gonna be like afghanistan or iran ( there have been many times in wich civil rights where instrumentalized by imperialist powers to invade or strongarm a country into submission : right afther they have been bombing them for 20 years American politicians rose concerns about woman welfare in afghanistan , and similar in iran ) so i don't see it too different for pepole to paint poland in that light and create anti polish sentiment ...

-slavic is a fuzzy term : greece and czeckoslovakia are in the balkans , but they aren't slavic , or are they ethnically ? asks a fascist looking to broaden the scope , same for romania they are in the middle of eastern europe but they speak a romance language , maybe there isn't too much difference between romance and slavs , keeps on wondering the fascist ...

And this is how fascists think : they aren't looking for truth they seek excuses to further their goals ,

That is why anti semitism works soo well , you can't really tell if someone is jewish at a glance , and so it's an effective accusation ...

The Nazis did this a lot as well : the turks , the japanese , the indians and the italians where equal to the aryan race when they needed to allie themselves with them ,

Even the british and the slavs had secretly aryan blood in their veins , when they had to explain why they where defeating them ...

The same happen for sikhs afther 9/11 : they aren't muslims , but they wore turbants and kept beards , so they got hate crimes all the same ...

And during covid be it koreans or SEA pepole ( it always sounds weird to me : it sounds like i am referring to the bronze age sea pepole instead of south east asia ) they faced hate crimes in the US ...

The reasons are always pretty thin and detached from reality , besides superficial facts

The point is to have somenthing that is malleable enough to be used against anyone they feel like but grounded enough to pack a punch and be recignizable ...

[luminnara]

Goddamn, Shit-Sucking Vampires | Lost Boys x OC  CH 1

Summary: Vera is an unusually vicious bloodsucker who's never stuck in one place for very long...until a mysterious feeling pulls her right to the murder capital of the world: Santa Carla, California. Now, she needs to figure out why exactly she's there, where she fits in amongst the boardwalk's nighttime denizens, and how to cope with her own personal vampire-related problems. Poly Lost Boys/OC, starts just before the movie

Also posted on AO3

My requests are open!

Chapter one | Chapter two

Warnings: Blood, gore, smut, all that good stuff

Vera had been to a lot of cities, some of them twice, some of them three times, some even more, but none of them were quite as unique as Santa Carla. The boardwalk was crawling with lost souls, kids with nowhere else to go, and she was one of them; no family to call her own, no real friends, barely any possessions…Vera was a wanderer, a lone soul, a lost girl. She drifted from town to town, hanging around for a day or two if nothing interesting happened before moving on...and honestly, nothing very interesting ever happened. 

Sometimes she took the bus, if she had the money from odd jobs or pick pocketing her meals, but for the most part, she was left to her own devices. She traveled on foot when she had to, avoiding major highways unless she was feeling up to a fight. During the day, she took refuge under bridges if she was broke, or motel rooms if she had a little cash. If she felt particularly frisky, sometimes she even managed to seduce locals into helping out, but for the most part, she only had herself as company, traveling by night for no reason other than an insatiable wanderlust and nobody else to spend her time with.

Nothing had ever held her in one place. She had started traveling a long time ago, when she realized she had no reason to stay in her hometown. Plus...people started to grow a little bit suspicious when they noticed too many bodies cropping up. The world was changing, and for someone like her, it was best to stay on the move.

After that, it became a habit, and she got used to wandering and never having a place to call home. Did it ever bother her? Sometimes, when she was resting, it did. She could stop and look at the stars, with some kind of foreign aching in her chest, but it was rare that she thought about it. It had started up years ago, and she had forced herself to get used to it. She had never found any cure, and while she lingered around the east coast, it had finally dulled to a strange, quiet pain. A constant throb in her chest, next to her heart, some kind of strange tightness that she was happy to forget whenever she could. It was becoming more frequent, though, as she neared California, and she chalked it up to the fact that she had been alone and hungry for far too long.

She would have to do something about that soon. She hated feeling hungry.

Vera hopped off the bus when it stopped in Santa Carla, a coastal town that boasted a crowded boardwalk and just the kind of nightlife she needed. From the road, she could see the bright lights of a Ferris wheel and even a roller coaster, and she couldn’t help but smile. She had always liked fairs and carnivals. They were fun and exciting, and good places to pickpocket. Plus, the chaos made it easier for her to go unnoticed.

At the bus stop, she was greeted with boards and telephone poles covered in missing persons ads, and it was an oddly comforting sight. She would fit right in.

“Murder capital of the world, huh?” she said to herself, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. She had seen the graffiti on the back of a big WELCOME TO SANTA CARLA sign on the way in, and the flyers only added to the town’s reputation.

Yeah, this place was worth checking out.

The pier was bright, neon signs and carnival rides lighting up the night. Kids and adults alike were enjoying their summer, stuffing themselves with treats or screaming their way around the roller coaster. It all looked fun, she had to admit, and maybe once she had a chance to grab some cash she could hang around and enjoy herself. She could use a break from running constantly, and she was finding that the boardwalk was already making her happy. 

As she walked through the crowds, Vera spotted every kind of person, from middle aged parents toting along a family of four to dirty vagrant children to punks to a couple of weird kids lurking around the comic book store. There were pizza places, cotton candy carts, all sorts of dine in restaurants and bars...Santa Carla seemed like it had everything, but mostly, it was a good place for someone like her to spend some time. 

She sat herself down on a railing, trying to ignore the hunger pains she was feeling as she people watched. Beyond the homeless kids and the weirdos, the boardwalk was full of partygoers, and it looked like summer vacation was in full swing. There were a million smells in the air—cigarettes, weed, funnel cakes—but none of them really caught her attention. She let out a sigh, leaning her chin on her hand. She hated being indecisive about dinner. 

“Ugh, Surf Nazis,” a woman whispered to her friend as they ran by. 

“Gross,” the other wrinkled her nose.

Vera looked past them to the men that were shouting about their asses as they left and she snorted. 

“What’s wrong, girls?” One of them yelled. 

“Come back, we’ll show you a good time!” Another cackled, tossing an empty beer can over his shoulder. 

Vera rolled her eyes. Disgusting, pathetic creatures, all standing around a trash can as they smoked. They smelled awful, she realized with a wrinkle of her nose, and it wasn’t just from their smoke. They were nasty, leering at girls and laughing loudly with each other when the women they were bothering scampered away. 

Well, they weren’t her first choice, but at least she had found a meal.

She hopped off the fence and sauntered in their direction for a moment before turning, giving them just enough time to notice her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them perk up, and before long, all four of them were following her through the crowd, shouting profanities as she made her way down to the pier. 

“Hey baby, where you goin’?” one yelled, jogging to keep up with her pace. 

Vera looked over her shoulder. “Down under the boardwalk...unless you’re chicken.”

She heard a chorus of hoots and whistles and grinned to herself. Men were so easy. 

“I call first dibs!”

“I wanna piece of that ass!” Another yelled.

They always did. Vera was a short girl, only around five feet tall, and stocky. She carried her weight in her legs, giving her thick thighs and a round butt that could never quite stay covered by the denim shorts she loved to wear so much. 

Boys liked the way she looked. They liked how she seemed so easy to grab, so soft, so touchable. As the Surf Nazis followed her down the rickety stairs to a secluded spot under the boardwalk, their hands were already moving, unbuttoning pants and reaching for Vera as if they were entitled to her. She smiled sweetly as she backed into the shadows, cooing for them to follow, grinning sickly when they obeyed. They always did, like lambs to the slaughter, never clever enough to recognize her predatory gaze and dangerous movements until it was too late. 

Sometimes, if they were lucky, they could catch a glimpse of her bra or panties before it was over, but tonight, Vera had little patience for the dirty fingers that tried to pull her shirt off and her shorts down. Their faces leered down at her, even in the darkness, grunting as they palmed themselves through their pants.

She gave them a second to enjoy it before her lips twisted into a sick grin and she reached for them, nails like claws and teeth like fangs. The air was suddenly filled with the sound of their screams, but the waves crashing against the sand drowned the grisly noises out. As she tore into them, she laughed, loving the way they were so terrified now that they had completely lost any sense of power over her.

 Boys always liked the way she looked, until she was covered in their friends’ blood.

-o-

David was having a boring night. 

His boys were under control for the time being, lounging on their bikes next to him. Paul and Marko were laughing loudly, occasionally punching each other just for the hell of it, and Laddie was reading a comic as he clung to Dwayne. Star had decided to stay home for the night, and nobody was complaining about that; at the thought of her, David growled to himself, grimacing at the reminder of the troublesome bitch. Max had wanted a daughter and a good mother for Laddie, and what had they ended up with? A mopey, whiny little cunt who refused to kill and feed like everyone else.

Feed...damn, he could go for a snack. He could practically taste blood in the air as he thought about grabbing a bite, fangs threatening to lengthen. He hadn’t even thought he was that hungry, but now that he was thinking about it, it was bugging him, and when David got the urge to feed, there were very few things that could stop him. The hunger would sometimes gnaw at him the way it did a newborn, and even Max was occasionally put off by it. It was something he expected from a younger vampire, like Marko, maybe, but David? His appetite could be insatiable, truly monstrous in a way that most others’ weren’t. 

The boys picked up on his hunger and he heard a few growls of agreement before he nodded for Dwayne to take Laddie back to the cave. The kid was never allowed to go with them when they hunted, and Dwayne was capable enough to grab something for himself if he didn’t catch up with them. Ever since Laddie had gotten his pesky little hands on their bloody wine bottle, they had been stuck with him, and if Dwayne hadn’t turned out to be so good with the kid, David would’ve been irritated beyond belief. 

It all worked out, though, and Laddie fit in well with the rest of the group. David just had to keep reminding himself to be patient. 

“Anybody catch your eye?” Paul asked as his brother took off down the beach with their youngest member.

“Absolutely fucking no one.” David sneered.

The tall blonde straightened up to sniff the air. “Get a whiff of that, though…”

David paused, mimicking Paul. He was right. There was a metallic scent on the breeze, the sweet smell of fresh blood. It made him thirsty, and as he led Paul and Marko down the boardwalk, it only grew stronger.

“Shit,” Marko mumbled as they started down the stairs to the beach. Once they had broken free of the crowd, the scent had hit them like a train, and even David was having trouble controlling himself.

“Careful,” he warned, voice coming out with a ragged, heavy breath. 

Murders happened in Santa Carla all the time, and not only because of the Lost Boys. It was a rough place, full of drugs and vagrants, and the violence only helped them blend in. Someone had probably gotten themselves in trouble under the boardwalk, and at this point David was just hoping that the killer was still around to sate his hunger. They never fed from corpses, so stumbling across them never yielded any good results unless they were in the mood to rip them apart for shits and giggles.

David was not in the mood.

He led Paul and Marko off the stairs and through the sand, hurrying now as the blood filled his senses. It was so fresh, and there was so much of it...this wasn’t normal, even for the murder capital of the world. What kind of sadistic human would cut someone up enough to spill so much blood? What the fuck was going on under his boardwalk? Sure, it was something he would do, but other than his boys, who could possibly be that brutal?

It was in the shadows of the pier that he finally got the answers to all of his questions. 

Just like the blood had, her scent hit him like a freight train. He could tell Paul and Marko were just as confused by the way they stopped and hissed, fangs already out as they looked down at the bodies littering the sand. It was a gorey scene, throats and stomachs ripped open, Surf Nazis gutted with their pants down. 

And in the middle of it all, she had the audacity to glance up at David, and then completely disregard him as she turned back to her final victim. She wasn’t worried in the slightest about the three males, and that pissed David off a little. When he would have snarled a warning at her insolence, he found himself distracted instead, head tilted and lips parted as he drank in her scent and checked her out.

She was wearing shorts that barely covered her bloody legs, ratty combat boots on her feet and an equally ratty denim vest over a ripped up black shirt. Her ebony hair was cut into some sort of shaggy mullet,  falling around her shoulders. It was long and wavy and glossy, but tousled and messy, no doubt thanks to feeding. 

He could only stare in shock at the black-haired girl that was feasting on a Surf Nazi. He couldn’t decide if he was angry at someone else hunting on his turf or happy to find a real female vampire, one that wasn’t stupid and whiny like Star, but the one thing he knew for sure as he took a step towards her was that he was just the tiniest bit turned on.

Paul and Marko could both smell the tiniest hint of their leader’s arousal, and it excited them. They weren’t used to supernatural girls, and the thought of getting a turn with her was enough to make the air heavy with the scent of lust as they followed David. 

Paul let out a low whistle behind him. “Shit, first time I wouldn’t mind bein’ a Surfer. I’d take a little of that sugar right now, know what I’m sayin?”

The vampiress lifted her head from her victim and smiled, drunk on blood and high off the hunt. “I don’t usually share meals, but I’ll give you the rest of this one if it gives me a free pass back outta here.”

Paul tensed to take her up on the offer, but David stopped him. “Free pass?”

The girl sat back from the still-whimpering Surf Nazi, blood running down her chin. “Figure you wouldn’t want me in your territory. Sorry. Didn’t realize anybody else was here, else I’d have been moving on already.”

David smirked. “No need, sweetheart.”

She furrowed her brow. 

“It’s feeding time, boys. Grab a snack.” David grinned, allowing Paul and Marko to surge forward and rip into the Surf Nazi. He watched with a twinge of annoyance as Paul turned from his meal and pressed his bloody lips to the girl’s, but that annoyance turned into surprise when she kissed back, albeit lazily. 

She smiled as her lips moved against his, a hand moving to tangle in his wild hair. Fire tore through Paul and he growled, pushing her down until her back hit the sand and her chest touched his as her breaths turned into frenzied pants. 

Hands ran down her sides, hard nails digging into her skin as Paul nipped at her lower lip. With a whine, she arched up against him, tugging at his hair until he snarled.

“Paul,” David growled a warning. 

Paul sat back up with an irritated grumble, licking his lips before plunging his fangs into the Surf Nazi and leaving Vera alone.

David had to admit, he had never met a female vampire that wasn’t stuck in limbo like Star. They seemed rare, or at least they were around California, but Max had always told him that girls of their kind were a special breed. He was already feeling a tug toward her, some kind of something pulling at his chest whenever she moved, and before he knew what he was doing, he was crouching down to suck up the last few drops of blood while his boys turned their attention to the killer.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” Marko asked, playing with a strand of her hair. 

“Vera,” she answered with the sweetest voice either of them had ever heard, practically a purr. 

Paul sighed, leaning in again. He was head over heels already. “What brings you here to our little corner of the world, Miss Vera?”

She blinked, and they were fucking mesmerized by those lashes and those hazel eyes. “Just passing through, boys. Don’t wanna step on any toes.”

Paul groaned. He wanted her to stay. She smelled amazing, and when she had returned the kiss he hadn’t even realized he was giving her, he felt jolts of electricity shoot through every part of his body. 

He wanted more.

“Damn, babe, you’re breakin’ my heart,” he said, holding her face so that he could lick blood off her chin.

“No fair,” Marko nudged his brother. “I want a taste…”

David looked up from the drained corpse, listening as his boys slurred with love drunk voices. Max had warned him about females, about those with foreign sires. They could trap you in a web of lust, keep you dumb and happy there for as long as they wanted, rob you blind and kill your entire family...but somehow, he got the feeling that Vera wasn’t even trying to fuck with them. There was no misty, foggy sensation that would signify magic, no eye contact, no focus. As he rose to his feet, he realized he was walking towards her of his own accord, the only spell being that strange, unspoken one that kept pulling him to her.

He had an inkling of what it could be, but he didn’t dare get his hopes up.

“Got a place to stay, darling?” He asked as he shoved his boys out of the way and knelt before Vera. 

She leaned toward him, a sweet smile on those bloody lips that told him she was confident enough in her ability to handle them all. She was calm, completely in control of herself, even when faced with three healthy male vampires. Her eyes were half-lidded, long lashes fluttering whenever she blinked. 

When her tongue slipped out to lick blood off her lips, David’s eyes widened at the sight of something he had never seen before. It was split in two, each side moving of its own accord easily. Paul let out an eager noise, Marko shoving him with his shoulder to try to get a better look. Vera just laughed at their fascination, pulling her tongue back into her mouth and smiling. 

David could feel her breath on his cheek as she took in his scent and he couldn’t help the shiver that went up his spine. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her better than Paul had, to fuck her and hear his name on her lips. He wanted to show her how strong he was, to impress her, to prove himself for some reason. He would kill a hundred surfers if he had to, if it would grant him her favor. He would sit out in the sun and burn himself if it meant he could be hers. 

He had never felt this way about anyone, and it was pissing him off.

Vera laughed to herself. She could smell his desire, and she knew that it was because of her. Just like those Surf Nazis, these vampires wanted her, but at least she liked this little pack. What’s more, that aching in her chest had stopped when they showed up, and she had a feeling she knew why. 

It was a little bit terrifying, though, and she wasn’t about to stop and think about it. 

“What are you suggesting?” She asked, brushing her fingers along his cheek, a smear of blood following. 

“Stay with us,” he breathed, blue eyes locked with hers. 

“Darling, I don’t even know your name,” she quipped, never shifting her gaze. 

“David,” he said with a slight growl as he felt himself getting lost in her eyes. 

“David,” she repeated, voice soft and breathy. Her hand moved to cup his cheek and he leaned into it, nose twitching as he smelled the fresh blood in her wrist. It was sweet, sweeter than any blood he had ever encountered before, and all he wanted to do was sink his fangs into her flesh and get a taste.

Vera heard a sigh and finally took her eyes off David. The other two were watching, just off to the side, staring hungrily at their leader and the new girl. 

“And what about you two?” She asked, hand sliding down to the side of David’s neck to keep him in check. She was confident enough in herself to handle him, but at the same time, he put her on edge. There was no way she was going to let her guard down around him yet.

That was the thing about female vampires, though; they had the uncanny ability to always put on a facade, and Vera was no exception. David made her nervous—they all did, honestly—but she wasn’t about to let them know that. 

“Paul,” the tall blonde said quickly, rushing forward as if he would die without her touch. He pressed his nose against her throat, breathing her scent as if he was starving. 

“Marko,” the smaller one followed, desperately reaching out to touch her hair. 

“Paul,” she purred, earning a growl. “...Marko…”

Another growl. 

They acted like they needed her, all three of them, but they were behaving themselves. She had no doubt that if she gave them the go ahead, she would be naked within seconds, but for the moment, they were listening to her. She had never experienced something like this before; usually, other vampires ignored her, or threatened her until she left their territory. These boys seemed to adore her, and she had to admit, she liked it. 

“Paul, Marko,” David said roughly. “Clean up so we can go home.”

With a groan, the younger two did as they were told, dragging Surf Nazi corpses into the ocean before wiping their hands and faces clean. 

“You’re their leader,” Vera said, more as an observation than anything else. “Are you their sire?”

David smirked as he helped her to her feet. “Depends on how you look at it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “There’s only one way to look at that, David.”

He melted when she said his name, leaning in to catch another whiff of her scent. It was sweet, like honey, sticky and sick, and all he wanted was to drown in it. “What have you done to me, Vera?”

She smiled and took his hand, raising it to lick blood off of his fingers. “Nothing on purpose, I promise.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t mind,” Paul suddenly grabbed her from behind, arms snaking around her waist as he buried his nose in her black hair, inhaling deeply and letting out a happy sigh. The feeling of her there in his arms, pressed up against him, was enough to make his fangs slide out again, and he couldn’t help but swipe his tongue up the side of her neck.

David snarled, snapping only inches from his brother’s face. “Behave.”

“You say as if you are,” Vera snorted, giving David a gentle push and easing her way out of Paul’s grip. “But you boys are all very sweet. I don’t mind the attention.”

“Oh, you have our attention, sweets,” Paul whistled as she turned and bent over to wash her face and hands at the water’s edge, giving them all a good view of her ass. A low rumble rose in David’s throat as he appreciated the sight, and Marko echoed it. 

“So greedy,” Vera mocked as she straightened up again. “Are you this nice to every bloodsucker that hangs out on your boardwalk, or is it just me?”

“Just you, that’s for sure,” Marko said, almost cackling.

“The others aren’t so delicious,” Paul cooed with that signature laugh. 

“Oh, aren’t you a charmer?” Vera said, walking back to them. Now that her arms and legs were clean of blood, they could see that she was covered in tattoos, and David wondered if she had them as a human before she was turned, or if she had found some way to make the ink stay in her regenerative skin.

Paul gave her a cocky grin and David rolled his eyes. His brother was such a flirtatious bastard. He was a lady killer, literally, even more than David was, but Vera didn’t seem to mind his advances. She seemed comfortable with Paul, taking it all in stride.

It made David just the tiniest bit jealous. 

“Come with us.” He said it more as an order than an offer, extending his hand out to her. 

“Unless you got somewhere better to go,” Marko joked. 

“And there ain’t nowhere better,” Paul snickered.

“There aren’t too many places to hide from the sun on a boardwalk,” Vera snorted. She was finally coming down from her high, the thrill of the hunt fading again and giving way to her less monstrous personality. “I was going to have to find a good spot anyways…”

Now that she wasn’t operating solely on instinct, she could take a moment and think about her situation. Three male vampires, none of whom had tried to kill her for stealing prey in their territory, seemed to be absolutely obsessed with everything about her and wanted her to go home with them. One had even kissed her and she had kissed him back, because it had felt so right. She allowed them to touch her, to taste her skin, to share her meal. They were stronger than her, and they outnumbered her, but she still felt like she was...in charge? 

David, the definite leader of the little pack, was looking at her hopefully. His face was stony, but she could see excitement in his blue eyes, and when she smiled, there was a spark of something in those irises. 

“Just don’t kill me in my sleep,” Vera joked as David took her hand and began leading her back up to the boardwalk. 

“No promises,” Marko leered as they followed.

“You look good enough to eat, babe,” Paul growled playfully, lunging forward to cop a feel of her ass. 

Vera only laughed, but David snarled dangerously at his brother, moving his arm to Vera’s shoulders and pulling her against his side. 

“Relax, you big angry beast,” Vera said with a grin, raising her hand to his chin and giving a teasing scratch. 

David huffed and Marko hooted with laughter. “Damn, she’s way more fun than you, David!”

“I dig this chick,” Paul snickered.

“You better share her,” Marko whined.

David smirked as they climbed the stairs back up to the boardwalk. Could he manage that? He only ever shared things with his brothers, but even then, he was terrible at it. Vera had some kind of magnetic pull on him, yeah, and his mouth watered at the thought of keeping her around, but Marko and Paul were both obviously into her...and she was into them. 

She was into all of them.

He needed to talk to Max. He honestly hated having to ask his sire for help or advice, and he avoided it whenever he could. Max had never been very nurturing, despite wanting everyone to act like a big family. It worked out for the boys, sure, but Max was…not a great father. A patriarch, yes, always seated at the head of the metaphorical table, but he was cruel and cold towards David, and he had been from the very start. He thought they all needed a stern hand to keep them in check, and David didn’t like that. 

Still, Max let them run free, and he knew more than David did about their own kind. He was helpful, sometimes, in his own way, and his son was going to have to defer to him. He had questions about Vera, about the pull he felt toward her, and Max was the only one with the answers.

As they returned to the boardwalk and joined the crowd of humans, Vera was pleased to see that the sea of people parted for the boys. They stepped aside, glancing with mixtures of emotions at the little pack. Girls looked dreamy, parents grabbed their children, Surf Nazis raised their lips in sneers. Was it because of their reputation, or did the humans somehow know that they should be afraid of the predators that stalked Santa Carla? She hoped it was both. She hoped that these boys were wild and rowdy enough to rule this boardwalk, and she hoped that they liked her enough to keep her around. 

She glanced up at the sky, a few stars twinkling despite the light pollution from the city. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t itching to hop on a bus or hitch hike to the next town. For once in her life, Something was occupying her mind, and the wanderlust was giving way to another, completely foreign feeling. The ache in her chest was gone, but it was replaced by a strange, burning, almost longing that she had never felt before. It was almost similar to the emotions she experienced during bloodlust, but she was in control of herself. Her fangs weren’t poking through, her eyes weren’t shining...she was happy and her hunger was sated, so where was this coming from? 

She was still avoiding the one train of thought that would bring her to the right conclusion. It was just too much to consider, especially with everything happening so quickly all of the sudden. 

They came to a halt when they reached their bikes, Dwayne already back from dropping Laddie off. From the looks of it, he had grabbed a bite on the way, jeans stained with fresh blood that the humans would just assume was from a fight. 

Vera stopped. There was another male here? She was finding it hard to believe that she had stumbled across a pack of four males without any females, but she couldn’t smell much in the way of estrogen on them. It was just odd; vampires didn’t usually live in bachelor groups like these, but she supposed it wasn’t entirely unheard of. It was just strange that they hadn’t found any girls they wanted to keep around for all eternity.

Most people got lonely eventually. Maybe these four were all actually lovers...but she hadn’t seen any marks that would mean they were claimed, and she hadn’t smelled or sensed anything that would lead her to believe that they were serious.

Odd.

The one leaning against the bike was tall, long dark hair falling around his shoulders and a curious, but serious, expression on his handsome face. She felt frozen under his gaze, uncharacteristically nervous, like a deer in the headlights. It was like he could see right through her, and she didn’t know if she liked that or not.

“Dwayne, this is Vera,” David said as he tugged her along. She found a way to make her legs work again and followed, letting a smile curl its way onto her lips when Dwayne bowed his head to her. 

“And she’s tough,” Marko said, bouncing over to his bike. 

“And she’s gorgeous,” Paul took her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss as he passed her.

“I can see that,” Dwayne said, his voice deep and smooth, a seductive smile on his lips. 

David narrowed his eyes, but tried to hide the movement with a smirk. “Keep an eye on her. I’m going to visit Max.”

“Oh, I’ll keep both eyes on her,” Paul winked as he beckoned for her to sit behind him on his motorcycle. 

David rolled his eyes, desperately trying to not make a scene. “Control yourself. I’ll be back.” 

He pressed a kiss to Vera’s head, inhaling deeply before leaving her side and stalking off down the boardwalk. He could already feel his sire tugging questioningly at his consciousness, curious as to why David was so eager to speak to him. His son had always been good at blocking him out, keeping his mind locked down unless he needed something or there was trouble that called for Max’s attention. The others were more open, but Max didn’t have as strong a link with them, and while David was supposed to be his prodigal son, he was so...secretive. Private. Closed off. For him to be willingly heading to the VideoMax store for anything other than annoying him or hitting on Maria out of boredom, something very important had to be going on, and Max was beyond itching to know what it could be. 

“Who’s Max?” Vera asked, joining Paul to perch on the back of his bike. 

“David’s sire,” Marko answered. 

“A grouchy old bloodsucker,” Paul grinned. 

“He runs the video store. He hates it when we crash.” Marko laughed. 

“But...that cashier is pretty cute,” Paul said, thinking of Maria. “I’d love for a bite of—”

He was cut off by the breath leaving his body when Vera wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head against his back. 

Marko hooted with laughter at his brother’s reaction and Dwayne let out a chuckle. Paul was absolutely speechless, and Vera wasn’t even making skin on skin contact with him. 

Until she felt him tense, smirked against his back, and slid her hands under his mesh shirt. 

If Paul could blush, he would have. He would have been a shade past tomato red. The feeling of her fingers running over his abs was all he could focus on for a moment, and all he wanted was to kiss her again, feel her again, maybe get a little tongue action...

“You’re supposed to behave yourself, Paul,” Marko taunted as he caught a whiff of the lust in the air and felt his brother’s excited thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul snarled. “I don’t need this shit from you.”

“I’m just repeating what David said,” Marko said defensively. “You’re the one who can’t keep it in his pants.”

“Well, aren’t you just the perfect little angel?” Paul shot back. “I’m the one with a goddess on his bike, might I remind you.”

Marko scoffed, lip raised in a nasty little snarl. “Not for long, Paul!”

Vera smiled as they bickered. Paul’s arousal hung in the air, but she didn’t mind; in fact, she liked it, and she hugged her arms around him tighter as he squabbled with Marko. She was eager to get back to wherever it was that they called home, and she was eager to sleep surrounded by them and feel truly safe for once. She was used to being alone, and she wasn’t scared of it, but she was always on edge, always ready to run or fight. It made her a light sleeper, and the concept of not having to worry was more tantalizing than any of these boys were on their own. 

[intergalactic-zoo]

If you've been in comic circles for some time, chances are pretty good that you're familiar with "Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex," the essay Larry Niven wrote in 1969 on the subject of Superman's potentially lethal sex life. If you haven't read it, then you might have gotten the jist of it from that scene in "Mallrats." 

It makes sense to me that such an essay, crass and silly though it is, would be written in 1969. That's the tail-end of the Silver Age, where Superman's power-creep had reached such levels that his hair was indestructible, he could break the time barrier under his own power, and he could juggle planets like helium balloons. 

So it was a little surprising to learn this week that Vladimir Nabokov wrote a poem with a similar sentiment way back in 1942. Nineteen forty-two! Six years before Kirk Alyn would bring the character to life, submitted in between the release of the seventh and eighth Fleischer cartoons, back when Superman wasn't consistently flying in the comics, the guy who would go on to write Lolita was speculating about the impossibility of relations between humans and Kryptonians. 

The letter he wrote when he submitted the poem to The New Yorker has big "uwu pwease pay me if it's not too much twouble" energy. 

I am sending you a poem on the troubles of Superman of the Funnies (with, if necessary, apologies to his, or rather its, makers). I should like to repeat that I experience most horrible difficulties and distress in wielding a language new to me – after 25 years of good old Russian. If, however, the poem is acceptable – not too ungrammatical as a whole and not too risqué about the middle of its favours – might I perhaps humble [sic] request a honorarium as adequate as possible to my Russian past and my present agonies?

The story of how Nabokov's poem, "The Man of To-Morrow's Lament," came to be rediscovered after all these years, and how it ties into his son's love of the character at the time, is a pretty interesting one, which you can read about at the link (if you have a subscription). But the poem itself, well...read on.

The Man of To-morrow’s Lament

I have to wear these glasses – otherwise, when I caress her with my super-eyes, her lungs and liver are too plainly seen throbbing, like deep-sea creatures, in between dim bones. Oh, I am sick of loitering here, a banished trunk (like my namesake in “Lear”), but when I switch to tights, still less I prize my splendid torso, my tremendous thighs, the dark-blue forelock on my narrow brow, the heavy jaw; for I shall tell you now my fatal limitation … not the pact between the worlds of Fantasy and Fact which makes me shun such an attractive spot as Berchtesgaden, say; and also not that little business of my draft; but worse: a tragic misadjustment and a curse.

I’m young and bursting with prodigious sap, and I’m in love like any healthy chap – and I must throttle my dynamic heart for marriage would be murder on my part, an earthquake, wrecking on the night of nights a woman’s life, some palmtrees, all the lights, the big hotel, a smaller one next door and half a dozen army trucks – or more.

But even if that blast of love should spare her fragile frame – what children would she bear? What monstrous babe, knocking the surgeon down, would waddle out into the awestruck town? When two years old he’d break the strongest chairs, fall through the floor and terrorize the stairs; at four, he���d dive into a well; at five, explore a roaring furnace – and survive; at eight, he’d ruin the longest railway line by playing trains with real ones; and at nine, release all my old enemies from jail, and then I’d try to break his head – and fail.

So this is why, no matter where I fly, red-cloaked, blue-hosed, across the yellow sky, I feel no thrill in chasing thugs and thieves – and gloomily broad-shouldered Kent retrieves his coat and trousers from the garbage can and tucks away the cloak of Superman; and when she sighs – somewhere in Central Park where my immense bronze statue looms – “Oh, Clark … Isn’t he wonderful!?!”, I stare ahead and long to be a normal guy instead.

Vladimir Nabokov June 1942

It's kind of wild just how much Superman discourse is presaged here, how many story and character beats we'd see play out over the next eighty years. 

It's been an increasingly long time since I did any kind of regular poetry analysis, as evidenced by the fact that I needed to Google "thing where a poet ends a line in the middle of a sentence" in order to talk about how much enjambment there is here. Honestly, I do like a good rhyming couplet, and I appreciate Nabokov's commitment to using them throughout here, even if it means overusing that technique. 

The references to the war in the first stanza are interesting; Andrei Babikov's commentary in The TLS suggests that this is an attempt to compare the character with Hitler, emphasizing the comment about the forelock (and drawing comparisons to Chaplin's "Great Dictator"), but Hitler's forelock—if you can really call it that—has very little in common with Superman's trademark s-curl, which doesn't merit mention in Babikov's discussion. To me, this reads more like an acknowledgement that Superman may be selling war bonds and punching Nazi ships and even hoisting Hitler up by the scruff of the neck, but he's a character from the realm of Fantasy, not Fact, and he's powerless to do anything about the real issue. Even in the comics, they might show Superman knocking around tanks on the front lines, but Superman's only encounter with Hitler himself notably came in the pages of Look Magazine two years . Superman's service in the war was limited to four-color fictional Nazis. 

But as much as I like the imagery of the dark-blue forelock, calling to mind the coloring of classic comics, I'm more than a little disquieted by "young and bursting with prodigious sap." The earth-shaking imagery in the rest of that second stanza got a laugh from me. I appreciate that it's less graphic than the Niven essay, "blast of love" aside. 

Stanza three predicts so many Superbaby stories, particularly from the Silver Age, but even "Letitia Lerner, Superman's Babysitter" has these same elements of an indestructible toddler causing mischief and mayhem. But also it speaks to Nabokov's own anxieties as a parent. 

The closing stanza, though, is where things get a little eerie. "No matter where I fly, / red-cloaked, blue-hosed, across the yellow sky, / I feel no thrill" might as well be "I can't stand to fly / I'm not that naïve." The desire to be normal, in part to have normal relationships, is a major character trait in "Superman II" and "Smallville." Honestly, almost every instance we've seen of Clark Kent being morose and brooding over the last eight decades is predicted right here in this unpublished poem. 

Overall, it's an interesting artifact. It shows that some ideas, some sorts of discourse around this character, are older than we might realize.

And, I suppose, so is erotic fanfiction. 

[jngles]

Thoughts You Definitely All Asked For on ‘The Mandalorian’ Season 2 Finale!!

These are in chronological order for the show.

One of my biggest fears about them reintroducing Boba Fett was that by removing some of his mystery, they would make him less cool. Thank god that has not been the case. He’s still an aloof and nasty piece of work but with dimensions added.

We all know the Empire is most often a metaphor for America right? At least when it’s not being Nazi Germany? The Imperial pilot talking about destroying an entire planet (of peaceful weaponless civilians no less) to stop terrorism hits a little too close to home of the nuclear bombs the US has dropped and the endless destruction of the Middle East in the “war against terror.” And of course we frame all our wars in similar language like “our troops died to keep our country safe,” which hasn’t really been true since WWII.

I do think it’s worth noting that this is the first time SW has had someone acknowledge the human losses of the Death Star blasts. Usually it’s framed as a loss in construction time, strategical advantage, and power. The Empire proved time and time again that the lives of its soldiers were utterly expendable, which always made me question why people remained loyal outside of fear. Through this pilot’s phrasing, you can see the propaganda Imperial superiors used to twist the truth to their followers, always blaming those deaths on Rebel aggression instead of prideful Imperial neglect (I.e. not abandoning ship when there was still time) or even direct Imperial aggression like Operation Cinder where they fired on thousands of their own (discussed in S2E7.)

You can’t tell me Din wasn’t into it when Cara shot that asshole pilot. That cold faced revenge shot? 100% Mandalorian style, and also very very hot.

I appreciate that it was a pretty equal match between Boba and Koska Reeves. So much of Boba’s advantage comes from his suit, but since she also has one, it’s a battle of wits on how to use it, and they even out. This both maintains his legendary badassery and also that of highly trained Mandalorian warriors, and hopefully avoids asshole chauvinist SW fans on the internet complaining abujt “pandering to feminism” (fuck off @ all of them, especially since Mercedes Vernado who plays Reeves is a WWE champ and could kick all of your asses.)

Din point blank asked how many Death Troopers there are and Dr. Pershing never answered, and that annoys me.

Why is no one suspicious why Dr. Pershing is being so helpful and revealing so much information? He totally did not have to tell them about the Dark Troopers or any of the specifics of locations on the ship. He’s still with the empire post-fall, implying he’s a loyalist, so... wtf on his part (since no tricks come of it), and “be smarter” on the part of everyone else. Unless he’s been captive as a clone engineer all this time. But couldn’t he have made his escape back in Season 1 when Din killed everyone at that lab to get the kid back?

Bo Katan really could’ve just told them how the retrieval of the dark saber needs to work in the flight before the mission instead of being vague about “he belongs to me.”

Boba Fett’s usage of “Princess” and “don’t worry about me” are a good throwback to Han Solo and the culture they both grew up in. You can never quite tell if it’s based in misogyny or resentment for upper classes, but both of them seem to use it as a shield for begrudging respect they hold for a woman they think is brave but following a fool’s errand (the Rebellion and retaking Mandalore).

The Comms Officer (Katy O’Brian) assisting Moff Gideon will forever and always look like Ilana Glazer to me, and then I get swept up imagining what would happen if the Broad City cast accidentally got transported to Star Wars.

The launch tube sequence has some amazing cinematography.

The second I saw Boba was cut off from the pack, I really thought they were going to kill him again and make his return bittersweet. Glad they didn’t.

God this team of Bo Katan, Koska Reeves, Fennec Shand, and Cara Dune is SO BADASS. I’m just obsessed with all these characters and their various motivations to get shit done. I honestly didn’t even think about the fact it’s all women until my re-watch, showing that the writers made it feel natural, the way women deserve to have their representation done. You can bet I am SO EXCITED for my future daughter and the wealth of possibilities she’s going to have of characters to play pretend as, action figures she can relate to, Halloween costumes to wear, etc. It’s so validating that we’ve gone from only Princess Leia as a female main character to all these women + Rey, Jyn Erso, Ahsoka, etc. etc.

Can’t wait for the trap remix of the Dark Trooper activation noises. (And the transition from that to the minimalist flute theme is perfect.)

The spy movie version of the main theme music is sick.

The Dark Trooper droid faces have a lot of similarity to Darth Vader’s mask. That callback is especially apparent when the one is literally lit from the inside with fire. He was already a martyr/legend to the Imperial remnants, Kylo Ren didn’t start the trend of ignoring his redemption.

Cara’s “excuse me” right before shooting up Stormtroopers is hilarious. Literally “can’t talk rn, doing hot girl shit and murdering space Nazis.”

Finally an Imperial ship got some frickin security cameras. Truly- the amount of times people just wander down hallways they’re not supposed to be in with no one being able to find them throughout the course of Star Wars is ridiculous when you think about the degree of surveillance our real life society carries out. I also love that this means The Mandalorian characters have also seen The Mandalorian.

The storytelling does such a service to Pedro Pascal and his already heroic efforts to portray emotion through a helmet. For example: Din easily could’ve killed the one stormtrooper outside Grogu’s cell much more efficiently, but instead, to show his absolute rage, they wrote in Din choking him out with a spear.

Moff Gideon would have been the BIGGEST pain in the ass in philosophy class. “Assume I know everything” my ass. I want to hear about his backstory (he would’ve been “coming of age” at the time of the Clone Wars) mostly just to hear about him getting bullied at school.

Smart move honestly, to try to tempt Din with the Mandalorian throne, given the Mandalorian power struggles of the past. Proud of our boy for keeping his priorities straight.

So has the blood from Grogu been transferred out of the ship and back to the remnant empire already, or do they have to find a new “donor” to help with building Snoke and Palpatine’s clones? Will they continue to go after him with Luke?

Lmao Din being so annoyed by Bo Katan being stringent about the tradition of winning the Dark Saber through combat is HILARIOUS, coming from a man who up until like a day ago hadn’t shown his face to a living being in decades.

The dark troopers can punch in blast doors but NOT Din’s helmet?? That’s a wild testament to beskar. Somehow that’s the comparison that sticks out to me, more even than its resistance to lightsabers.

This show works because of the cynicism of so many characters adding contrast to the moments of heart. Cara Dune is not a “fan” the way Rey was (for the record I love Rey, don’t come at her, it’s just different). Cara doesn’t see an X-Wing and go OMG THE REBELLION I LOVE THEM. She’s been through too much to believe in the magic saviourism of the “good guys,” and is instead thinking strategically when she, the one Rebel present, brushes off the usefulness of “one X-Wing.” The only positive things she seems to feel in battle situations are moments of relief and brief satisfaction in hurting the empire, with a dark knowledge that it will never make up for the hurt they did to her.

How do you keep a cloak hood on while fighting? Both from a technical standpoint (my hats fall off without me even having to move- is he expending force energy just to keep it on and look cool lol?) and also because idk, maybe it’s just me, but peripheral vision is helpful when surrounded by killer robots on a thin bridge above oblivion. I know his first lesson was to “see” through the force, but every resource helps, right?

Now that she has the ship, I wonder if Bo Katan can reprogram any salvageable Dark Troopers to help with retaking Mandalore?

There is nothing like seeing Luke’s fighting style, with its efficient choppiness and twinge of darkness. I always wonder how much is natural and how much is influenced by his first fights with Vader (that Skywalker diva flair). I love how they’ve advanced his technique but also kept him extremely “grey” here- like to straight up COMBUST a Dark Trooper takes some violent energy lol.

How tf is Moff Gideon alive after threatening Grogu’s life twice directly? That’s a wild testament to Din’s regard for Cara.

I love how seeing Luke slice through a bunch of murder droids like butter probably was a huge point in his favor for Din actually letting Grogu go with him. Like he will only send his child to boarding preschool if he knows the teacher will be a certified killing machine.

Oh my god they finally brought in some OG Star Wars theme music for Luke to take his hood off to 😭 It felt weird seeing him fight to different music, so the emotional payoff is huge when his themes come back for the face reveal.

Whoever added the digital young Mark Hamill face NAILED those classic shining Luke eyes and the earnest eyebrow lift.

Whoever shines the glass of Baby Yoda’s lil puppet eyeballs each day deserves a raise. The light caught in those babies is devastating.

Din is shaking as he takes off his helmet. This is the most enormous show of love he could give him, and possibly the last he’ll be able to for a long time. He only just got Grogu back and is desperate for a moment of real connection before letting him go once again.

This is the first time anyone has touched Din’s face since... likely his parents as a child.

Whoever wrote this scene clearly actually has kids. Anyone who’s ever had to leave a young child even just to go out for a bit or to drop them off somewhere knows that heartbreak of seeing them look in your eyes and hold on to your leg, trying to keep you with them. Especially when they can sense your mutual separation anxiety. The one thing that starts to make them feel better is something fun like a new toy or friend who can be their guide in the new environment, and R2’s friendly introduction is exactly that (since digital Luke isn’t being particularly emotive or child friendly... I hope that’s just because he’s reaching into Grogu’s mind while also keeping an eye on the multiple people with guns trained on him, not because he’s going to be totally unfeeling raising this kid.)

I love that Grogu and R2 are immediately buddies in contrast to Episode 5 when R2 was like “fuck this guy” @ Yoda stealing food and hitting him with a walking stick lol. I would imagine Luke must be reminded of that first introduction too and entertained by this display of playfulness in a *positive* light between R2 and mini-Yoda.

I need to know if Luke and Ahsoka have met- it is KILLING ME.

Does this mean Grogu will get killed by Kylo Ren when he fucks up Luke’s academy??? I will reincarnate Ben just to kill him again if that’s the case.

How does Luke not even fully SMILE at Grogu?? An adorable little baby version of his beloved master Yoda, and you’re telling me he doesn’t have the same heart stopping gasp we all did when we first saw him?? Maybe he did when they first connected through the force. He has a bit of bemusement on his face, and also wonder in his eyes, but I want a grin of recognition and welcome, dammit.

I really wish Luke had somehow acknowledged Cara Dune. Everyone else seems to see the tear drop Rebel sign and know it means Alderaan. He could’ve been like yo I have a badass warrior sister from your planet that you should meet. Or just “thank you for your service.” (I know this actually wouldn’t have been cinematically good but my heart wants it.)

Luke didn’t tell Din his name?? Or ask for any details about the kid and his care?? I could literally never let my kid go with someone, regardless of how worthy, and not be like, “Excuse me sir who are you and where tf are you taking my tiny beloved green goblin in case I need to find him? Here is my contact info. He likes to eat frogs and eggs, and he can have macarons as a treat. He’s 50 years old and his favorite toy is still a ball. Bedtime is 8pm and he’s allergic to dairy.”

Another reason I wish Luke had identified himself would be to see the mishmash of reactions that would ensue. Cara would be like DAMN IT’S THAT GUY WHO BLEW UP THE DEATH STAR AND KILLED THE EMPEROR, ACT COOL (and she would indeed act cool). Fennec would be like ugh it’s that guy who helped kill my best paying client Jabba the Hutt and then fucked over my boss Boba, I helped save the kid for THIS? And I would LOVE to know how Bo Katan feels about him, assuming she’s heard of him, and especially if she knows he’s Anakin Skywalker’s son. That confusion is probably the reason WHY the writers didn’t have him reveal himself- they didn’t want to break the emotion of the scene.

Let‘s all be real I’m just being needy about wanting things from Luke because of what he meant to me as a kid and my resulting innate need to have more canon of him, whatever it is, whenever I can get it. Especially in this form that’s so similar to ROTJ, a movie I watched on endless repeat. Even getting this was incredible though. Who else could we trust this lil heart-stealing green bean with so fully? Yet who would be so arrogant as to try to train a baby yodling (see: Ahsoka’s wise refusal)?

R2 is reckless as hell lmao. Not that we don’t already know that, but for him to just head on in, effectively abandoning Luke’s ship (how can they know if there are more troopers or not who might blow it up?) and also putting himself in the path of the ridiculously deadly Dark Troopers is NUTS. I’m usually on his side but he absolutely deserves a scolding by C3PO for this one.

I wonder if Grogu has any memories of R2 or vice versa since they did occupy the Jedi Temple at the same time. Can Grogu understand droids? They could swap stories about mutual acquaintances.

Does Din pretty much have to go with Bo Katan now since a) he’s shown his face and may not be able to go back to the Watch, and b) because he has the darksaber and has to figure out how to get it back to her without dying?

How in the hell did Bib Fortuna (whose chins age was not kind to) go from being butler to being boss? Were all the henchmen just like, “Fuck yeah, no Hutt parents no rules, let’s do what we want!!” And then they’ve spent the last ten years living off of whatever money they could salvage from Jabba’s non-banked wealth? Why has no one challenged them for that prime real estate and loot? I would love to hear that story.

Fennec Shand says “respect sex workers” so you better fuckin’ do it.

Idk dude Bib Fortuna really was a good butler, and he seemed pretty willing to comply with whoever’s in power. Did he screw Boba over in his attempt to return from the dead and earn that killing shot somehow? Or was this to make sure there was no one left who would have a claim to loyalty? Or maybe Boba just really wanted to sit in that chair.

Does “The Book of Boba Fett” mean we’re not on Din Djarin’s story anymore? Or is it a new show? I would much prefer the latter. I want to see Din help retake Mandalore or at least get a hug.

[aion-rsa]

Best New Movies on Netflix in March 2021

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The month of March signals a grim milestone with it being roughly one year since COVID-19 shut movie theaters down around the world. And 12 months later, going to a cinema remains a risky proposition. However, the comfort of Netflix is still providing a safe alternative for the quarantine-bound.

Here’s a handful of new cinematic gems coming to a streaming service near you.

Batman Begins (2005)

March 1

Christopher Nolan‘s Batman origin story breathed new life into the Dark Knight in 2005 after Batman & Robin killed the movie franchise eight years earlier. Christian Bale, who gained more muscle than he probably needed for the role, turns in an excellent performance as both the troubled billionaire and the Caped Crusader. Along for the ride are Michael Caine as the definitive version of Alfred Pennyworth on the big screen, as well as Liam Neeson as Ra’s al Ghul, Gary Oldman as Jim Gordon, and Katie Holmes as love interest Rachel Dawes. Featuring plenty of twists and turns, a few spooky scenes with the Scarecrow (Cillian Murphy), and a deep-dive into the mind of a haunted man on a mission to save his decaying city, Batman Begins plants many of the seeds of brilliance that would fully bloom in its follow-up.

Crazy, Stupid, Love. (2011)

March 1

Hitting its 10-year anniversary in a few months, Glenn Ficarra and John Requa’s Crazy, Stupid, Love. still feels like a rom-com from a different era. With its laid back demeanor, and generally laconic grooving on a plot about a player (Ryan Gosling) helping a middle-aged divorced schmuck (Steve Carell) get back on his feet, this goes down more like a star vehicle from five decades ago. Yet the piece is as effortlessly appealing as Gosling’s too-cool-for-school energy, elevating the movie over screenwriter Dan Fogelman’s more recent dramedies, such as This is Us. Plus, hey, it’s also the first movie to realize Gosling and Emma Stone have like crazy good chemistry.

Dances with Wolves (1990)

March 1

Kevin Costner’s Oscar winner is somewhat haunted by its little gold statues for Best Picture and Director, which it won over Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas. However, there is still an excellent Western here that captured audiences’ imaginations in 1990 for a reason. The story of a U.S. Cavalry officer who becomes enamored with and then assimilated by a community of Lakota Native Americans, Dances with Wolves has a sweeping majesty that’s as immersive as John Barry’s score. It can be rightly criticized for embracing “white savior” tropes, but Costner’s movie still has the good grace to put performances like Graham Greene’s front and center.

The Dark Knight (2008)

March 1

Fans critical of Heath Ledger’s casting as the Joker quickly switched to praising the late actor when The Dark Knight hit theaters in 2008. A true agent of chaos, this Joker puts Bale’s Batman and his allies through a gauntlet of capers, assassination attempts, and pain. Even district attorney Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart), the city’s very own white knight, can’t resist the Joker’s corrupting influence as the clown lays siege to Gotham. A story about how far you’ll go to get justice, and how long a functioning society can withstand that pressure, The Dark Knight plays more like a serious crime drama (with Batman flying off rooftops on occasion, of course) than a traditional superhero romp. At a time when superhero movies were still better known for punching and tights, Nolan sought to say something more with the genre. 

Rain Man (1988)

March 1

Barry Levinson’s 1988 road trip drama cleaned up at the Oscars when it was released, bagging Best Picture, Director, Original Screenplay, and Best Actor for Dustin Hoffman. It’s often held up as creating the stereotype of the “autistic savant,” but this drama which sees selfish douchebag Charlie (Tom Cruise) travel across America with Raymond (Hoffman), the brother he didn’t know he had but who is now unexpectedly the sole inheritor of their father’s fortune, still stands up as a character piece that tugs at the heartstrings. If nothing else, it’s a highly quotable cultural phenomenon and a showcase of actors at the top of their game.

Training Day (2001)

March 1

Here is a film so good that its influence still lingers over pop culture to this day, even if no one quite remembers why Denzel Washington is saying King Kong ain’t got shit on him. Back in 2001, it catapulted Washington to his second Oscar, this time in the leading man category thanks to the role of Alonzo, a crooked cop who takes rookie Jake (Ethan Hawke) under his wing and (seemingly) into his vices. It’s a gritty crime thriller anchored by two strong performances, including Washington at his showiest. In fact, he’s so good at elevating this movie that it sometimes feels like director Antoine Fuqua and screenwriter David Ayer have been unsuccessfully trying to duplicate it ever since.

Audrey (2020)

March 14

Audrey Hepburn so effortlessly inhabits the screen that for generations of movie lovers, she seemed unreal—a symbol of style and glamour whose feet were never meant to touch earthly clay. This, however, misses the remarkableness of her life’s journey, from starving conditions under Nazi occupation in the Netherlands during her adolescence—informing her unique frame for the rest of her life—to eventually using those unspoken memories of atrocity as the foundation to become a human rights activist late in life. In between, she had a brief Hollywood career stacked with high fashion and a shockingly high quotient of classics. In fact, she became a new image for femininity in the mid-20th century. Audrey is a somewhat rose-tinted documentary about all of this, but for those who would like to know more, it’s a lovely place to start.

Philomena (2013)

March 22

A sweet, powerful, and decidedly underrated gem, Stephen Frears’ Philomena provides a gentle touch to the true life story of Philomena Lee, a woman who spent 50 years looking for the child she was forced to give up to adoption. But even “forced” is perhaps too easy a word since in her native Ireland, she was more or less incarcerated at a convent after becoming pregnant at the age of 18, with nuns sending the child away to parts unknown without her consent. Philomena now tracks the final months of her search as an older woman through the prism of a two-hander between Judi Dench as Philomena and Steve Coogan as Martin Sixsmith, the journalist who told her story and inspired the film. It makes for a surprisingly warm and affectionate road movie.

At Eternity’s Gate (2018)

March 31

At Eternity’s Gate is far from the only film about the life of Vincent van Gogh and it isn’t the best (shout out to Lust For Life, Loving Vincent, and that one episode of Doctor Who), but it’s still worth a watch—especially for fans of the Dutch painter. With Willem Dafoe as van Gogh, Oscar Isaac as Paul Gaugin, and Mads Mikkelsen as “The Priest,” the 2018 biopic would be worth it for the performances alone. But director and artist Julian Schnabel (The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Basquiat) further elevates what is a pretty straight-forward story (albeit with a controversial ending) about the painter’s final, prolific days in the French countryside into a visually vivid and emotionally affecting tale about the joys and struggles of creative compulsion.

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The post Best New Movies on Netflix in March 2021 appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[salty-ironstrange-shipper]

I see a lot of white man ranking the mcu movies, so I thought I would balance that out with some good opinions

Worst to Best, so we can have some dramatic tension

22, 21, and 20: The Incredible Hulk, Thor, Thor: The Dark World - I’ve watched these, but I remember fuck all about them, which tells you everything

19: Avengers: Age of Ultron - a few good moments that don’t make up for the fact that it is SUPER boring, people are mean to my favorite boy Tony, and other stuff that would take up too much time if I got into it now

18: Ant-Man - perfectly fine while watching it, but nothing particularly memorable except the effects, boring villain and characters I’ve seen a thousand times before (Luis is good though); would not have watched if it was not a marvel movie

17: Captain America: The First Avenger - I only vaguely remember this, but Nazis were punched, so it’s above the others, and I don’t have any bad feelings about it; really no better or worse than Ant-Man in my mind, but it has to go somewhere

16: Captain America: The Winter Soldier - ... yeah I don’t remember anything about this, but Sam Wilson is in it; I remember being excited when, towards the end, an old woman was kicking ass, but then it was Natasha in a mask, and I was disappointed

15: Ant-Man and the Wasp - very similar to Ant-Man, but I liked the jokes better, and the antagonist Ava was interesting, but she didn’t get enough time or development and had to split the antagonist role with a SUPER boring guy whose name I don’t remember; oh, and Scott and Jimmy Woo flirted

14: Avengers: Endgame - not canon

13: The Avengers - ... it’s fine

12: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 - some of the jokes weren’t as funny as the movie thought they were, and I felt like humor too often undercut the serious moments; but it had good emotion, I at least liked most of the humor, and the characters and relationships are great

11: Captain America: Civil War - pros: Peter and Bucky are in it, good action, I like the characters; cons: people are mean to my boy

10: Guardians of the Galaxy - good characters, good humor, good development, good

9: Iron Man 2 - I love my boy, but this is the weakest of the Iron Man movies; I definitely like it, and it’s important to Tony’s character, but it’s the least favorite of my favorites

8: Spider-Man: Homecoming - small bean, precious; interesting plot and characters, fun movie, light-hearted

7: Thor: Ragnarok - I feel like this one was better with some of the things I didn’t like from GotG2 (the jokes and undercut the emotion), solid movie 

6: Black Panther - the basic plot’s been done before and I would have liked to see more character/relationship development, but I loved the characters, loved the scenery, loved the themes

5: Doctor Strange: love Stephen, love magic, love Benedict Cumberbatch, love the characters, other people find this one kind of boring, but I genuinely enjoy it

4: Captain Marvel - white men need to stfu, this movie is funny and interesting and I love each and every one of the characters, y’all just don’t understand how important it is to people to see themselves portrayed as the hero of the story because you’ve always had it

3: Iron Man 3 - !!! my boi!!! characters with mental illness and portraying it accurately and making it important!!! does not need the suit to be Iron Man!!! funny!!! good characters!!! rich white men are behind conflicts in the middle east and benefit from it!!!

2: Avengers: Infinity War - very good; tight plot, good jokes, serious moments and emotion, love seeing all my favorite characters together, clint wasn’t in it, ironstrange and supremefam

1: Iron Man - was there ever any question. eleven years and it still holds up. Tony is easily one of the most, if not the most, interesting characters in the series, watch the climax of this movie again and try to tell me Tony Stark is selfish (also, still reminding us that rich white men are behind conflicts in the middle east and benefit from it, fuck you Obadiah). Besides, it’s my 

B O I

feel free to add your faves/least faves/opinions unless you want to start something, then shoo

[takadasaiko]

In Defense of Howard Stark

The Marvel Cinematic Universe doesn’t have a shortage of layered, fascinating characters. It’s always easy to hyper focused on the ones we love most, and that’s the excuse I roll with for why it’s taken me so long to find my fascination with Howard Stark. Up until the last few months I looked at him through the lense of who he was to other characters. He was Tony’s father, Steve’s friend, and co-founder of SHIELD with Peggy Carter. He filled roles, but I didn’t look closer for a long time. I didn’t have any reason to.

Then came the Great MCU Rewatch that happened post-Endgame. It wasn’t until I had Dominic Cooper’s Howard stacked back-to-back with John Slattery’s Howard that I started to dig into him. We meet a young man in Captain America: The First Avenger, the Peggy Carter short, and two seasons of the Agent Carter series on ABC. He’s brilliant and goofy, rarely serious unless he’s discussing his work. It’s a stark contrast with the older Howard we meet through John Slattery’s version. Either there was a catastrophic miscommunication between the writers, the directors, and the actors on who Howard Stark was supposed to be, or something caused that shift. The moment I settled on the latter, Howard went from a supporting character whose only use was to help round out others around him to a truly interesting, layered and even broken man.  I became fascinated with piecing together that journey. I needed to know what took this man

to a man that his own son described as cold and distant.

I had been using Howard to help deepen my understanding of others, and in the same way, taking a look at those that he keeps close to him and how he treats them helps to shed light on who he is.

Who Howard Surrounds Himself With

Howard wasn’t raised with the same economic and social privilege that he was able to provide to his son in later years. In S1 of Agent Carter he tells Peggy that he was raised on the Lower East Side to a father that sold fruit and a mother that was a seamstress in a factory, going on to tell her how he’d learned to lie to break through the ceiling society had placed for someone like him.

Yet as of S2 of Agent Carter Howard was in high demand at a club that wouldn’t have let him within a hundred feet of if he hadn’t made the fortune that he did with Stark Industries. With that background matched with the contacts he would have made after Stark Industries took off, I think it’s safe to say that Howard knew people from every walk of life.  

There were the less savory types:

Joe Manfredi and Howard grew up together and the mobster had no trouble reaching out to Howard years later for help when his kinda crazy girlfriend Whitney Frost went over the edge and into territory even he was uncomfortable with.

And while we may not know how he met Obadiah Stane, the other man wormed his way so deeply into Howard’s life and career that he was poised to manipulate his son after his death.

We don’t know a lot about those other than the fact that Howard wasn’t opposed to shady characters.

There’s something interesting in the more positive friendships that he keeps though.

Edwin Jarvis is a fascinating character. Howard’s butler is that and more. We see him stick with Howard through thick and thin. Through countless girlfriends that he was the bearer of bad news to

through disagreements, and he was with the Stark family long enough that Tony was influenced by him enough that he based his AI system off of him. Jarvis himself tells Peggy the story of how he met and came to work for Howard Stark in S1 of Agent Carter, shedding light on yet another layer of the complicated man:

Jarvis met his wife Ana during the war. She was Hungarian. Moreover, she was Hungarian-Jew in the middle of Europe overrun by nazis. Jarvis fell hard, but the general that he worked for wouldn’t help, even though he could have done so easily. So Jarvis forged his signature. He was found out and would have been tried for treason, but Howard - who had had business dealings with the general - stepped in and used his influence to save not only Edwin, but Ana as well.

There was no indication that Howard expected anything in return, but Jarvis remained loyal and steady.

And then there’s Peggy.

I could go on for days about Howard and Peggy’s friendship. I love it dearly, and feel that we need more friendships like it on television.

He flirts with her, he teases her, but in the end he respects no one quite like he does Margaret Carter.

Howard is a self-admitted liar. He felt that he had to become one in order to break free from the ceiling that society put over him in his youth. He doesn’t trust easily and, even when he does, he still hides behind a quirky, playboy mask meant to obscure anything of any real depth under frivolous layers. To get to the level of success he found himself in at such a young age he had to build up an imperviousness to others’ opinions of him. He flaunts in most cases, but, for better or worse, he does care about how Peggy views him.

She’s the one he turns to to clear his name at the beginning of the first season of Agent Carter and the only one that can talk him out of the mire of his own deepest regrets at the end of the same season.

The funny thing is that, for all his determination that he doesn’t really care how people see him, Howard seems to keep people closest to him that will keep him in check. Jarvis and Peggy, especially. They don’t pull punches and they call him on his shit.

If it’s a conscious choice or even a subconscious one, Howard surrounds himself with people that will hold him accountable. I’d put good money on the fact that Maria did too.

The Way He Treats Others

One of our earlier introductions to Howard is in Iron Man 2 where Tony tells Fury that his father had been cold and distant. He never told Tony that he liked him, much less that he loved him.

Fury indicated that he knew a very different man, and through Dominic’s Howard we (the audience) meet a very different man as well, which leads me to think that Howard struggles with expressing real, honest feelings rather than actually having them. It makes sense, given his explanation at two different points in the first season of Agent Carter that, to break through the barriers society had tried to force on him, he’d learned to hide behind lies and an indifference to what others thought about him. We see that that often leads him to come across as shallow and arrogant. He doesn’t, and seems not to even know how to express those truer feelings except in very rare circumstances, but we see glimpses in the way he treats people.

Edwin and Ana Jarvis are a fantastic example, as mentioned earlier. Here were people that he didn’t really know, people that he owed nothing to, yet he went out of his way to protect them. He used a favour that he could have hoarded away for more selfish purposes and gave it to them to save their lives. In return he was given loyalty, but there was no expectation on that.

Howard holds true to his playboy persona as well as, if not perhaps better than his son would in later years, but despite the flirtation (which he always manages to work into their conversations), Howard shows time and again the respect that he holds for Peggy Carter. While she’s fighting for her colleagues’ respect in the post-war SSR, she’s the one Howard reaches out to to clear his name. She’s the one that he trusts to protect him when his life is on the line. And when she needs help, it’s hers for the taking. A flight that the Army won’t take because it’s too dangerous? All Peggy had to do was ask. Twice when she needed a place to stay, he offered his own home(s) to her, and in S2 he dove straight in to help her on her case without any hesitation.

In S2 of the Agent Carter series we meet Jason Wilkes, a brilliant scientist who works for a company that becomes the center of the season’s investigation. The rarity of being a black man in his position is used against him when his company sets him up as a scapegoat. Not only is Howard eager to help him, work with him to clear his name, and reinstate his corporeal form (long story, but if you haven’t seen the Agent Carter series I highly recommend it!), but he sets him up in Stark Industries after all is said and done to help him run the Malibu labs on a new pet project.

For all of his faults and complications, Howard has a trend of helping to support and even protect those that the society of his time is set against. A Jewish woman and her fiancé facing the nazis, a brilliant female agent fighting enemies as well as men around her that have faith in her failure, and a talented black scientist whose company has used and thrown away when convenient.  We see the kindness in his actions, in the respect that he gives others that society would prefer not to be bothered with.

So how did he miss the mark so badly with his own son? He gave him things, opened doors for Tony that he’d had to force open himself, but (at least according to Tony) he missed expressing any sort of affection for him. Personally, in light of the other relationships that we actually get to see as they’re taking place, I’m inclined to think that he didn’t know how to express his love in a way that an already struggling child could understand. He tinkered on cars with him and he built an organization that would keep the world (and his family) safe. Perhaps to Howard, more importantly, he kept his distance, thus allowing his son the chance to grow into his own man. Someone not quite like him.

The thing is, even if it went against everything he wanted, there was no getting around that. Just as I imagine that Howard inherited a few more traits from his own father than he would have ever admitted to, Tony inherited some from him. Both the good and the bad.

Howard’s Personality Traits

Marvel is a parallel haven. In many ways the universe that they’ve created feels like one long, fantastical TV show with 3+ hour episodes. One of the perks of that is the multiple nods they’ve made and parallels they’ve drawn. It’s through those parallels that I found between Howard and Tony that sunk me deeper and deeper into exploring Howard’s personality. Robert said it best:

(gif made by and borrowed from @erikisright​)

Much in the same way that we meet Tony in Iron Man 1, the Howard of Captain America: The First Avenger and the Agent Carter short and series secures himself behind a mask of indifference to public opinion. He has a good time and doesn’t give a damn who knows it. When focused on work, he’s focused

but as soon as the war’s over he’s living the life of the playboy millionaire. He spends his time gallivanting around as much as inventing. He flaunts it. His money, his success. It’s the mask he hides behind to protect himself from the world, and the one that he feels like he has to hide behind. Afterall…

There’s no question that Howard has his fair share of less-than-desirable traits, but as we’ve discussed, he has some good ones as well. One that I found surprising, personally, is that he takes responsibility. Maybe not in his personal life (sorry, Jarvis, but it’s on you to handle Howard’s breakups apparently), but in his work. If he feels that he’s fallen short, he owns it, repeatedly to the point of putting his own life in danger.

In the first season finale for Agent Carter, after spending eight episodes on the run to clear his name, he waltzes himself into the SSR to give the full story and offer himself up as bait. It’s his fault, he tells them, despite not designing the invention stolen to cause harm, it’s still his, and he’ll own up to his responsibility there, both at the time and the damage it had caused during the war. In S2, after an invention fails, he offers himself up to go in and switch it on manually (putting himself at exceptional risk) because he ‘designed it poorly’. He doesn’t get the chance to do it, but he’s ready and willing to.

On the flip side (and also a trait that took me by surprise) he gives credit where it’s due.

Despite having to lie and possibly claw his way to the top, he’s consistently willing to both offer a hand to those that he can as well as make sure that he’s acknowledging their contribution, despite the fact that he believes that many successful scientists steal other people’s work for themselves. 

Tony must have come by his tendencies to fixate by way of his father. Much like his son, Howard shows time and time again that he leans into his obsessive personality. It ranges from a hyper-focus on work to coffee to a good time by any means he can find it, and even to the guilt that we see him holding onto in those few private, honest moments we catch a glimpse of.

We see it in the way that he held onto the guilt over what happened to the Russian soldiers at Finow when his Midnight Oil was misused and ended up killing hundreds of Allied soldiers. He did everything he could to set the situation as right as it could be set - he faced down the general that had stolen the oil only to get his ass handed to him, forced the general to step down, ended a seven-figure contract with the Army, and created a vault to better protect designs and inventions that could hurt innocent people - yet we see how it still weighs on him years later.

I think it’s the guilt at never being able to find Steve that eventually shifts him from Dominic’s Howard to John’s. That lively, goofy man is broken year after year by the failure of not being able to find or save a man that he holds up on a pedestal. He fixates on it to the point that his own son feels that he cared more about Captain America than him. Really, there’s so much in this theory that I’ve had battering around my head for the last couple of months or so that it deserves its own post. I’ll put it on the writing docket.

All in all, Howard Stark is an easy character to overlook or to flatten out with partial information. The Agent Carter series does wonders to add depth to him by giving us time to get to know him. Time that we don’t get through newsreels and the off story that Tony tells.

Part of an interesting character is their layers, both the good and the bad. Much like Tony, I feel that the more I learn about Howard Stark, the more I come to realize that he was a man trying his best. Sure, maybe his best didn’t match up in a lot of ways, but I think there’s something to be said for each generation of Starks doing just a little bit better than the one that came before them in whatever way that they can.

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (5)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. WW2 Bucky swears so much. SMUT, so 18+ please.

A/N: Every love story begins somewhere. This is the first time I’ve really written 1940s Bucky, so I hope I do him justice. Also I may have a fondness for punching Steve Rogers in the balls, what can I say. Remember those hidden items from Chapter 2? Some of them pop up again!  

Tags are open, if you want on the list please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

MASTERLIST ALTNL MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

Silence stretches longer and longer and Bucky finally realizes his lungs are burning. He lets out his breath with rush and leans forward. Elbows on his knees, he tries with everything in his heart, to remember.

“We’d met? Before then? We knew each other?”

She sits up straight, never breaking eye contact. Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she searches for the right words. Bucky feels his heart thump wildly while he waits; her voice is laced with sadness when she speaks.

“The first time we met was in 1944. I was wearing grey and you were wearing blue.”

*****

Early January 1944 Somewhere in France

Bucky lays flat on his back, staring at the puffy white clouds floating by. Ears ringing, he breathes in a lungful of wet smoke while he waits.

Calming breaths, they always say. Clear your mind. Focus.

The bullet whizzes through the broken front window and explodes an empty water pitcher, covering him in shards of glass and yeah, that did it.

He’s fucking pissed.

“You piece of shit fucking asshole!” he shouts, flipping angrily onto his stomach and crawling toward another narrow window.

Hours of fighting and here they are, with Bucky stuck in the still smoking bones of a bombed-out apartment, unable to hit the sniper victoriously camped in the bell tower of the village church. Below him, Steve, Gabe, and Dugan are crouched behind the burnt shell of a truck, waiting patiently for him to sort it out.

Well. Patiently might be a lie.

“Barnes, I’m hungry,” Dugan calls up. “It’s not that hard, just point and fuckin’ shoot.”

Hunched now against a broken wall, Bucky grits his teeth while he reloads and calls down an insult.

“Maybe it’s time you tried a god damn diet, shithead. I’m fuckin’ working on it.”

He waits until the next shot comes, a zinger cracking the frame of the window beside him, and then he pops up, fires into the bell tower, and ducks back down.

“Anything?”

The only response, is another bullet, fired through the retaining wall. It blows through siding, pelting him with chunks of wood. One particularly jagged piece smashes into his right hand, slicing it open and drawing a line of blood from thumb to pinky.

“OUCH! Fucking ouch! God damn chickenshit motherfucking cocksucker, fuck you,” he yells furiously, briefly contemplating how many bars of soap his Ma would shove in his mouth if she heard his language. Switching the gun grip to an equally proficient left hand, he peers through the new hole in the wall, searching.

There.

An eagle-eyed gaze catches it, a momentary flash of skin through a chink in the stone tower. Holding his breath, Bucky finds his shot and fires.

Even from here, he knows it lands. There’s a moment of suspension, before a body collapses forward, catching on the wide window ledge and flipping out. Whistling through the air, it lands with a sickening crunch on the bricks. Down below, the men grimace.

Smiling grimly, Bucky climbs to his feet and leans against the busted window frame, lifting his helmet to mop up the rivers of steaming, muddy sweat streaming down his face.

Christ, this helmet smells like shit.

Slinging his rifle around his shoulder, he looks down to where the guys are still crouched. He points down at Dugan and holds up a middle finger.

“You owe me a smoke. Jackass.”

*****

Liberation creates a carnival atmosphere in the little French village.

Back on the ground, Bucky wanders through the crowds, accepting handshakes, slaps on the back, the occasional fervent kiss on the cheek. The flurry of excitement is tempered by a few harsh injuries, those who suffered before Captain America and his Howling Commandos arrived this morning.

Howling Commandos. Jesus H Christ, the PR war machine was sheer insanity, Bucky thinks contemptuously. Here comes Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s right-hand man! He makes the shot! He saves the day!

If he has to see one more of those idiotic comics, he’ll fucking scream.

With a dirty towel wrapped around his still bleeding hand, he stalks the injury line, searching for Jim Morita, because he just fucking cannot sew it himself. Last time he tried, he puked up beans on his own boots and Dugan laughed at him for three days and he’s not doing that shit again.

“Jim, can I get some help?” Bucky finds Morita setting a broken leg and drops to his haunches, unfolding the towel. Morita takes one look at it and shakes his head.

“No time. Sew it yourself or wait.”

“Well I ain’t god damn doing it. I’ll fuckin’ wait,” Bucky growls irritably. Stomping off with a huff, he plops on a bench and pulls the make-shift bandage tighter, wincing at the sting.

He finally has a few moments to himself, so he sits and hangs his head. Closes his eyes and relives that final shot. His stomach churns at the memory and he takes those deep breaths now, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Like so many times before, today was no different.

Down to the wire, all on the line. Here comes Bucky Barnes. He makes the shot. He saves the day.

That fucker deserved to get his brain splattered, but sometimes…Jesus. Sometimes he gets tired of doing the dirty work like this.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely notices when clunky leather boots stop in front of him.

Annoyed with the intrusion, Bucky looks up to find a woman looking down at him. She’s dressed in grey, dark trousers rolled up at the ankles, a light grey men’s shirt that looks two sizes too big, and a tattered leather belt. A moss green coat drapes her frame, falling to her knees and she has a black scarf tied around her head. Dropping a pail of fresh water next to him, she kneels in the dust at his feet.

Without a word, she takes his wounded hand and gently unwraps the dirty rag. Digging in her pocket, she pulls a clean cloth free, dunks it in the water, and carefully cleans the cut. Once the blood and grime are washed away, she pats it dry and motions for him to hold the cloth in place. Producing a sewing kit from her other coat pocket, she finds a clean needle and unwinds a length of blue thread.

Bucky’s so captivated by her efficiency, so mesmerized by the way she catches her tongue between her teeth, that he barely feels when she starts to stitch the skin together. Struck dumb, he gapes at her and let’s himself be manhandled. Glancing up, she offers a quick smile, before going back to her task.

It all happens in a matter of moments, but to Bucky?

A lifetime passes.

Nimble fingers make neat little stitches, and far too quickly, she’s releasing his hand. He swallows several times before he can finally make a sound. When he speaks, charm oozes from every pore, because he’s James Buchanan Barnes, for fuck’s sake. Shooting Nazis and hunting Hydra and talking to women are what he does best.

According to him, at least. Summoning his confidence, he pours it on.

In French.

“Bonjour,” he says smoothly and gives her the adorable smile he reserves for beautiful women and his Ma, when she’s really, really pissed. “Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en france qui ne m'aiment pas.”

Standing a few feet away, Steve Rogers makes a strangled noise and drops his face in his hands.

“Je m’appelle Sergeant James Barnes,” Bucky continues confidently. “Quel est votre nom?”

“Bucky,” Steve sidles up behind him, hissing under his breath. “You fuckin’ moron, you just said you’re getting lucky tonight and the women in France don’t like you.”

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky hisses back. “I said I’m lucky, because she’s the most beautiful woman in France. I know how to speak fuckin’ French, Rogers.”

“Actually, he’s right,” she says. Clearly and in perfect English. “You need to make sure you keep that clean, Sergeant. I have fresh bandages if you need more.”

Bucky’s jaw drops.

Beside him, Steve, now officially his former best friend, starts laughing. Clapping Bucky on the shoulder, he gives the woman a grin.

“Sorry mam, we’re still working on his French. Great with a gun, always makes the shot, but you know – bit of an idiot sometimes.”

Swinging a blind fist behind him, Bucky punches Steve as hard as he can, which happily lands right in the balls. Steve backs away wheezing and Bucky smiles serenely up at her.

“Ignore him,” he says conspiratorially. “He drinks.”

Bucky feels his heart bounce wildly when she laughs. It sounds like music. He preens under her indulgent grin, before she moves along to help someone new.

On that cold January afternoon, covered in sticky blood and dirty sweat, and stumbling through terrible broken French, Bucky Barnes falls head over heels in love.

*****

Later that night, with their camp set up on the edge of town, the Howlies collapse. Plates of supper are passed around, followed by swigs from a beat-up silver flask; slowly and with certainty, the circle of men drifts from snarky, ribald jokes, into deep, dreamless sleep.

All except for two men.

Flicking the lid of his lighter, Bucky fingers the rusty coils. The night sky arcs like black silk above him and he thinks. About war. About death. About life and whatever the hell he’s gonna do when this thing ends, if he makes it out alive.

Somehow, that last thought leads him back to the woman he met earlier. Pretty smile, pretty eyes, pretty stitching. Pretty far out of his league. Can’t hurt to dream, though.

Lighting up the smoke he stole from Dugan’s pack, Bucky takes a long drag. He makes it halfway through, before restlessly tossing it into the low embers of the campfire. He climbs to his feet.

“I need a walk. You fuckers snore so loud, I don’t know how all’ve Hydra hasn’t found us.”

Keeping his eyes trained in the pitch-black night, Steve waves him away.

*****

White moonlight shines down into the clearing and she drops a basket of bloody, grimy cloth next to the creek. Singing under her breath, she dunks the cloth in the freezing water them and starts scrubbing. In the light of the moon, the rusty red blood turns black and for a moment, she can believe it’s nothing more than dirt. Dark stains bleed away in the lazy flow of water and life begins to feel clean again.

A small blessing, after a day of bloodshed. As she works, the words to her favorite song drift in and out, peppering the tune.

“We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…”

The quiet snap of a tree branch, of a footstep in the grass, abruptly shatters the night.

Heart in her throat, she draws a knife from her belt and leaps to her feet. Wide-eyed, she whirls to find the dark-haired man with the brilliant blue eyes from earlier – Sergeant Barnes, he said.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes softly, raising both hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I was just – I was walking and I thought I heard someone.”

She considers him for a moment. He’s taller than she thought. All lean muscle, moving with a slow grace that puts her at ease. A shadow beard covers his face, creeping down his neck, and his short hair looks smooth as black satin in the colorless night. He gives her a crooked smile and she lowers the knife, tucking it back at her belt.

“How is your hand?” she asks, her voice floating through the small clearing. Bucky glances down at the white bandage and flexes his fingers.

“Fit as a fiddle,” he says with a grin. “Thank you. For earlier. Although you did such a good job, probably won’t even scar. How’m I supposed to brag about my war wounds if you fix ‘em up so nice?”

Her lips curve up. “Something tells me you’ll find plenty more opportunities for trouble, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky. Please, call me Bucky,” he ducks his head bashfully when he offers the nickname. Ambling toward her, he points to a smooth rock close by. “Is it okay if I sit?”

In the space of a moment, his voice has gone soft and shy and she wonders how a man who seems so confident, can demonstrate such a sweet vulnerability. It charms her far more than the swagger she saw earlier today.

“Only if you promise to help,” she finds herself saying and he perks up.

“Anything you need,” he offers, folding his knees under as he plops down.

She hands him the edge of a sheet with the instruction to hold tight. Bucky grips the fabric in his left fist while she twists it tighter and tighter, wringing every last drop of water from the cloth. When it’s semi-dry, she hands him another, and another one after, until her basket is full.

They work in companionable silence. She glances up now and then, to find him watching her. Each time she meets his gaze, he gives her a slow smile.

As the last piece of cloth is dropped in her basket, she wipes her hands on the trousers and rubs sleepy eyes. Bucky jumps to his feet and reaches down, offering her a hand up. When she folds her cold fingers against his hot skin, the spark of electricity rockets down her back and explodes in her toes.

Oh.

Swaying slightly, she releases his hand quickly and steps back. Opting for distance between them, she picks up her basket and holds it in front, a useless barrier from the strange feelings his touch awoke. Her brain urges her to bid him goodbye, to walk away and not look back.

Her heart though. It has another plan.

“Would it be okay – could I walk you home?”

Part of her wants to say no. Beginning anything with a Soldier, it won’t end well. She’s been down this road before. She doesn’t think she can survive it again.

But the nervous hope she finds in those blue eyes stirs her soul, and she says something unexpected.

“That would be nice, thank you.”

Bucky insists on carrying the laundry basket and they move slowly through the trees. The walk is oddly comfortable, filled with shy glances and an occasional brush of shoulders that makes her belly swoop. Guiding him along the edge of the town, all too soon they arrive at her little cottage sitting at the dead end of a narrow street. She takes the basket from his arms and balances it on her hip.

Quiet words warm the cold air around them, both prolonging the goodbye neither wants to give. It’s the ferocious barking of a dog down the street that finally makes her jump.

“I should get inside,” she says reluctantly and Bucky nods, looking down to watch his boot drawing a circle in the dirt. “But, now that you know where to find me, maybe you’ll come by sometime? Let me take a look at that hand?”

When he looks up, his smile takes her breath away.

“I absolutely will.”

“Goodnight Bucky.”

“Goodnight darlin’. Sleep well.”

*****

Two days later, a tentative knock sounds on her front door. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she opens it to find a soldier on her doorstep.

“Good morning,” Bucky says hesitantly, brandishing a bundle of holly. “Hope I’m not bothering you. I, um – I was hoping, maybe you could have a look at my hand?”

“Come in,” she beckons and Bucky steps inside, the smell of wintery air clinging to him. In the confines of her small home, he seems larger than life, this quiet American.

She collects a chipped white pitcher from her closet and fills it with water, arranging the holly and setting it on her kitchen table. Suddenly, she’s overwhelmed by color – red berries and green leaves, blue eyes and brown hair.

He lays his hand on the table and she unwraps the bandage. Beneath the strips of white, she finds something peculiar - after only two days, the wound looks several weeks old. Staring for a long moment, she finally looks up in confusion.

“That’s impressive.”

“I – yeah, I heal pretty quickly. Good genes, I guess,” he stutters. For some reason, she hears a twinge of panic in his voice.

“Well that’s great,” she says with a smile, her thumb brushing the thrumming pulse at his wrist.

“Yeah. I guess,” he mutters to himself.

With quick snips, she removes the stitches and dabs a bit of Vaseline along the line of puckered skin before wrapping it up again. Over and done then, there’s no real reason for him to stay longer, but – she doesn’t want him to leave just yet.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she offers. “It’s more hot water than coffee these days, but I have a bit left if you would like?”

Eyes brightening, Bucky happily accepts.

*****

“So, you’re not from here,” he guesses, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug. “Your English is perfect. Better than most’ve the soldiers I know.”

She appears to choose her words carefully.

“No. My mother was French, my father was German, but I lost them both when I was young. After that, I found myself in London. I learned there.” She runs her finger along the rim of her cup, not looking up.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Without thinking, he reaches across the table to touch her hand, but pulls back at the last moment.

She thinks to herself, she wouldn’t have minded. She clears her throat and tries to smile.

“Tell me about you. About America,” she encourages. “I’ve never been, but always wanted to visit. What was Bucky Barnes like growing up in Brooklyn?”

Bucky leans back in the chair and crosses his ankles with a coy smile.

“Full of trouble, if you ask my Ma. But let’s just say all my worst decisions came from growing up with Steve Rogers.”

The late morning bleeds into early afternoon as they sit and talk. Conversation flows easily, punctuated with lazy grins and surprised laughter, and in her sunny kitchen, she feels a lethargic sense of peace. Something she hasn’t felt in years. Since before they came, before her world ended. Since that November night in Berlin.

All too soon, the shadows are stretching across his face and the battered living room clock strikes the late hour. Both of them start at the sound, before realizing how long they’ve been sitting together.

“Dammit,” Bucky mutters regretfully. “I better go, I’m on watch tonight.”

“Okay,” she says, disappointment in her voice. He reaches across the table again and this time, his fingers catch hers. He squeezes.

“Thanks for helping me today. Your bedside manner’s a helluva lot better than Morita. He usually just tells me to quit whining,” he gives an exaggerated eye roll as he rises from his chair and she laughs once more..

God. In one afternoon with him, she’s laughed more than in the past year.

It’s addictive.

Bounding down her back steps, Bucky heads toward their camp and she leans against the doorframe, watching. No more than a hundred yards gone, he spins around to see her one more time. Giving her a jaunty salute, he turns and takes off running.

It happens right there.

Shivering as the fresh air whips around her, she watches the silhouette of a soldier running toward the coming darkness. Slow as syrup dripping down her skin, the feeling sticks.

On that cold January day, wrapped in warm laughter and drowning in the blue of his eyes, she falls head over heels in love with Sergeant James Barnes.

*****

One of the small comforts in wartime, is consistency.

Each Sunday, the town still gathers in the small church to give thanks, an attempt for normalcy amid the increasingly bleak news arriving from the front. Here, everyone is welcome. Religion, race, nationality, none of it matters. She loves this progressive little village, where differences are celebrated, never shunned.

This sunny morning, she’s late. Hurrying down the aisle as the buzz of voices begin to settle, she finds a seat near the front and slides inside. Pulling off her gloves, she glances around the morning crowd.

Her heart jumps when she sees them.

Side by side, the two broad-shouldered men sit in the pew across from her. Both have carefully combed hair, one dressed in a brown leather jacket, the other in dark blue. As the Priest begins the opening prayer, Bucky meets her eyes and gives her a grin.

She turns away quickly, her jumping heart now racing.

One prayer rolls into another and then another after that. Occasionally peeking over, she finds the same scene each time. Captain Rogers kneels in the pew, head bowed, eyes closed, while Bucky – he doesn’t even try to fake it. His eyes are always fixed on her and when he catches her looking, he wrinkles his nose and makes a silly face and she looks away, fighting the urge to smile.

An hour slips by and as the service nears its conclusion, there’s a moment of contemplative silence. In the pious stillness, she hears a muffled thump. Looking over, she sees Steve glaring daggers at Bucky, who’s now rubbing his arm and glaring right back. Both men glance her way and when Steve catches her eye, a bright red flush blooms across his cheeks.

And Bucky?

He winks.

When the service ends, the low hum of voices picks up, people greeting each other, exchanging news. Pulling her gloves back over perpetually frozen fingers, she steps quickly into the aisle. Head bowed, she walks along, feeling a heated gaze following her. Unable to help herself, she peeps behind her one last time, and Bucky gives her a brilliant smile.

Everything about him is so big and bright and full of life. Her answering smile is so natural, it shocks her.

She steps into the fresh sunshine and she knows she should hurry home, she really does.

But instead, she lingers.

He catches her there, a light touch at her elbow. When she turns, the sun makes a halo behind him. Clear eyes meet hers, and she sees his face shaved smooth, his hair still damp and slicked back. There’s something almost angelic about him, this man she first discovered covered in the bloody aftermath of battle.

She thinks she’s never in her life seen someone so beautiful.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks hopefully, that edge of shyness creeping into his voice. When she nods mutely, he offers his arm and she wraps leather fingers around the folds of thick blue.

Their walk home is slow, meandering. People hurry by, saying hello and hiding their smiles at the sight of the handsome soldier so clearly smitten.

When they arrive at her front door, she throws caution to the wind and takes the plunge. Cupping Bucky’s face in her hands, she brushes her thumbs over his clean-shaven skin and presses her lips to his. He’s stunned at first, the pressure taking him by surprise, but then he responds with wild enthusiasm, lifting her up and spinning her in a crazy circle.

They’re both laughing, trading the sounds of happiness between them. Bucky keeps kissing her, his arms locked around her like he can never have enough and the taste of his first sweet kiss sears itself right into her heart.

*****

Life falls into a familiar pattern.

Bucky comes by every day. Once with a handful of sharp scented pine boughs, so fragrant they fill her entire home. Once more, to give her the bundle of colorful postcards he’d collected from his travels through Europe; cheeks flushing pink, he added a hand-painted card of Brooklyn Steve had drawn him, with two curvy hearts he added on the back. And then once again, with a handful of smooth, silvery blue pebbles he found in the riverbed. Little trinkets, small things to make her smile and –

To remember him. When the war drags him away again.

Every day he leaves her with a kiss, at first light and chaste, then harder and bolder, hot touches that burn. She knows she plays a dangerous game, balancing her heart on the blade of his knife, but she can’t find the motivation to stop.

And every day she waits for the axe to swing. For his orders to come, whatever new mission will march him away, back to whatever hell awaits. Every day she holds her breath, releasing it only as the sun sets, thankful the fragile world they’ve created lives to see another sunrise.

But one week turns into two, and that turns into three, while the Howlies wait for instructions. As the days pass, the men grow impatient, desperate to move along and tackle their next fight – all except Bucky. The longer he stays, the more he settles in the rhythm of life with her.

Steve is bemused, when he mentions it to her one night.

“I’m glad you found him that day, he’s had a – it’s been a hard war. For Bucky especially,” Steve looks into the distance, unfocused for a time as he sips a glass of watered-down whiskey. When he looks back to her, his eyes are serious. “I’ve never seen him this happy, so thank you. For keeping him together.”

Two days later, the inevitable message arrives.

The team sits in the town’s little pub, a cozy wooden building housing an out of tune piano and an old man who saws away on his accordion every night. Bucky leaps to his feet when she appears in the door and the men cough, hiding their laughter.

She greets them all, but her eyes are for one man alone.

“Will you walk with me?” he asks quietly, tangling his fingers with hers and tugging her into the cold night. They stop just outside the pub and he stares down at boots. Disappointment rolls off him in waves and she doesn’t want to ask; she knows what’s coming. Putting a cold finger under his chin, she tips his face up.

“Bucky?”

“We’re heading out at dawn,” he mumbles miserably, his shoulders slumping.

“Oh,” she says. Because that’s it. There’s nothing more she can say.

He puts his arm around her shoulders, drawing her into his never-ending warmth and she goes gladly, wrapping her arm around his waist. They begin to walk, making it behind the pub, before he leans to kiss her, and she catches him close. Walking her quickly backward, she bumps into the wall and his mouth is like fire as it trails down her neck, the tip of his nose ice cold as it follows.

Breathing hard, she holds him tight, pressing her body against him and Bucky groans quietly against her throat. Her mind racing, she steels her nerves to make a request.

“Come home with me. Stay with me tonight. Please,” she whispers.

He pulls back, surprise and desire playing over his face.

“Are you sure? I’m not expecting anything, you don’t have to – ”

“Stop,” she says, holding her fingers to his lips to shush him. “I’m sure. It’s been a long time for me, since I’ve been with anyone, but if you want – ”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “God, yes. Since the first day we met – you’re the only thing I’ve wanted.”

Like shadows they move through the dark streets, until they reach her home. There’s no hesitation as she unlocks the door and pulls him inside. Hands clasped together, she leads him upstairs and the sound of his heavy boots following her makes her stomach flutter.

Opening her bedroom door, she steps inside and Bucky pauses, surveying it all. Green quilts on her bed, a small stone fireplace in the corner, a cracked mirror and a dressing table by the window. Photographs in simple frames, a small jewelry box and a silver brush. A little dish by her bed holding the handful of pebbles he brought her. Little fragments of her spread through the room, and he drinks it up greedily, memorizing everything.

He closes the door behind him, still watching her carefully, as though he genuinely can’t believe his good luck. Without a word, he sheds the thick blue coat and unlaces his boots, kicking them away.

“Come here,” she murmurs, reaching for him.

He stands before her in the low firelight and she runs her hands up under his long-sleeve wool shirt, urging him to remove it. When he yanks it over his head and tosses it aside, her mouth goes dry at the sight. Cool, curious hands trace the hard planes of his body, through the dark hair on his chest, feeling the silver dog tags hanging from his throat, the pads of her fingers brushing over the wealth of scars scattered across his body. He sucks in his breath when her hands reach his trousers, but then she’s unhooking the buttons and pushing them down his legs and Bucky chokes back a stuttered groan.

Pushing him lightly, he drops to her bed and looks up with wide eyes. She slips her shoes off, stepping between his knees and she watches his hands clench tight, waiting. Her fingers fumble just a bit with the buttons at the top of her dress, and as each one pops free, his breath comes faster. At her waist, she shrugs her shoulders and the dress slides off, pooling at her feet.

Bucky blinks rapidly, stunned at the sight.

Reaching for his hands, she grips them tight and places them on her hips. Through the filmy white fabric of her underwear, the heat from his skin burns hot and she steps into that safe space, craving the warmth. Bucky tugs her forward, wraps his arms tight around her waist and buries his face into the softness of her belly. His breath huffs against her, and she combs her fingers through his hair, the nervousness slowly ebbing from his body.

When he finally looks up, the lust in his face nearly brings her to her knees.

Rough fingers catch in the band of her underwear and he drags it down, holding his breath until the reveal. She unclips her bra and lets it fall away, and he closes his eyes briefly at the sight, of her naked and open for him.

He wants to devour her.

Gripping her bottom firmly, he lifts her up and settles her legs on either side of him. The only barrier between them is the thin fabric of his cotton boxers and she utters a low moan when she grinds herself against him. That simple sound, her unexpected reaction to feeling him, nearly sets him off.

“Look at you,” he whispers hoarsely. “God, darlin’ I’ve been dreamin’ every night about this.”

Twisting quickly, he shoves her back into the quilts, covering her body and slanting his mouth hungrily over hers. She twines her arms around his neck, hips pushing against him.

Full body shudders rattle through her when he moves down her body, lips finding her breasts, teeth tugging gently at her nipples. Digging her fingers into his hair, she arches up and he slides an arm beneath her, keeping her body bent into the heat of this mouth. Bottomless black eyes lift to watch, and he sucks harder, relishing her breathless reactions.

If she let him, he’d stay there for days, teasing and tasting and touching, but she tugs at his hair, begging for his lips again, and he crawls back up her body. Shaking hands bracket her face and she feels him, hard and heavy, between her legs.

“You’re okay? You’re sure?” he murmurs in her ear and her heart nearly bursts at the concern in his voice.

“I’m sure,” she breathes.

At her promise, Bucky wraps a shaking hand around himself and shifts his body. With one smooth move, he buries himself inside her and the stretch, the thick feel of him, it punches the breath from her lungs. When his hips are flush against her, he stops, resting his head on her chest while he squeezes his eyes shut.

When he looks up, the raw emotion in his face is a stark reminder of what this means. For both of them.

She never knew.

Never understood it could be like this. That it could feel this way. Her heart hammers furiously against her ribs, so hard she marvels that it doesn’t crack her bones and fly away.

Bucky pulls her leg up, hooking it around his waist, and his hips begin a slow roll. Staring into her eyes, he pushes into her, again and again, the drag of his cock catching unknown nerve endings, sending pleasure rippling through her. Minutes drift by, time meaningless as they move together. She locks her fingers behind his neck, her back arching with each thrust and he’s lost in the uniqueness of her, the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, every mark on her skin.

And when he looks down between their bodies, to where he can see himself pushing into her, he nearly comes at the sight.

“Can you come for me darlin’?” he rasps, his hips unconsciously snapping faster. “Can I help you?”

She releases her grip on his neck, one hand sliding to hold his sweat-slicked bicep, the other reaching between them to touch herself. “Kiss me,” she urges, and he complies, slipping his tongue between her parted lips. He can feel her fingers rubbing between her legs, pausing now and then to touch him, to feel the way he thrusts into her and he groans into her mouth.

Fighting himself harder than he’s ever done before, he tries to keep from coming, desperate for her to beat him to the finish. Broken little noises leave her throat as he drives himself into her, faster and harder, his rough thrusts lighting sparks beneath her skin, until she suddenly clutches him close. Bucky feels her body spasm around him, squeezing him so fucking tight while the tremors wrack her body, and he swallows down her breathless cries.

“That’s it darlin’, that’s it, there you go,” he pants against her lips, grinding himself into her until he follows right behind, coming with a soft grunt.

Chest heaving, Bucky strokes his fingers down her sides, reveling in the silky feel of her damp skin. When he can catch his breath, he rolls onto his back, keeping her tucked against his chest. She clings to him, refusing to let go.

Pressing trembling lips against the sheen of sweat on her forehead, he pulls the blankets over them and locked together, they fall asleep.

*****

The barest hint of morning light illuminates the eastern horizon when Bucky eases from the bed, tucking the blanket around her to keep the cold draft away. Regret already licks up his spine at the thought of walking away, of leaving behind the precious world he’s found here with her.

He buttons his trousers, laces his boots, slips on his coat. Quickly, quietly, efficiently, like a good soldier does. He adds more kindling to the red embers of the dormant fire, coaxing it to flare again, knowing if he can’t be here to keep her warm, something else will have to do.

Minutes rush too quickly now, and as thin fingers of morning light inch across the land, Bucky knows his time is up.

Falling to his knees beside the bed, he rests his chin on the mattress and brushes gentle fingers down her cheek. Her eyes are still closed, but he knows she’s awake. Lips curve up at his touch and Bucky leans in, pressing his lips lightly to hers. Reaching from under the covers to wrap her fingers around the back of his neck, she keeps him close. She deepens the kiss and Bucky sinks into it, his mouth moving eagerly against hers. The heat builds, until he pulls away with a reluctant sigh.

Opening her eyes, she finds him nose to nose with her.

His black eyelashes are so long, she wonders how he ever sees through his scope.

“I love you.”

She sucks in a shocked breath at his declaration. But he’s so perfectly composed. Content with the words he’s offering, ones she never expected. After everything she’s been through, everything she’s done, she never believed she could have something like this.

“Bucky – “

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts. “I don’t expect anything. I just wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know.”

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe it’s not possible to feel this way already. Maybe sweet words will crumble to dust in the harsh light of day.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But here’s the thing. The world is at war and Death walks in his shadow, stalking him with her sharp bullets and shaper blades, and God knows what the future will bring.

She only knows she wants one. She wants this. She wants him.

“I love you too, Bucky,” she whispers, and the words feel right. Her fingers rub the short hairs curling at his neck and Bucky melts into her touch. “Don’t go. The world can wait, can’t it? I want you to stay.”

“I want to stay. More than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he whispers back, nuzzling into her neck. She turns to brush her lips against his beard and she feels him swallow hard. “I’ll write you. Often as I can. We gotta use code names out there, so don’t be surprised when you get letters from some strange guy named Jimmy.”

“Jimmy. I like it,” she says with a sleepy smile.

His grin mirrors hers and he kisses the tip of her nose. When he speaks again, a hint of desperation bleeds from the sweet drawl.

“Wait for me darlin’, okay? Will you? I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

“I will,” she says softly. “I’ll always wait.”

Just like that, he offers his whole heart and she gives hers freely in return. Both know their world is dark and unforgiving, and this war could make liars of them both, but neither cares. To find love in this bleak life is a rare opportunity and the temptation is too strong.

Bucky kisses her one last time and rises to his feet. She watches him pause at her bedroom door to give one more crooked smile, and then the door is clicking shut and he’s gone. Alone again, she curls into a ball under the heavy blankets.

It’s hell, she thinks, to love a soldier.

Burying her face in the faded green pillow, her heartbroken tears fall fast and thick, soaking silently into the soft cotton.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

Tags are open right now, if you want one, please send me a DM or ASK.

[brainbuffering]

Not epilepsy related, I know, but please bare with me. I made a joke on Twitter about how I could probably write a 2 page essay on the title page for Grayson #8. 

The tweet was liked by Grayson Creatives: Jackson Lanzing, Tim Seeley and  Mikel Janín. I intended to leave it just there, however, I couldn’t get it out of my mind, and apparently I have no self control because 3 days later I had written a five page essay on it, and well once you’ve written 2894 words on a subject you may as well publish it somewhere. And because I might as well say it here, if you ever want to read more essays like this, let me know, and you can support me on Ko-Fi if you’re feeling extra generous <3 

So after a quick shout out to my sister Ruth for reading it over and providing invaluable feedback, and the wonderful Wednesday Club discord for helping me brainstorm titles and providing general encouragements, I present:

Climbing the Eiffel Tower: Dick Grayson as a feminist sex icon

Tim Seeley and Tom King’s 2014-2016 DC Comics series Grayson follows the story of Dick Grayson as he infiltrates the spy network known as Spyral and travels across the world chasing one adventure after another. Making his first appearance in 1940 as Batman’s sidekick and protégé, Robin, he became just as famous in popular media as the Batman himself. Unlike most comic book characters, Dick Grayson was allowed to age, going from the eager child circus acrobat to a teenage superhero leading his own team. He later went on to find a day job as a cop, whilst still moonlighting as a superhero under the new name Nightwing. For a short time he even picked up the cowl and became Batman following Bruce Wayne’s apparent (nobody stays dead in comics for very long) death and adopted Bruce’s son Damian as his own Robin. In 2014, following his own apparent death, he was granted the new moniker Agent 37.

Although Seeley and King’s Grayson series was very much grounded in the DC Universe, (where Super-powered humans saves the day by running backwards through time and green shape shifting aliens attend high school) the series had just as much in common with 60s Spy films. Nazis were punched, skimpy swimsuits were worn, and the day was saved again and again thanks to a handsome man with a dashing smile. Yet one of the distinguishing features of the much applauded series was the presentation of Dick Grayson as a sex icon. In an industry berated for its sexualisation of female characters, where a teenage girl is put into a purple metal bikini and it is called liberation, Grayson brought a rare respite for female fans. Suddenly the object of affection was male.

It is a running joke amongst DC fans that Dick Grayson is the sexiest man in all comics (at least from an American perspective). In 2013 Dick Grayson even gained the number one spot in Comics Alliance’s list of 50 Sexiest Guys in Comics, beating fellow former Robin Jason Todd (Ranked No. 23) and the Batman himself (ranked No. 46). It was in the 1980- 1984 New Teen Titans series that Dick Grayson was able to step out from the shadow of the Bat, and start to become the sex symbol he is known as today. Along with starting to appear shirtless, he was also shown to be in a sexually active relationship with his girlfriend, Starfire: a teenage alien princess clad in, yes, a purple metal bikini. Perhaps when created in 1940 he was meant to stay the eager young boy, that is not the character we see today, as one internet commentator described him, he’s “that kid at thirteen who’s hot at twenty-one” (Jaffe, 2017). Dick Grayson is now one of the few male comic book heroes who is deliberately designed to be a sex icon aimed at women. He’s the heir to a fortune, he’s charming, he respects women and he’s got an amazing arse. He’s the sort of non-threatening pin-up model you’d be happy to take home to meet your mother. That is, if you weren’t concerned your mother might not try and take him for herself.

This side to his character is demonstrated in Mikel Janín’s illustration for title page of Grayson #8: “Cross my heart and hope to die” published in 2014. The image depicts Dick Grayson demonstrating a gymnastic maneuver to seven teenage school girls during their gym class. He wears form fitting leggings and a sleeveless shirt, displaying his muscular physique. Meanwhile, the students wear a standard uniform for British Private School Girls: a red rugby shirt and white gym shorts. This helps depict both their social class and their social position. There is a text box at the top of the page which reads “...That doesn’t stop me from wanting to climb up on its Eiffel Tower.” Lower down on the page, a speech bubble depicts Dick saying “Ladies? Are you even paying attention? I swear.”

Janín’s layout is deliberately designed to draw attention to Dick’s butt. The support beams of the wall follow from the text box at the start of the top left of the panel, along to the right of the page and then straight down to the buttocks. The viewer then follows Dick’s legs down to take in the school girls whose attention is firmly set upon said buttocks. It is then their gaze that visually leads you down the rest of his body. The entire set up of the image is for the viewer to see Dick Grayson in the same sexual light as the teenagers do. It enforces Dick’s role within the DC Universe as a teenage heartthrob by showing just that, a line of teenaged girl whose hearts (and other parts) throb at the sight of him.

The fact that Dick’s legs lead you down along the line of students demonstrates that they have just as much importance within the image as Dick. Some would argue that this is an example of fan-service, that is to say, images simply put in place to titulate the consumer. However Janín has not drawn Dick with just the viewer in mind. He wants you to take in the school girls too, and see Dick from their point of view. Whilst this is still asking you to see him as a sexual figure, by having the overall view point be from above, the viewer is able to take step back from the scene, and allow us to also side with Dick. The viewer is meant to see the whole situation from a third-party perspective, yet still asks us to sympathise with the teenage girls crushing on their attractive gym teacher. If the purpose of the piece was for the viewer to sexualise Dick for themselves, his body would have a far more prominent feature, blocking out the girls entirely from view and posing in a more deliberately sexualised fashion, as opposed to the actual image where Dick is just going about his job in a conventional fashion, meaning there are no purple bikinis or broken spines in sight. Dick’s ignorance to the girls attraction towards him adds humour to the image, where his frustrations at their lack of attention are juxtaposed with their very real fascination with his body.

This use of humour helps to set a tone for the comic, wherein the reader is made to feel relaxed and amused by the content before it swiftly changes to something more serious. In the case of Grayson #8 it is one of the girls’ other mentors, a middle aged woman, screaming for help. While some might argue that the clear focus on Dick’s buttocks is purely for fan service, and so is an act of objectification on par with that shown towards female characters, the fact that the image genuinely helps progress the story suggests otherwise. The panel of Dick Grayson teaching gymnastics provides the reader with further insight into the characters’ personalities and roles within their society, whilst the general page layout sets up the pace and rhythm for the plot of the book. If it were just for fan service, it would have been easily removed from the story with no consequence.

However, it is true that one of the selling points of Dick Grayson is his sex appeal. Writers Gail Simone and Devin Grayson have both spoken about how they deliberately write Dick Grayson to have sex appeal. Simmone, who is probably most academically sited for her her women in refrigerators campaign (in which she points out the distressing prevalence for female characters to be brutally murdered in order to progress a male character’s story) as a comic book writer has often included sexualised male characters in her work, Dick Grayson being one of them. She argues that since there are enough female characters who are sexualised in the media, she therefore has said she needs “to have sexy characters who might appeal to more people” she wants “there to be characters for everyone” (Simone, 2014). It is important to note, that Simone does not specify that only women are sexually attracted towards these men, nor indeed that all women would be, simply that there in order to diversify audience, one needs to diversify character appeal. Whereas Simone’s approach may stem from a socio-political form of feminism, Grayson has a more capitalist approach. In an interview discussing Dick Grayson as a sex symbol, she suggested that not using the character as such is a serious marketing failure: “It’s astonishing to me that sexy male superheroes aren’t marketed as aggressively as sexy male vampires or sexy male boy bands. There’s obviously tons of money to be made there. There is no one on the planet that will devote more energy, social media advocacy, and money to a favoured cause than a smitten teenage girl.” (Grayson, 2015). Indeed, in editor Kate Kubert’s original pitch for Grayson, she described it as “a cool, slick, sexy spy book starring Dick Grayson” (Seeley, 2015). Dick Grayson’s sex appeal was always meant to be integral to the story.  

Therefore, it is not really a surprise that it is the the title page for Grayson #8 that draws such attention to Dick Grayson’s sexy arse. This could be interpreted as male objectification, since it is Dick’s highly attractive body that is being used to draw in readers to the series. Indeed, the bottom panel in particular is designed to make the reader turn the page and find out what is happening. The viewer is only shown a hint of what the woman is possibly holding, and that she is in complete distress. She is asking for help, and the reader assumes that Dick Grayson is going to be the one to provide it, though one would have to buy the book to find out more. It would naturally appeal to a female heterosexual audience to have an attractive male hero go and rescue a woman in need of aid. It is important to note, that whilst other comic series (and indeed spy films) also have attractive men saving women, what makes Dick Grayson stand out here is his more nurturing role. He is in the middle of teaching a class, not sipping a martini in a cassino. Furthermore it is the female gaze depicted here (almost literally in this case since the audience is partially sees Dick through the eyes of teenage girls) and not the male gaze. This is not a power fantasy where a strong dashing man jumps in and saves the simpering young blonde woman, this is a fantasy in which you witness the nice, handsome teacher come to the aid of a grey haired middle-aged woman. The first fantasy is decidedly that of a heterosexual man, the second of a heterosexual woman. Therefore, if the fantasy that is being presented revolves around Dick’s personality and abilities, it cannot be objectification, since you cannot objectify someone who has personhood.

Yet, even if this image is an example of objectification, the question arises of whether it is harmful objectification, or whether it is acceptable given the context. The sexual objectification of a character takes away their agency, their personality and treats them as nothing better than a particularly life like sex toy. The prevalence of this in female characters reflects upon a society that does not value women, or even consider them as people. Therefore, if Dick Grayson is being objectified, is it as dangerous as when female characters, such as Starfire, are objectified? Dick Grayson already has an established character that goes back over 75 years, and as a rich white-passing (Grayson confirms him to be Romani in decent) cis-man has been granted narrative privileges that other characters have not been. Dick Grayson has always been empowered and valued by readers and creators, so objectifying him every now and then is not going to do too much harm to his overall characterisation, nor help maintain an existing real life precedent for a social inequality.

Dick Grayson’s sexualisation in Grayson #8 is a satirical commentary based upon just that. The book came out in an environment where criticism of female objectification and sexualisation in comic books was starting to become a more publicly discussed issue. 2012 saw the beginning of The Hawkeye Initiative which looked at how female characters were drawn in comics and parodied them by drawing Marvel’s Clint Barton (A.K.A Hawkeye) in the same pose. The campaign was widely celebrated across the internet, though many creators (predominantly male) were insulted by the disrespect shown to the original creators. Of course, part of the project was to disrespect the original creators by displaying how sexist their original drawings were, so to that extent, their reaction was incredibly valid. However, the spirit of the initiative was always to encourage conversation in a light hearted, humourous fashion that did not single out any one creator. Grayson #8 demonstrates the exact same humorous approach. The image does not speak to how Dick Grayson is purely a sex object, or oppressed in any way, it speaks of an understanding that it’s about time the playing field was evened out; that heterosexual women and gay men should have someone they too can fantasise about. It welcomes you to join the teenagers in admiring Dick, and let’s you understand that doing so is harmless and fun. This also helps to subvert a classic spy movie trope, where the male protagonist treats the female heroine as nothing but an object of desire, and she is shot from angles that only accentuate those elements. It is clear that when Kubert asked Seeley to create her a “sexy spy book” (Seeley, 2015) it was Dick Grayson who would be providing the sexy, and not his female co-stars.

As discussed in Camille Bacon-Smith’s seminal 1992 work on Fan Studies Enterprising Women, fandom has often been used as a tool for female sexual exploration, and though Bacon-Smith views this from a slightly more critical outsider’s perspective, more recent studies that have come from within fandom itself, and have shown the way it can help people develop an understanding of their sexuality in a safe manner. This has become particularly true for teenage fans, who often use fan-works to explore these parts of themselves. It is especially important to have these spaces celebrated, since teenage girls’ sexuality is often ridiculed elsewhere in popular media. From Stephanie Meyer to Ringo Starr, actors, musicians and writers have all been pushed to the side as irrelevant just because they’re popular amongst teenage girls, and the quality of their work is assumed straight away to be nonsense just based upon their fanbase. Yet, as Grayson said, it is these same fans who will show the utmost dedication and passion (Grayson, 2015) for works that speak to them, and treat them with respect. That is exactly what is being shown in Grayson #8, teenage girls who have sexualised fantasies about non-threatening men, where it is not presented as a set up to a Lolita-esc story of peodophillia. Dick Grayson is not interested in these girls sexually, the girls understand that they will not be entering into sexual relations with him, but that does not stop them from enjoying looking at him and fantasising about him in a safe manner.  Even if their attention is unwanted, the girls cannot harm Dick Grayson and Dick Grayson will not harm them. It could be argued, that the humourous feel to the piece is mocking the girls for their sexuality, and asking the reader to laugh at them, not with them. However, the fact that the layout of the work has such a focus on Dick Grayson’s bottom, and that the page begins with one of the girl’s own comment of sexual innuendo about him as a sexy Eiffel Tower she wishes to climb (King, 2014), it is clear that the viewer is being asked to side with these teenagers and agree, that yes, if Dick Grayson was the Eiffel Tower, you too would gladly climb up it and enjoy that glorious view.

To conclude, Grayson #8’s Title Page is an example of how female sexuality (in particularly, that of teenage girls) can be celebrated in comic books in a fun and safe manner. The title page treats the character with respect and dignity, whilst still nodding to an fan base that have dedicated entire blogs to pictures of his butt. The image is tongue-in-cheek about it’s approach to the celebration of Dick Grayson’s bottom, however it is done with respect to both character and reader. Whilst some might argue that this is objectification, the existing social and historical structures within the industry and western society as whole negate this. It has now become an important act of feminist action to have such characters within comic books. Equal opportunity between the sexes, requires equal opportunity to celebrate sexuality. Dick Grayson’s butt in tight lycra is not going to change the world over night, but it is certainly a very good place to start. Grayson is not the first series to celebrate Dick Grayson’s bottom and share it in all it’s peach like glory, and it is unlikely to be the last, yet, much like Dick Grayson, it is still a beautiful piece of work that shall no doubt be cherished for the ages.

References:

Holy Robin Batman! The Wednesday Club, 9th August 2017 (Available on Geek and Sundry’s Twitch and Projectalpha.com)

http://comicsalliance.com/tim-seeley-grayson-nightwings-dc-comics-interview/

http://comicsalliance.com/why-is-nightwing-hot/

http://comicsalliance.com/comics-sexiest-male-characters/

https://www.themarysue.com/gail-simone-nightwing-butt/

https://www.cbr.com/seeley-king-enter-the-dcus-espionage-world-in-grayson/

https://journal.transformativeworks.org/index.php/twc/article/view/460/384

http://www.upenn.edu/pennpress/book/77.html

[theawkwardterrier]

Oh, But Aren't You Already My Darling?

Steggy Week, day 6 Prompt: Tropes and Cliches

Summary: Five times Steve and Peggy faked a relationship, and one time they didn’t.

AO3 link here.

i.

The fact that it is not at all her job doesn’t stop anyone from assigning Peggy the task of bringing Private Rogers to his lodgings for the night. She understands that things are a bit chaotic after the assassination this afternoon (and she certainly has her own sorrow about losing Erskine) and that working with Rogers requires a high clearance level. She also knows for a fact that there are people (men) of lower rank who could escort him, and yet she’s been ordered to do it.

“Thank you for this,” Rogers says. It’s the first thing she’s heard him say in a long while, certainly since they were put into the car with orders to return to SSR headquarters tomorrow morning for testing. “I’m sure you had other things to do.”

“I do,” she acknowledges, not willing to demur for his comfort or conscience. “But I’ll get to them as well. We’re putting you up just a few blocks from here, so as long as you don’t require me to plump your pillows, I’ll be through in plenty of time.”

He smiles a little, and she’s strangely comforted that the man she’s started to know is still in there. “No pillow plumping, but if they give me a room with ugly wallpaper, we’d better hope you’re willing to fight for a new one.”

She hadn’t expected such a directly amusing response. She laughs, but it stops abruptly as the driver of their car reports, “We’ve run into the police barricade.”

“Of course.” That the HYDRA agent had been undercover rather than storming the SSR facility hadn’t mattered to Senator Brandt, nor that it was better to keep these things as quiet as possible for public good and as an espionage tactic. He had demanded police presence in the surrounding area, as if hundreds of Nazi spies might suddenly decide to throw off their masks and attack.

The policeman shines his flashlight into the window on Rogers’s side, waiting for him to crank it open. “Evening, fella,” he says, taking a quick glance over Peggy and the driver but focusing on Steve, still disheveled in an undershirt and too-small pants. “We’re on the lookout tonight. You know about that trouble by the water?”

Sounding tired and yet as if he can’t avoid taking an impertinent tone, Rogers replies, “I heard a little something.”

The officer bristles at the way Rogers doesn’t seem impressed or intimidated. “Well then I’m sure you know it was a big problem, big enough for a United States senator to take a personal interest. We’re all taking it real seriously, so I might wonder what a man such as yourself was doing looking so disordered, sitting in such a fancy car next to a pretty lady.”

At this point, he seems a bit baffled about exactly what he’s accusing Rogers of (are they meant to having a torridly romantic assignation, or spying?), and Rogers is starting to look as if he’d like to give him something specific for which to arrest him. Peggy nearly wants to let him, but she decides better of it; she doesn’t have the time to clean up a mess, and considering the effects of the serum, even a single punch might do some significant damage.

She can’t very well mention who Steve is in specific, and even mentioning that he is a soldier is touchy: if someone took a good look at his technically uniform pants, it would be hard to explain why they are so small. Sizing up the officer, and realizing that Senator Brandt would likely have planted a suspicion of badges in the heads of the police, she leans over so that not only her face but her uniform becomes apparent in the light. “I apologize, Officer. My fiance has had a tremendously tiring day - as you can see, he was in a bus accident on the way from Pennsylvania - and we were just on the way to bring him to his hotel.”

“Your fiance, huh?” The policeman peers in closely, still suspicious. Peggy’s hand rests on top of Steve’s in the middle seat, as if it has always been there. She pinches Steve subtly to get him to stop gaping about it. “How’d a Pennsylvania boy meet a Brit like you?”

“A dairy exchange,” she says promptly, keeping it casual, as if she had been asked by a friend at a party. “His father and the dairy farmers consortium wanted to send a representative to see the famous Jersey cows, and I happened to be visiting a friend who’s a milkmaid.”

“It was all very lucky,” Steve manages, leaning toward her awkwardly. Despite his lack of actual acting skill, his instinct is good.

“And now of course I’m being posted back to England for my war work, so we wanted to get a chance to say goodbye, and see the city once more.” She blinks up a few tears just so they rest in her eyes. “Considering the situation in Jersey, it could be quite a while before they’re hosting farmers again.”

Steve wraps an arm around her. “Don’t sound like that, sweetheart,” he says. He does a decent job of sounding brave and nicely supportive, although he might as well have stolen his lines from a propaganda film. “With our countries working together, we’ll have those stormtroopers off your pretty island in no time.”

“You did promise me a honeymoon there,” she says, settling against him. Despite his swim earlier in the day, and the newness of his muscles, it’s actually quite a comfortable place to be.

“I’m sure you’ll get it, honey.” The policeman, when she looks over toward him, seems to have been truly affected by the charade: he has real tears in his eyes to match her fake ones. “Now, you go on through and get him settled in.”

“Thank you,” she says prettily, and elbows Steve until he does the same. The driver, snorting quietly, steers them past the barricade.

After a few minutes of quiet, she says, “My dairy farmer fiance. I can’t believe he bought that. If a real Nazi spy showed up, I don’t know if our officer friend could be counted on to notice a tattoo of Hitler.”

“Let’s hope the rest of the force is doing a better job protecting the city, or everyone might come back from overseas and find the place turned into New Nuremberg behind their backs.”

They pull up in front of what looks like an average rooming house, the only light visible from a small desk lamp on the ground floor.

“When you go inside, just ask for Eleanor,” Peggy instructs. “And when she asks you how your trip was, say that you’re lucky to only be this late as you had trouble finding a cab.”

“Is there an SSR division that’s just innocent-looking older ladies acting as bodyguards?” he asks, looking out at his home for the night.

“Well, I do need a role to aspire to in my old age,” she tells him.

Steve laughs and steps out of the car, but leans back into the space of the open door. “Thanks for all of your help. In training, and today, and just now.”

“My pleasure,” she says, “and my job.”

“The dairy farmer sounds pretty lucky. You built him a great life.” He looks around down the darkened street, houses closed up for the night, and then says quietly, “You know, if he’d seen us driving together this morning, he probably wouldn’t have believed any of it. That I could milk cows, or get a girl like you.”

In the dim light, she can see that his face has lost the humor. He just looks tired now, and sad. She wonders how long it will take him to sleep. “As far as I’m concerned, the story was equally plausible then and now.”

The smile he gives is still tired, but seems genuine. She imagines that whichever Eleanor is on duty tonight will insist on feeding him a hot supper, and she’s glad of that.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Agent Carter,” he says, and goes inside.

ii.

The red dress was an obvious signal, one that even Steve would have to pick up on. Peggy refuses to admit that the next day’s outfit - a simple blouse and pencil skirt - had similarly flattering elements. They’re practical clothing for a workday, a little break from her uniform, and that’s all.

Except that she does feel just a brief flare of excitement as she comes around the corner to bring Steve over to Howard’s workshop… A flare which is doused as she sees Private Lorraine right up against Steve.

But then she looks closer.

She’s seen Steve uncomfortable at this point - more than once, in fact - but never this much. He’s stammering, his shoulders tucked inward as if he wishes he could return to his former, less noticeable size. It’s a perfect storm, she thinks with pity, of a woman who wants something, and a man who has had no practice saying that he’s not interested.

“Hello, Steve, darling,” she calls out before she can think better of it.

The two of them snap toward her immediately. Lorraine takes a step back and Peggy thinks, Good, with vicious satisfaction.

“Howard’s ready for you, so as long as you’re done with your conversation over here…”

“Yes!” He edges away from where he’d been cornered and walks toward Peggy, straightening his uniform. “It’s good to see you,” he says, thankfully canny enough not to sound too desperate.

Peggy tucks her arm into his and says, casually, but loudly enough to be heard, “Well, I thought I’d come find you - we need to firm up plans for tonight…”

Around the corner, she moves back away from him, easily shifting back to professional as they near Howard’s area.

“I really appreciated that,” he says, surprising her. She had expected him to turn awkward and choose not to mention it.

“It might get around,” she warns. “Private Lorraine is a bit forward, as you saw.”

“I don’t have a problem with people knowing.” She tries not to make it too obvious, but she finds his blush quite endearing.

“And you should likely learn to turn down an advance,” she tells him clearly. She waves a hand toward him. “Considering…”

“Yeah.” He sounds slightly sad as he says, “I’m sure I’ll get a lot of ribbing for not taking advantage when women who wouldn’t have looked at me twice before do more than that now, but I’ll ask around for some advice.”

Howard comes over at a clip to show off his latest gadgets. Peggy says quickly, “Perhaps don’t ask Howard,” just as Steve says, “But maybe not him,” and they laugh.

Peggy gets a lot of glares around the base over the next few days which just confirms whom among her colleagues she wants to be friends with. She can’t quite bring herself to care, regardless.

iii.

Peggy, it turns out, looks quite fetching in a kerchief. But Dernier reminds everyone in rapid French that just because the village is small, it does not mean that everyone is a rural peasant.

“Your normal hair will be fine,” he tells her, and goes off to tell the pilot that they’re ready.

They make the jump just after twilight. All three of them arrive safely on the ground, but that is their last bit of luck for a while. They land farther apart than intended, Steve’s chute is stuck in a tree and while he cuts himself out fairly easily, it’s a bear to collect the silk so that they leave no trace. And then they accidentally wander into a farmer’s land and are quickly nearly gored by a bull.

Their avoidance of such a fate is perhaps a second bit of luck, except: their escape is not exactly subtle, and as they collect themselves beneath a stand of trees, they hear footsteps and then the click of a flashlight and a voice saying in German-accented French, “Who’s there?”

This was meant to be a brief mission. The plan was for a quick surveillance of a site that had been rumored to be a HYDRA-affiliated lab (Jacques had admitted, shamefaced, that there were certainly ambitious French scientists who would mistake what was right for them with what was right), a rendezvous with a contact of Peggy’s, and then a return to SSR headquarters. Therefore, the costumes that they’d been given were meant to hold up to basic scrutiny at a distance, and they had developed barely a sketch of a cover story.

Steve automatically looks to Peggy, because typically if they’re in some trouble because of poor planning, she’s the one to pull them out. But instead, he hears Dernier’s voice.

“How dare you get in the way of true love!”

“Excuse me?” The crunching footsteps move closer, and finally they can see on the other end of the flashlight two soldiers in German uniforms.

“These two good people are from important families in the village who have been enemies for a century! And perhaps we will never know whether it is true that his great-grandfather truly ordered a horse or if her great-grandfather was right to deliver a mule, but it no longer matters. Because as soon as they saw each other when they came to help the schoolchildren prepare for the annual picnic, they knew that no other would do.”

“Perhaps this is the new Romeo and Juliet,” says the taller soldier with rough scepticism, “but then who are you?”

Dernier draws himself up. “I am their priest, of course.” This, naturally, surprises Steve: Dernier has been a firm atheist since 1928, and typically when asked his religion will proudly respond, “French.” But when Steve looks more closely, he finds that Dernier has tucked his white kerchief into the collar of his black shirt and somehow in the dim light it approximates the look of a priest. “Their families would never have allowed a marriage in the village, so we are going to the church in the valley, and once there, we shall finalize the bond that no one will ever be able to break.”

Peggy, always quicker on the uptake, has been holding Steve’s hands in both of hers and looking nervous but besotted. By the time the flashlight has turned to examine them, however, Steve too has caught on. He has his arms around Peggy and is certain that his expression looks like an overly enthusiastic stage actor. But apparently he’s done a decent job, because the shorter soldier relaxes a bit and, waving a hand, says, “Move along, then. Have your romance.”

They walk for a few moments before doubling back and finding the two soldiers again. It turns out that the HYDRA outpost is not just a rumor. It also turns out that Dernier can make quite a large explosion using only minimal materials.

Years later, when the mission file has been declassified, a television episode will be made focusing on the incident. Peggy will be fawning and practically invisible, Steve will speak fluent French while for some reason wearing his Captain America uniform beneath his disguise, and Dernier will do nothing but cackle when blowing things up.

A historical group will write in protest of the accuracy, but they shouldn’t really have bothered: it changes nothing, and honestly, what Steve himself remembers most strongly is Peggy in his arms for the first time.

iv.

After three weeks in the field with what she estimates was an average of three hours sleep a night, a wet cloth the closest substitute for a bath, and an impromptu field surgery to remove a rotten molar from Dugan, all Peggy wants when they reach the small base in the north of England is to collapse into bed. Even an army cot would feel like a palace at this point, but she’s even denied that: there are no women’s bunks where the rest of the Commandos are being billeted and the commander refuses to let her stay even in a room alone.

“Let’s see when the next train is,” Steve says when it’s been made clear to them that the men are welcome to stay, but if Peggy is given a bed there, they will all be turned out. “We’ll get everyone back in their boots in just a minute.”

But Peggy, watching Jones dunk nearly his whole head into a basin of water and Morita lying back fully clothed with an arm over his eyes, already snoring, demurs. There’s no reason to tear all the rest of them away just because she isn’t allowed.

She goes to the village and asks around, and is eventually pointed to the town’s one guest house. The building itself is lovely: sprawling and neatly arranged, with what Peggy would guess are lovely bedrooms if she could actually get inside one of them. But instead, when she is nearly ready to lie down in the foyer, she meets what she expects is the base commander’s sister, a pointed woman who, when Peggy requests a room, indicates a placard beside the desk: Gentlemen and married couples only.

Peggy tries politeness first. “I’m here on important war work, and they don’t have accommodations for me on the base,” she says calmly.

“Well then I’m sure your superiors share my concerns,” says the owner. The look of disapproval she aims toward Peggy’s uniform boils Peggy’s blood. She spent a childhood being shamed for acting ‘like the boys.’ Her memories of the years in which she suppressed herself in order to be accepted are pale, marked by a sadness that comes from little that actually happened during that time. Now she’s found a compromise, a way to be herself that’s been endorsed by the highest officials in the country, and still she is judged. She wants to tell this woman exactly what would be different had Peggy Carter been at home, tending the fires for a man, rather than using her skills to win this wretched war, but instead she just meets the other woman’s gaze head on.

“I’ll only be here for the night,” Peggy says, “and then I’ll be on the train to London in the morning.”

The woman snorts. “As if I don’t know what can happen in a night!” She folds her arms, her elbows sticking out like pokers. “A young girl can sneak a man in here and be ruined in a night. With a child in the equation, she can ruin three lives! My rules ensure propriety, a return to decency which has been sorely lacking these past years.”

There’s so much wrong with this logic, that for a moment Peggy, her brain already slowed, can’t think of anything to say. Luckily she avoids the statements which would almost certainly get her ejected (that babies born out of wedlock weren’t begun with the invasion of Poland, and certainly didn’t have to be the end of the world; that two gentlemen could get up to some behavior that she would certainly find shocking). Instead she takes a breath and points out, “I could be a married woman traveling alone, and of equal virtue to a man traveling in the same state.”

“But you aren’t,” snaps the woman, and instead of feeling like a victory for Peggy, it seems like the beginning of a slow road to defeat. “You’re just another of those liberated army girls. You haven’t got a husband any more than I do.”

“I guess that leaves me feeling pretty useless,” says a voice from the doorway behind them.

The army uniform has always flattered Steve, but just now, with the last of the sunset catching on his hair and the medals on his jacket, the shadows beneath his own eyes concealed, he looks quite heroic.

“Hello, darling,” Peggy says, strangely comforted by the return to a familiar scenario, if only this charade that they seem to keep falling into. “I hadn’t realized you’d be given leave to be able to meet me, but it’s very convenient. We were just having a bit of a misunderstanding.”

“What seems to be the problem?” Steve asks, striding over. He seems in his element not because this is a situation calling for a man to take over, making declarations, but because he has experience standing up to people who are too stuck in particular ideas of how things should be done.

“As I was just explaining, this is a respectable establishment and we have some rules,” says the lady behind the desk, with only a brief pause. She still sounds sour, but perhaps actually a bit shaken too. “We don’t allow rooms to women traveling alone, such as your...wife?”

“It seems to me that women traveling alone are the ones you should be jumping to rent rooms to,” Steve says blandly, “especially if you’re worried about the respectability of the youth, but I guess it doesn’t matter, because she’s actually part of a married couple.”

And when he puts his hands on top of the desk to pull the guest book toward himself, Peggy sees that he is indeed wearing a wedding ring on his left hand. The owner, growing more shriveled by the moment, stares at it.

“My wife wears hers on a chain,” Steve says idly, as if just noticing her gaze. “It’s safer in case of accident or capture.” He nods over at Peggy and she pulls a chain forward from around her neck, the crest of Michael’s school ring concealed by her hand so the visible piece looks plausibly like a wedding band. She hadn’t even known Steve had been aware that she wore it.

The room is indeed lovely when they’re finally shown up to it: a large bed, soft, brightly colored linens, an adjoining bathroom with an enormous clawfoot bathtub that nearly makes Peggy want to return to church. The only blemish is their hostess, who takes them through their brief tour with gritted teeth and glowers her way out the door as if she’d still like to demand their marriage certificate and three witnesses including a member of clergy.

“How did you know I was here?” Peggy asks as soon as they’re alone. “And where on earth did you get that ring?”

“I mentioned to one of the guys at the base that one of us had to go find a room in town and he said, ‘Hope it’s not a lady,’” he says, his British accent an absolute abomination, Cockney mixed with bear by way of New York. “I borrowed his ring in exchange.”

Peggy laughs, collapsing into the pretty paisley armchair with no intention of getting up, although both the bed and bathtub look tempting in the extreme.

“I can probably climb down,” Steve says from where he’s looking out the drapes onto the low roof and the lawn below. “Just tell her that I had to go back on duty.”

“And have her turn me out again?” Peggy yawns. “As long as the boys are covering for you to avoid an AWOL charge, just stay here until morning.”

“You sure it won’t make you uncomfortable?” Steve says, and he sounds sincere, as if he truly would scale down the building and return to the barracks if she wanted him gone.

Instead she waves a hand and says, “I’ll likely be asleep as soon as I climb into bed. You could indulge your passion for can-can dancing and I’d be none the wiser.”

But she finds, after she has splashed water over her face and arms, and brushed her hair and teeth in a bid for some minimal feeling of cleanliness, after she has stripped to her slip (she pulls it off well but the uniform isn’t exactly built for comfort) and climbed under the coverlet beside Steve in his undershirt and trousers, that she can’t fall asleep.

“How ridiculous that I’ve been treated more fairly fighting against the Nazis than I have been trying to pay good money for a room in my own country,” Peggy says, and although she tries to keep her voice even and perhaps joking, the true heart of her disappointment seeps through. “Although at this point I likely shouldn’t be surprised.”

“One day it won’t be like this,” Steve says firmly. “You’re going to change that.”

She shakes her head. “I have a life to live and things to do. I haven’t the time to change everyone’s mind.”

He props himself up and turns to face her. “Every time a little girl sees you in your uniform, she thinks that maybe it could be her one day. And maybe she doesn’t want to be a soldier, she wants to be a professor or a doctor or the owner of her own bed and breakfast that serves single ladies only, but she sees a woman doing something that her mother and grandmother never even got to try, and it plants the seed in her mind.” She thinks that she can see his eyes glimmering in the dark. “Peggy, you’re changing things just by being you.”

She kisses him. There’s nothing else to be done.

“Is this alright?” she asks when he pulls away.

Shakily, he says, “I was just going to ask the same thing.”

“Of course,” she says, surprised. She can’t believe he can’t feel the giddiness that’s overtaken her, completely separate from the peak of exhaustion. “I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. And besides—” She leans close. “It’s alright. You’re my husband, after all.”

He laughs, and she cuts him off with another kiss.

v.

Peggy has some nursing experience, but she’s no match for the barrel-shaped woman in the nurse’s cap before her. It’s not because Peggy is disheveled, or because everything inside of her has been askew since she got Howard’s call - she could have pushed her aside despite all of that. But this woman reminds her of Rose back at SSR headquarters, overlooked and underestimated but like she knows where the nearest machine gun is located and how to access it.

Good. That’s exactly who Peggy wants guarding this particular door.

She calms enough to say politely, “I’m here to see Steve Rogers. I’m his wife,” and notices the nurse’s eyes widen just a bit. How strange: it doesn’t even feel foreign anymore, nor like a lie.

“We’ve been expecting you. Identification please?”

Peggy hands over her passport. It seems a strange precaution to allow them to know her real identity but not Steve’s, to fake a relationship but give this facility unlimited access to Steve’s actual body. It’s all part of the compromise Phillips struck with his superiors. The army technically had the rights to Steve whenever he was found and in whatever condition, and could control who could see him. But when Howard had found a heartbeat for the first time, Phillips stepped in to say that even prisoners of war get access to the Red Cross and Steve Rogers would be allowed visits by his wife, Peggy Carter. And when some paper-pushing corporal had brought up that they had no record of Steve Rogers ever having been married, Phillips had said that he had himself been in attendance at their small ceremony in England seven months ago and it wasn’t his fault that they couldn’t keep track of files on even their most valuable soldiers.

“I’m sure you’re aware that this is a special case,” the nurse tells Peggy as she guides her back through a maze of hallways. “We aren’t entirely certain about anything, but we’re doing our best, and we’re fairly certain he’s stable.”

“Thank you,” Peggy says, managing to sound calm. She appreciates the honesty, but the fact that they are even admitting to uncertainty makes her feel as if they are on shaky footing.

Steve, when she sees him, looks the same as ever, only deeply asleep. She moves his hair off of his forehead and sits beside him, holding his hand and speaking to him quietly. She stays for two hours, catching him up on everything he’s missed as doctors and nurses come in to monitor him every so often. Finally, she wipes her eyes, picks up her handbag, and goes to leave her contact information with the nurse.

She returns the next afternoon, slipping out of work precisely at 5, and repeats the same process: handing over her identification, even though the same nurse is on duty, being shown back to Steve’s room, and filling the space with quiet chat for a few hours.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says, squeezing Steve’s hand before she leaves, and she fully expects to. But instead she receives a midnight call and, making the always perilous egress from the ladies’ residence, catches a taxi through the darkened streets.

The nurse doesn’t bother with her passport this time, hurrying the two of them back rapidly. When they arrive, Peggy sees why: Steve has that stubborn set to his jaw, pushing close up against the doctor. That he hasn’t actually stood is both worrying and a relief.

“Peggy,” Steve says with deep gratitude as she walks in the door.

“I told you that we had called your wife,” protests the doctor, annoyed.

“Right,” Steve says absently. Peggy has joined him by the bed. She holds his face in her hands, looking him over, carefully meeting his eyes.

“You were gone six months,” she tells him. “This is an army facility, in New York. You were found a week ago and brought here as fast as possible. Howard’s been looking after you, between a dozen other things.”

Steve rests his hands on her wrists, so gentle, and she wants to cry. “Peg,” he says quietly, “can you maybe track me down a pair of pants? I know my legs aren’t really working yet, but I’ve had enough of showing off in a hospital gown for one lifetime.”

The tears are technically from the laughter that bubbles up and out of her, but not entirely. Nevertheless, it’s primarily joy in her voice when she responds, “Of course, my darling. Anything for you.”

vi.

They’ve barely left the ceremony dedicating a new military hospital in Bucky’s honor, and Morita is already yanking his tie loose while Dugan bellows for a drink.

“We’ve got a reservation,” Steve assures him, missing Bucky and the way he’d always kept everyone in line. “We just have to make one stop along the way.”

The photo shop is convenient from the hospital, the apartment, and the restaurant where they’re headed. Not for the first time, Steve blesses Peggy’s logical, big-picture thinking. If it had been up to him, he’d probably be racing to pick up the photos after lunch only to find the shop was on the other side of town and closed for the day.

“I’m here to pick up some pictures for my wife,” Steve tells the man at the counter, and waits for the envelope to be fetched.

“Let’s see them,” Dugan demands as soon as they’re in hand, and begins dividing the pictures up for the boys to look at.

Gabe starts it all this time. “That’s strange,” he says, looking at a snapshot taken on their recent trip to the mountains upstate.

“What’s strange?” Steve asks dutifully. He’d known this was coming, as much as he hoped to avoid it.

“I think you must’ve gotten the wrong pictures,” says Morita.

“How’s that?” Steve says with a sigh.

“Well, I’m certain that this can’t be your wife, Captain, because that’s Agent Carter in each of these photos. You’ll recall of course that we fought a war with the both of you, and if you two were to have actually gotten married, we certainly would have been invited,” Monty says with placid logic.

Dernier, who it turns out has always spoken English albeit with a very strong accent (they didn’t find out until after the war, when they could all speak at least basic French), says, “Of course not all of our invitations could have been lost by the mail, so this must be business,” and Morita adds, “Yeah, Cap, tell us what’s up with this charade.”

“If they’re giving her problems with being a Brit and working for the Feds, I’m sure Phillips could pull some strings,” Gabe points out. “Or Howard.”

“Hell, I’ll go down to Washington myself and tell them how much Peg helped us in the field while they were sitting on their fat asses,” Dugan says, rubbing a palm against his fist.

“And while we all know that you were always sweet on her, there’s certainly no need to force her to persist with some sort of sham marriage merely to allow her to keep doing her job here.” Monty again. He’s struggling to keep a straight face; he’s always the first to go.

“It’s been five years, fellas,” Steve protests. “How much longer are you going to keep bringing it up?”

The Commandos look at each other. “Stark’s working on time travel, right?” says Dugan. “He’s pretty smart. I’m sure you’ll be able to get back in time soon to fix things.”

Steve rolls his eyes, although not without a bit of guilt. He and Peggy (but mostly he, as the boys are apparently suitably frightened of Peggy that she doesn’t have to put up with anything but slight ribbing) have been apologizing to those insulted by their lack of invitation to the wedding, which was everyone, practically since it happened. Steve had been surprised by how touchy Phillips still seemed about it, acting especially gruffly affronted when their anniversary came around again.

“We were keeping it small,” Steve tells them once again. It’s what he and Peggy always say. Neither one of them wants to admit to anyone else that they were really concerned that they wouldn’t be able to make it official before some other disaster drew them apart again.

The restaurant is up ahead, and a woman in a blue patterned summer dress stands near the doorway with a newspaper in hand. Steve picks up his pace.

“Now we’ll get a real answer,” Morita says as they approach.

Peggy folds her paper with a smile and kisses Steve briefly but firmly on the mouth. “The wedding debate again?” she asks, falling into step with the group. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to invite you all to the next one.”

“Something you need to tell me?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow.

She pats his arm. “It could be you up there with me, but only if you pull up your socks a bit. The chili you made last night wasn’t quite up to the standard to which I’m accustomed, so I’m considering other applicants.”

Dugan says, “I’ll be your best man, no matter which sucker you’ve got on your arm,” and starts a clamor of volunteering and elbowing between the rest.

“Hey!” says Steve, cutting them off. “I’m always going to be the sucker on her arm.”

“Damn right,” Peggy adds, and hand in hand they enter the restaurant.

[themyskira]

Wonder Woman: Earth One, Vol 2 - Part 3

So, it was around this point in the book where my face locked itself into a horrified rictus. From here until the end I was just reading with this fixed expression of contorted, open-mouthed revulsion.

How could it get worse, you ask? ahah. ahahahahahahah. Read on.

General content warning up top for mind control, abuse, a brief mention of rape, and a little bit of gore. Oh yes, this is a pleasant one.

Diana meets Zeiko in his home. He’s still playing this as ‘they sent me to discover your weaknesses, but now I’ve developed feelings for you! let’s work together to prevent our people from warring!’. To cut a gross story short, he manipulates her into binding her bracelets with her lasso with the old ‘I trusted you, why won’t you trust me?’ It renders her powerless and he shows his true colours, sneering at her, insulting her, casually fondling her thigh, her shoulder. It’s truly repulsive to read.

After revealing that he’s been playing her from the get-go — even the terrorists she fought and the hostages she saved were paid actors — he hypnotises her into doing his bidding.

Steve arrives at Zeiko’s house, responding to an urgent message. He sees Diana in a trance, rightly assumes that Zeiko has done something to her, and turns on Zeiko angrily, exactly as the fucker planned. Zeiko calls out to Diana — ‘look, he’s trying to kill me, I told you he was one of them’, etc. — and then watches on gleefully as Diana attacks Steve and knocks him out cold.

Then he goes for the clincher.

Zeiko: Remember what I told you, Diana. He’s part of it. They’re all part of it, you saw. I’m on your side so he tried to kill me! You saw that! We need to act fast. Captain Trevor’s military overlords sent him to locate your island, preparatory to conquest. All they need now is a slender reason to go to war with the Amazons. All they need is a provocation. You did the right thing. Do “the right thing” again. Remember everything I told you, Diana. You have a big day ahead.

I want to go back to what Morrison said about his intentions in writing Zeiko as a predatory pickup artist. He said that he wanted to bring awareness to the particular techniques that abusers can use to manipulate and isolate women, and to show that this can happen even to the most intelligent and emotionally switched-on people.

From the most technical standpoint, I guess he does that? Zeiko does use a range of common manipulative tactics against Diana to isolate her, make her doubt herself and twist her into doing what he wants. Readers get to see how he does it.

But none of it, from the moment they meet until the moment Zeiko sends a hypnotised Diana out into the world, is presented from her perspective.

We’re not party to what she’s experiencing throughout all this. We see her through Steve’s eyes, as a loved one being manipulated and turned against him. We see her through Zeiko’s eyes, as a pathetic target. Her scenes of emotional turmoil are accompanied by Zeiko’s contemptuous narration, which reduces complex her feelings of betrayal to the wounded pride of a spoiled princess.

Both volumes of Wonder Woman: Earth One are saturated in the male gaze, but rarely is it so disturbing as it is in these sections, where the heroine’s emotional abuse is presented solely from a third-party male perspective.

The next scene finally gives us a very brief insight into Diana’s emotional state, as she returns alone to her apartment, in time for her mental radio to light up with a call from Hippolyta. She is clearly troubled and conflicted about what she is intending (thanks to Zeiko’s hypnotic command) to do.

Diana: Tomorrow I speak to the women of the world! Why do I feel I should never have come here? Why do I feel I’ve done something terrible?

But Paquette fails to adequately capture this inner turmoil in the art, instead going for pouty lips and a detached gaze.

What’s more, because Morrison’s Amazons only speak to each other in dactylic hexameter, Diana’s distress is filtered through the rigid structure of Homeric verse. Instead of raw confusion, grief and betrayal, we get something that reads as formal and rehearsed.

And we barely even get that, because Hippolyta hasn’t called to chat, she’s called to cryptically announce her impending death.

Hippolyta: I dreamed a weapon to bring about the end of men. I changed my mind… the fates changed not and now the time has come. All things must pass.

What’s Hippolyta talking about? Well, in Earth One canon, Hippolyta originally created Diana as a weapon to conquer Man’s World — but when Diana was born, she saw not a weapon but a child. As Diana grew, so did Hippolyta’s love for her daughter, and she abandoned her plans. Here, she reveals that the Fates have not forgotten her original vow, and it will come to pass one way or the other. By trying to stand in its way, she has merely sealed her own doom.

(Urgh, thanks Grant, I’d almost forgotten how awful Diana and the Amazons’ origins are in Earth One.)

And, again, removed from context? This is pretty cool. Real Greek tragedy stuff, you know.

In context, it falls into an ugly trend. Throughout the series, Morrison contrasts the ‘good’ feminism of Diana (who wants dialogue) with the ‘bad’ feminism of the Amazons (who are angry and hate men and, in certain instances, want to force change through questionable means). He rarely takes the time to consider that Diana is a child of hyper-privilege (born into prosperity, blessed with incredible power and technology, and an international celebrity to boot) who has the luxury of being able to say whatever she wants while people flock to listen. He never acknowledges the fact that the Amazons are survivors of rape and slavery whose anger comes from a real, legitimate place.

At a moment when she had been abused, raped and enslaved, Hippolyta expressed an understandable hatred of men and a desire to end them. Now the story is punishing her for it.

Hippolyta ends the call and looks around to find Paula waiting for her.

Paula: Nubia is not here, my queen. Only Paula. Baroness of the Black Sun.

Okay, can we stop it with the poetic descriptions of a vile white supremacist hate symbol?!

Paula reveals tearfully that a radio signal has breached Amazonia and reactivated her Nazi brainwashing. She has fought against it, but she’s failed. Then she cackles evilly and snatches Hippolyta’s magic girdle.

…ssssooooooo… anyone want to explain how this is happening when she’s still wearing the brain-harmonising, mind-controlling, aggression-eliminating Venus Girdle?

Hippolyta submits to the will of fate and Paula punches directly through her chest and snatches out her heart (really? REALLY???), then runs away with the girdle, cackling.

Then we cut back to the States for some more Good Feminist/Bad Feminist.

Diana is about to speak before a women’s rally — you know, the “big angry ladies march” Steve wanted her to skip. It’s a diverse crowd: women of colour, LGBTI women, women with disabilities, hijabi women, women of all ages and body types. Their signs have messages like “the future is still female”, “who run the world?”, “nasty woman” and “trans women are women too”. They look jubilant.

A middle-aged white woman who looks suspiciously like Gloria Steinem introduces Diana and the crowd goes wild.

Diana: My sisters! These are momentous times of turmoil. Yet of turmoil change is born. And Hydra-headed change is the daughter of chaos. I’ve seen women denied education and basic rights. Women treated like property, dehumanised, enslaved, traded. We will not stand for it. As women, as Amazons! We will no longer accept it!

The crowd goes wild. But she’s not done.

Diana: Rulers of Man’s World! Hear me now, your time is at an end! The Amazons are coming to teach you!

Gloria Steinem flinches.

Diana: We are coming, with weapons of peace you cannot understand, with machines and philosophies beyond your own. The Amazons will teach you obedience and harmony! We will make an end to war! And women will rule the world.

The crowd roars its approval, but the male security guard looks distinctly uneasy.

Diana: If that means bringing men to their knees, so be it. We will make you kneel. And the age of men will come to an end. Begging for its life.

Deep in the Pentagon, a room of men are watching the rally with concern, when Max Lord walks in, announces that the Amazons have just declared war.

Okay, first of all, fuck you.

It’s true that Diana is in a precarious political situation at this point of the story. She is trying to campaign for large-scale societal changes, something that is fundamentally threatening to the men in power. She wants to make a lasting difference, and she knows many in this world don’t have the luxury of time that she has. But she’s learning that if she pushes too hard, too fast, the men in power will turn on her and then her homeland will be in the firing line.

And if Morrison had focussed on that angle, he might have been able to build a more nuanced discussion around the difficulties faced by women in the public sphere, who are punished for being too forceful, too assertive, too angry, too “bossy”, too “aggressive”, too “ball-busting”.

But Morrison almost deliberately avoids getting into that territory. When a woman challenges Diana on why she’s not going further, she’s not shown wrestling with the political complexities of her situation — she jumps straight to daydreaming about world domination. When Steve tries telling Diana that the government perceives her and the Amazons as a military threat, she’s not bothered in the slightest — her reaction is ‘lol, I think we can take ‘em’.

So, devoid of that nuance, what we’re left with is… a woman standing before a crowd of woman, giving a voice to an anger many of us have felt before, using hyperbole many of us have used before… and being presented by the story as Wrong and Twisted. The crowd of diverse, marginalised faces becomes an oblivious mob, in which a lone man and two middle-aged, well-off white women are the only voices of reason.

And yeah, in the context of the story, Diana’s not speaking in hyperbole, and it is a declaration of war.

But Diana is a feminist icon, and Morrison chose to have her declare war at a feminist march, using the language of feminism. It’s impossible to escape those connotations, or the implicit message: don’t get too angry, feminists, or you’ll ruin everything.

I repeat: fuck you.

In the Pentagon, Lord continues that only he has the solutions and the technology to defeat them: “Code name Psycho softened her up. I give you the weapon that will kill Wonder Woman. Third Reich mind-control tech, upgraded, signal-boosted. Activate Paula von Gunther. Execution mode.”

Beth arrives at Diana’s trailer to find Diana sitting alone in the dark.

Beth: Diana. They’re calling you a terrorist. What happened out there?

Diana: Beth… he got inside.

FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU URGH.

and, what, we don’t even get to see Diana’s moment of realisation? The moment when she breaks free of the bastard’s hypnosis? What the hell, man?

Zeiko arrives on cue, full of false concern, and tells Diana that Hippolyta “was murdered by right-wing white supremacist factions on your island paradise”. I cannot believe that was an actual sentence in an actual Wonder Woman comic.

And that’s Paula’s cue to burst through the roof of the trailer and drop Hippolyta’s heart at Diana’s feet.

Paula: Behold, a Valentine, from me to you! It kept on beating for a very long time after I tore it from your mother’s breast.

fuck I hate this comic.

Zeiko films Diana’s grief on his phone, gloating.

Zeiko: If there was ever any doubt that my methods guarantee results every time, no matter how high and mighty she thinks she is… here’s the world-famous Wonder Woman!

Like I said, Zeiko is never truly defeated. He’s captured in the end, but Diana never overcomes him. He bests her, and he does it using misogynistic pseudoscience.

Beth hits Zeiko in the face with his own cane, and while he’s reeling she calls the Holliday Girls, who loom over him menacingly while Beth gets out phone to film. (Next time we see him, he has been bound and forced into a ball gag. Haha, implied sexual abuse and humiliation is hi-LAR-ious!)

Meanwhile, Diana fights Paula. Under the power of the Lasso, Paula says that she killed Hippolyta because so that Diana would have to return and take the throne, because she’s in love with Diana and believes Diana can save her and that they can rule the world and enslave men together. All of which might carry some weight if Diana and Paula had ever interacted on page at all before now

(wait, what? what happened to her Nazi programming being reactivated? what the what?)

Paula and Zeiko get loaded onto the vagina plane and it’s back to Amazonia for a fresh round of brainwashing. Zeiko screams in terror that he has rights and they can’t do this to him, before he’s re-gagged and taken into the custody of the Venus Girls.

And finally, a solemn Diana is crowned queen, while the US prepares to deploy its war machines.

followed by the words “to be concluded” because YEP, THERE’S STILL ANOTHER BOOK OF THIS OBNOXIOUS DRECK TO GO.

[fourjokersandajudge]

Impractical Jokers, Season 1, Episode 6 "Panty Raid"

Liveblogging observations/opinions:

Not sure that I can continue to keep up this pace...but I’m trying.

CHALLENGE ONE: KARATE KIDS

Today the guys are at Tiger Schulmanns pose as kickboxing/grappling instructors.  They are pairing up - Joe/Murr and Q/Sal.  They have to do everything the other guys tell them and if they refuse, they lose.

Joe’s/Murr’s turn - LOL @ “You guys look like a couple of great senseis...NOT!”  Shinsho James and Shinsho Joe start the class with a roleplaying activity in which Joe and Murr pretend that they are in a bullying confrontation in a parking lot over a parking space.  They end up in a position where they have their arms around each other and are rolling around the floor.  After they are done, they ask the students in their class to “pair up and start rolling.”  LOL!!!  To demonstrate what happens if the attacker comes in from behind, Murr jumps on Joe’s back.  Joe promptly drops to the floor. In the back room, Sal has fallen down from laughter...I believe that this is the first time that has happened (and most certainly not the last).  Joe appears to almost have lost his pants...as he gets back up, he is seen adjusting them.  LOL!  Both Joe and Murr then start punching the same punching bag, pretending that it is a bully who has taken their lunch money.  Q tells Murr to jump up on the bag...so Murr does a fancy cartwheel and jumps right onto the jumping bag, creating so much momentum that he slowly tips over...so graceful!  HA HA  After he gets back up, Joe takes a quick swipe at his upper lip...upper lip sweat alert!!  As Murr describes all of the different areas of the body one must protect in a fight (which Joe points out one at a time), he includes the groin. Q and Sal tell Joe to touch Murr’s groin to which Joe refuses and walks out.  LOL!!

Q’s and Sal’s turn - Murr tells Sal to demonstrate how NOT to hit and Sal gives a girly swipe and kick at Q.  LOL!!!!!!  Murr tells Sal to tell the class that he’s going to teach them a new move called the “You go, girl!”  (Side note:  the look on Q’s face when Murr says the name of the move is absolutely PRICELESS!!) Sal proceeds to lay down and Q prepares to “attack” him.  When Q goes to hit him, Sal says “nuh uh, girl” and then the two engage in a tickle fight.  HA HA!!  Sal quickly gains dominance over Q and is tickling Murr so much that Q is giggling like a little girl.  Too funny!!

LOSERS - JOE and MURR

In between the first two challenge, there is a shot of the guys walking down the street chatting with each other about whether or not they think that they still have game.

CHALLENGE TWO:  NEWS LOSERS

The guys are pretending to be tv reporters in Times Square.  If they refuse to say or do what the other guys tell them, they lose.

First time for a bowtie on Murr - and the first time that he’s been made fun of for it.  LOL!

Sal’s turn - Sal fairly quickly gets a bite on a participant a young man who is originally from New York, but now lives in Texas.  Sal is told to wave his hand back in front by his butt as though he’s trying to wave away the smell of a fart - the young man calls him out on it.  He gets another interviewee.  He is told that he needs to drool.  At first it looks like the young man isn’t going to acknowledge it, but then he does...and Sal wipes his chin off.  Thumbs up!

Murr’s turn - Murr’s mark is an older man named Smitty who’s smoking a cigar. Sal tells Murr to touch Smitty in as many places on his body as possible with the microphone.  Eventually, Murr’s microphone ends up in front of Smitty’s crotch.  LOL!!  Murr’s second try is with a couple.  He is told to insinuate that the woman is the man’s mother (instead of wife/girlfriend). He refuses to do it which earns him a loss on this challenge.

Joe’s turn - Joe’s participant is a man named Nick.   Joe is told that he has to keep mumbling “squeeze it” as the man is speaking.  LOL!!!  Then he is told to just hold the microphone up to the man’s mouth and stare at him, but not say anything.  Then Joe is told to gradually get closer and closer to Nick’s face.  Nick awkwardly continues to stare forward and not at Joe.  He gets a win.

Q’s turn - Q’s mark is a lady whose name is Siddhi (she’s from India), but Q looks confused and tells her that he’s going to call her Sammy (at Joe’s suggestion).  Q asks her about the heat and “Sammy” just starts rambling aboud every topic under the sun.  Q eventually hands her the mic, hails a cab, and leaves the interview.  Sammy continues to talk even after Q leaves.  Thumbs up.

LOSER - MURR

In between challenges, we get another shot of the guys walking down the street and chatting.  This time they are discussing which of the four is the least approachable of the four.

CHALLENGE THREE:  YOU DON’T WANT THAT (Joker vs Joker - Murr vs Sal)

The guys are at a pharmacy and they have to try to convince a customer to NOT buy a specific item because of a reason that is given to them by the other guys..  They have to do and say whatever the other guys tell them - if they refuse, they lose.

Murr’s turn - Murr is told to convince a man not to buy a certain package of baby wipes - the reason he is given (from Sal) is Nazi Germany.  Murr makes up a story about Hitler and Eva Braun having a baby and they chose to use these particular wipes on the baby.  LOL @ “You right about that!”  Murr gets a thumbs up after the man changes his mind about the wipes.

Sal’s turn - Sal’s mark is an older lady in a floppy hat.  The product he has to discourage her from buying is a metal nail file and the reason is because of prison riots.  LOL!!! In the middle of Sal and the lady’s discussion, they are interrupted by a couple of the lady’s elderly friends. He ends up losing because he says that he is getting “granny-blocked”.  HA HA!!!  Sal gets a loss.

LOSER-SAL

When giving the challenge results summary, I love the joke told about his mom and Murr.  LOL!

Once again, we see the guys walking down the street and chatting with each other.  This time, they are talking about Sal’s bad luck and how one time, he came out to his car and there was a homeless man sleeping on it.  I have to say that I am absolutely loving these little mid-challenge vignettes - I wish that they still did them.

CHALLENGE FOUR: TOUCHY FEELY

The guys are back on the boardwalk giving massages to passers-by.  Whoever gets the fewest tips loses.  And Q is doubly creeped out and impressed with how good Murr is at giving him a massage (which he is doing during the challenge introduction).

Murr’s turn - Murr’s mark is a young lady named Mary.  Sal prompts Murr to tell the girl that he’s going to give her a neck-gasm to which the lady seems against because her dad is close by and watching.  She gets out of the chair.  Murr moves on to another lady.  After her massage, she gives him a $1 tip.

Sal’s turn - Sal's mark is a middle-aged man.  Sal checks to see if he’s ticklish.  Sal’s second mark is a young man named Jeff.  Sal is told to belch loudly.  After the massage, he is given a $2 tip.

Q’s turn - Q gets a man in his chair.  He is told to “get a full sense of the man’s body” and to lay down on top of him.  LOL!!!!.  He stays there for a while, not working on the man at all.  Sal is rather antsy...not sure what he’s doing (maybe laughing extra hard).  The man gets up and leaves without leaving a tip. 

Joe’s turn - A young lady sits down in Joe’s chair.  Joe is told to give the massage using anything but his hands.  He starts with his chin and then uses his nose (a technique called the jackhammer).  HA HA!!  He closes out the massage using his butt.   A second girl hops into the chair.  Joe is told to start slowly taking off random articles of clothing.  As he’s doing his routine, stripper music plays as the soundtrack.  LOL!  By the time the massage is done, Joe is standing only in his underwear.  I’m a bit disturbed that during part of him standing in his skivvies, his crotch is blurred out.  WTF!!!!!!  Apparently, Joe was kind of excited for the massage to be over.  LOL!!  He ends up with a 50 cent tip.

LOSER-Q

During the results summary, Joe jokes about having a huge tip.  SMH!  LOL!

EPISODE LOSER - MURR

Punishment time - Murr has to go into a laundromat, find a patron’s underwear, and put them on his own head for ten seconds.   I have no words...LOL!   Murr at first refused to do it, but after some coaxing from the other guys, he makes his way into the shop.   He sees a target in the back and slowly makes his way over to her.  As he’s sizing up the situation, the woman’s husband shows up and starts circling.  Eventually, Murr gets the panties from the woman’s laundry and puts them on his head.  Meanwhile, the other guys are losing their minds.  The woman calls him out on it.  He gives the panties back and sheepishly makes his way out of the laundromat.

Number of belly laughs:  11

My personal rating - 7 (out of 10)

[kittenfemme27]

The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires

I don’t know about you, reader, but it’s been actual years since I was able to properly sit down and finish a book. My last one was Lovecraft Country in 2018, and many, many years before that. Reading used to be a big passion of mine, I loved to get lost in the worlds. I loved the movie that played out in my head as I read, as if it was projecting itself into my mind more-so than i was actually reading the words themselves. For a kid who didn’t always grow up with the internet or video games available, Books from my local library were a great escape.

So, having found myself getting more and more into horror around 2019 in all forms of media I consumed, I was more than happy to bookmark a tweet from a horror artist I follow on Twitter who had a list of all the horror books he’d read that year. This would be my chance to get back into reading, finally!

Cue.. 2 years later, and I’ve finally started on that list. The top of that list, “The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires“, was something I found immediately intriguing from the title and cover alone. I’m now regretting that decision so much that I’m not sure I’ll bother with the rest of the list.

(CW: R*pe, Gore, Racism)

“The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires” is an awful book. The only compliment I feel I could accurately give it is that it’s not written incompetently enough, from a purely technical standpoint, as to be unreadable.

The story stars Patricia Campbell, a housewife in the 1980′s-1990′s that is more apology than character, and her rag-tag group of similarly middle-aged, middle-income southern white wine sipping housewives who do, and I cannot stress this enough, almost nothing but test each other’s and the readers patience for nigh on 310 out of 357 pages. They bicker, they fight, they treat Patricia as crazy when she repeatedly shows them evidence that children around them are dying, and most of all they refuse to do absolutely anything, leaning more into pure disbelief until the problem has literally violated one of them. The book club women don’t lead interesting lives, either. They’ve got husbands who are not in love with them, children who hate them, and friendships with each other that can be broken by what feels tantamount to bringing the wrong wine to a meeting. Throughout the story, Patricia is accosted by the resident Vampire-like creature, more akin to a human mosquito than any sort of real “Vampire”, that moves in after his aunt dies. A man named James Harris. He smoothly worms his way into everyone’s lives in the charismatic way a vampire does and convinces everyone that Patricia is more or less insane for ever suspecting him of being a vampire after she watches him feed on a child. This leads to her attempting suicide after being pushed into a corner by her doctor husband who seems to have been ripped straight from the 1950′s and thinks women should be Seen and not Heard. She gives up and more or less goes comatose as a character for roughly 3 years until finally she snaps to her senses after seeing a ghost of her dead mother in law who knew the Vampire when she was a small child, who leads her to one of the bodies he’s got stored in his attic, and convinces everyone else in her book club, who has routine abandoned her at this point, to help her kill James. They do, chopping his body to bits while it taunts them and then throwing the bits into a fire. Patricia divorces her husband at the end and somehow that makes her children lover her, happy-ever-after ending.

That’s the rough synopsis, but it doesn’t really do the grossness of this book any justice. That first child James kills, is a black 9 year old named Destiny who later kills herself as it’s revealed that the Vampire-like creature’s bites feel so good and so sexually pleasurable, that if you are deprived of them after becoming addicted you’re likely to just commit suicide. This is AFTER she’s taken away from her mother by child services because they assume the bite marks are syringe injection marks and that her mother must be a druggie. She’s not the first black child to die this way either. In-fact, by the time Patricia becomes wise to James’ ways, she’s the third. They’re all from a poor black neighborhood that is literally described as shady, dangerous, and being full of “Super Predators” called Six-Mile, which is the de-facto feeding ground of the Vampire for a good 75% of the book, as well as the home of the literally only surviving named black character, Ursula Greene, who herself is nothing more than a “wise old negro” trope along with being a maid to these rich white people who think of her as trash. This is probably the biggest overarching problem in the book. It tries, in the authors words, to explore the relationships between the white, rich women who brag about how their cul-de-sac is so safe and pure that nobody even locks their door, and the poor black characters from Six-Mile. The book thinks its clever, because Mrs. Green constantly points out that the white characters let the black children die callously so that their white children would live, to which they can only reply about how guilty that makes them feel and how they’re sorry. I’m not sure what the author hoped to accomplish by pointing out the institutional racism of the 90′s, but whatever he hoped to accomplish, it fail flat on its face in the most racist way it could.

I wish that was where gross things ended for this book, but its not. At one point, the Vampire-like creature rapes one of the book club members and she is more or less outright stated to be pregnant with a monster from that rape and it is also revealed that the rape gave her an “Auto-Immune Disease” that the characters husband immediately likens to AIDS and that is very quickly killing her. This information causes her to choose to have her body cremated so nothing can spring forth from her corpse when she dies. The implications this has are frankly appalling. The books decision on whether or not a woman who gets pregnant from rape is worthy of life is to resolutely and proudly say no and treat that as if its a feminist answer. That if you’re raped, it’s akin to something like AIDS and life simply isn’t worth living. it’s one of the grossest things I’ve read in a long time.

It’s not even the only shock value the book uses to make it’s events feel real and scary, others include Patricia’s son “Blue” being obsessed with Nazi’s, for genuinely seemingly no reason. He just brings them up to make you, and everyone in the story, uncomfortable. There are constant overwrought descriptions of gore or simply gross scenarios, such as an indepth description of Patricia’s ear-lobe being ripped off, or rats gnawing the flesh off on a old woman, or a cockroach crawling inside someones ear. There is also the repeated child murder or child suicide, which doesn’t really serve a purpose other than to shock the middle-aged mothers this book was meant for, with multiple sentences in which Patricia thinks about how much it would hurt if that were her children, inviting the reader to do the same with their own.

And we couldn’t forget that this book is just unrepentant in its horniness. It’s outright stated that being fed on is the most sexually pleasurable thing one can feel, which makes it all the more awkward when you consider that the Vampire’s first set of victims are children, later Patricia’s teenage daughter who she walks in on in the middle of being fed and who she has to stop from literally masturbating in that moment while attempting to punch the Vampire off of that same teenage daughter. But, of course, it doesn’t end there. It’s a book about almost entirely women written by a Cis Male Author, which means there are constant depiction of female bodies in the nude or in violence. It’s no “She boobed boobily”, thankfully, but it’s not much better than that. Describing pubic hair, breast shape, and even making it so that the Vampire-like creature drinks from a penis-esque proboscis that extends from it’s throat and right into the upper thigh of it’s victim, which is mentioned twice to be right next to the vagina. It even goes so far as to try and sexualize its own rape, aswell as having Patricia tell the rape victim how good it feels with this section between the two. Something I’m including here in its entirety because no amount of words I can write describes how gross this passage is, in context.

   “Grace already... told me,” Slick said, opening her eyes, pulling her mask away from her face to speak. “I made her... give me all the details.”

   “Me too,” Patricia said. “I was out from what he did to me.”

   “How did... it feel?” Slick asked.

   Patricia would never have said this to anyone but Slick. She leaned forward.

   “It felt so good,” she breathed, the immediately remembered what he’d done to Slick and felt selfish and insensitive.

   “Most sin does,” Slick said.

I think the thing that angers me the most about this book is that it’s tricked a lot of people who read it into thinking its a fun, feminist read. All of the main characters are overworked mothers who struggle with being that overworked, and then come out on top anyway because of their motherly intuition and love for their kids. It’s the kind of book that a single struggling mother would read and think “Yeah, I’d do that, that’d be me! I’d save the day!” and it makes them feel good about themselves, and about being a mother, and about how hard it is to make the kids lunches and clean the husbands dirty underwear and make sure the house is clean and dinner is on the table by 6 PM all while looking hashtag fabulous and like a girlboss. A quick trawl through any review site will show roughly the exact type of single mothers this book is written for giving it 5 stars and calling it hilarious and empowering. And y’know, I don’t have a problem inherently with prose written for that demographic. But this book gets away with a ton of racism, sexism, and outright disgusting content by hiding itself under that veneer and I think that’s just awful. It should be held to scrutiny for what it is, for how bad it is, and it clearly never was.

Don’t read this book. It sucks. It sucks so fucking much. I want my night I spent reading it back.