#winter soldier vietnam

[steelbluehome]

The Winter Soldier

I just found this thread on Reddit.

effdot•2y ago

It bums me out a little that a lot of fans of Captain America don't know what a 'Winter Soldier' is, aside from the name in Marvel comics.

Winter Soldier has a deep meaning to U.S. armed forces and U.S. history. It's a term with roots in the revolutionary war. A summer soldier was someone who could only be counted on when times were fair; they would only fight when things were easy. But a winter soldier was loyal, steadfast and true; they would fight when things were hard, like the soldiers who stayed on duty during the horrific winter at Valley Forge.

The name also has a connection to John Kerry and other Vietnam veterans who spoke out against the Vietnam war, and atrocities they witnessed or were ordered to commit. John Kerry was a straight-edge soldier from a wealthy military family, and he enlisted in the U.S. Navy reserves in 1966. He was awarded the silver star and the bronze star during his service in Vietnam.

By 1970, Kerry was an anti-war activist, and he and other soldiers organized 'the winter soldier hearings,' where they gave space for fellow Vietnam Veterans to talk about U.S. war atrocities in Vietnam. They called themselves Winter soldiers to emphasize their loyalty to the U.S., and to tell people that their speaking out was their duty as loyal soldiers, and even presented their testimony to Congress.

The superhero character of Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, embodies both of these historic pieces. Bucky is loyal and sticks around for a hard-fight, like the Winter Soldiers of the 1770s. Bucky has witnessed and committed atrocities, but worked to rectify those mistakes and speak up, like the Winter Soldiers of the 1970s.

His name is a badge of honor in our world, and in his world, he's done more than enough to redeem the name and place it in the same honor as other winter soldiers of the past.

That's why I hope they never change it.

ILikeClefairy•2y ago

My dumbass: “He’s the winter soldier bc Russia is cold.”

effdot•2y ago

Ed Brubaker, the writer who revived Bucky as the Winter Soldier during his run on the Captain America comics, was inspired by the Vietnam hearings I mentioned. He felt that characters introduced in the Captain America comics needed to have a political component to them. He learned about the connection to Thomas Paine (whose writings about summer soldiers inspired the idea of winter soldiers, and also Vietnam Veterans Agains the War), and loved the name more. He then connected that to his idea of the Soviet Army finding Bucky's dead body in the waters of the arctic, and also with his idea that Bucky would be frozen after his special missions, and Winter Soldier stuck.

So, yeah, the name is partly because of the cold, but it was the Vietnam hearings I mentioned that was the initial inspiration.

But you got right to the point, you aren't a dumbass, the only thing shown on screen is a frozen soldier and Soviets, what else would an audience think? I wish Disney and Marvel Films would just go one more step and talk about the real winter soldiers.

A lot of them are still alive, and a part of me hopes they live long enough for a superhero pop culture tentpole movie to honor them. They spoke out when Nixon was President, and it was incredibly dangerous for them to do so -- but they did it anyway.

And it feels like to me that no one knows in the U.S. anymore, because it feels like there's no way to explain or to reach people. But if Marvel Films mentioned a little of this, I think it would do some good for some real people.

Reddit thread

Learn the History of the Term “Winter Soldier” and Why Ed Brubaker Used the Name in Captain America by Glen Tickle

Winter Soldier Investigation - Wikipedia

Winter Soldier (1972 documentary)

American Crisis (No. 1) by Thomas Paine "Summer soldier"

I still would like it if he took on the name White Wolf, but now I don't mind if he remains the Winter Soldier.

[fiprobsreblogsalot]

I would seriously appreciate it if someone is kind enough to send me all the new TFATWS content and bloopers, cuz I'm kinda desperate over here trying to find them on piracy pages 😭 I miss Sambucky so bad it hurts

[moeitsu]

Explaining the James Logan Howlett (Wolverine) Lore for the new fans :)

I made this as a little cheat sheet for all the new Logan/Wolverine fans, in case you’ve never seen the movies or read the comics. Hopefully it’ll help with your fanfics and understanding his character better <3

Logan is my favorite of the Marvel superhero’s, and he and I go way back….so far back that my Dad dressed up as Wolverine and I as Rogue for Halloween in 2006. So he holds a very special place in my heart.

Lore - Part 2  Wolverine Comics

If you’ve seen X-men Origins: Wolverine, I hate to break it to you, but that backstory is not canon to the X-men universe. The later movies really screwed up the timeline. So the information here is strictly from the comics.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Pre-Adamantium Binding:

His real name is James Howlett, ‘Logan’ is later used as an alias to distance himself from his past.

He was born sometime around 1880, in Alberta Canada.

He is the illegitimate son of Elizabeth Howlett and Thomas Logan. He grew up on the Howlett estate and believed John Howlett was his real father.

His mutant powers first appeared when he was a child. He has accelerated healing, heightened senses, and retractable bone claws.

The trigger was caused by Thomas Logan killing James Howlett. The overwhelming fear and anger made his power manifest, blinded with rage he kills Thomas.

As his biological father dies, he reveals to Logan that he is his true father. The event is deeply traumatizing, and Logan runs away from his family estate. His mother commits suicide shortly after.

Logan has a half brother known as Sabertooth (Victor Creed) who has similar powers to the Wolverine but is more ‘animalistic’

The details vary across the comics but the brothers are always seen as rivals. And often pitted against eachother.

Logan served in WWI, WWII, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War.

He also served in a Canadian military force known as ‘Department H’ that specialized in superhuman affairs. (This was after the experiment, I’ll go into more detail later)

Sometime before the Weapon X program: On Earth-616, Logan had a wife (Itsu) and son in Japan where he was training at the time. They were killed by the Winter Soldier (Bucky Barnes)

Weapon X Program - Adamantium Binding:

The Weapon X program was run by multiple people working in secret for the Canadian government. Originally beginning in 1845, their goal was to experiment on mutants and create their own super-soldiers.

Logan was deceived and manipulated into undergoing the Weapon X experiment. He did not consent to being a test subject.

For some reason the X-Men Origins movie makes it out to be that Logan willingly chose to undergo this process, only to later reveal that he was tricked into doing so.

Before being captured, he was still struggling with his identity, he was close to 100 years old at the time. His life was filled with violence and loss. Making him physically and mentally vulnerable.

He was a prime target for exploitation.

Part of the experiment was to completely erase his memories and replace them with false ones. This allowed them complete control over him.

This also made it difficult for him to recall how he ended up in the program to begin with.

I repeat: they completely wiped his memory. His whole identity was gone.

100 years of memories were gone.

The bonding process turned his entire skeleton and bone claws into indestructible metal.

Due to his regenerative nature, Logan was not given anesthetic or put under for the procedure. It was excruciatingly painful.

Logan worked as a mercenary for private military contractors. He took on these assignments without fully understanding their implications because of his fragmented memory.

Sometime later he became a member of X-Force, a private military unit (affiliated with the CIA) that dealt with incredibly violent operations.

The purpose of the project was to create an unstoppable killing machine. With their end goal being to erase his humanity all together. However Logan’s mental fortitude allowed him to resist the conditioning and make his escape before it was too late.

After escaping, Logan developed a mistrust with authority. And just people in general. He felt deeply betrayed by the Weapon X program. And he struggles with the fear of being used as a weapon.

The escape and aftermath of Weapon X:

After everything Logan went through, the intense trauma and confusion significantly impacted his actions and mindset.

He was left with extreme psychological damage, and behaved more as an animal than a man for the first few years of his freedom. Living in the wilderness of Canada.

Quite literally a feral man. He lost touch of his humanity. Embracing his animalistic abilities, turning him into an apex predator.

Logan has the ability to enter something called “Beserker Rage” which he becomes entirely driven by animalistic instinct. Turning him into an unstoppable force and exerting himself for very long periods of time.

Think of when you see him running on all fours…

Over time, Logan began to regain bits and pieces of his humanity. He was later discovered by Heather and James MacDonald Hudson who took him in and helped him recover physically and mentally.

(Logan actually fell in love with Heather, and James became his best friend. They were the closest thing he had to a family)

After he recovered, he was recruited by the Canadian governments ‘Department H’. They were responsible for a lot of his training and became a key member in Canada’s superhero team: Alpha Flight.

This is where he took on the code name “Wolverine”

His time with Alpha Flight was short lived. And soon he was approached by Charles Xavier, who was looking for mutants to join his X-Men. He recognized Logan’s potential and offered him a place on the team as well as the promise to help him regain his memory.

Logan accepted, and his time with the X-Men marked a critical and significant moment in his life. Under Xavier’s guidance he was able to rebuild his identity and gradually piece together his past. All while fighting for the rights of mutants.

Being part of the X-Men gave him a sense of purpose and direction. Although his main goal had always been to uncover what he had lost, which was himself. He still struggles with trust and relationships, but eventually forms strong bonds with the other X-men.

His past with Weapon X still haunts him. And he has vivid and terrible nightmares about what he had done and what was done to him.

I won’t go into detail about his time with the X-men because that varies a lot across the comics. Just know that he had a love-hate relationship with them, but he ultimately loved them in the end.

Some sad facts about Logan that actually haunt me:

Logan has outlived everyone he ever loved. Family, friends, even his own children. He is so so so lonely.

Immense amount of survivors guilt. He feels unworthy of the life he continues to live.

He suffers from chronic nightmares. Often waking up in a violent and panicked state.

Deep-seated fear of abandonment that goes all the way back to his early childhood. He isolates himself to protect himself from more pain.

Tons of self-loathing. He believes himself to be nothing more than a killer. He thinks he is unworthy of love and happiness.

In the “Old Man Logan” storyline, he is tricked into killing the entire X-Men team. This event haunts him for the rest of his life.

Logan had a long, unrequited love for Jean Gray. He has watched her die multiple times, and each time a piece of him dies with her. On one occasion, he even had to kill her himself.

When he succumbs to “beserker rage” he loses control of himself. And the aftermath horrifies him. He is even afraid of himself at times and one of the reasons why he distances himself from others.

Some happy/soft facts to make up for everything you just read:

Logan is incredibly fatherly at times, often taking younger mutants under his protection and guidance. He becomes a mentor to them and looks out for their well-being.

In one of the comics he takes a young girl (Jubilee) to the mall and followers her around carrying her bags. He loves doting on her and I find it so adorable.

He also teaches another mutant named Kitty how to dance.

In one mission he is tasked with taking care of an infant, Hope. And he is incredibly gentle and tender with her. Cradling her in his arms and being fiercely protective.

He has a deep love and connection with animals. Especially ones that have been mistreated or misunderstood.

Caring for an injured wolf, he nurses it back to health and releases it back into nature.

He also adopts a stray, abused dog at one point.

In one of the timelines, he funded and ran the ‘Jean Gray School for Higher Learning’ He was the headmaster, and was dedicated to protecting and teaching young mutants.

In one scene he literally makes pancakes for all the students. I love him so much.

His relationship with Nightcrawler (Kurt Wagner) is very brotherly. They share alot of respect and understanding for each other, and Nightcrawler often serves as Logan’s moral compass.

His happiest memories are when he was training in Japan. And he has a deep appreciation and admiration for the culture. Taking on the samurai code of honor, and respecting its discipline and humility.

His entire relationship with Laura Kinney (X-23). Essentially his daughter. Taking on a father-figure role for her.

In one of the comics he organizes a birthday party for her, knowing she never had one. He goes all out and it shows just how much he loves her.

Logan has a great sense of humor. Often dry and sardonic, he’s known for his quick wit and playful banter. Which adds a layer of warmth to his otherwise tough persona.

He is very fond of life’s simple pleasures. Which reflects his inner desire for peace and normalcy. He values the little things that make life enjoyable.

His numerous acts of kindness towards strangers. Logan is compassionate at heart.

He doesn’t comfort others with his words, but rather his presence. Logan has a very unique understanding of grief and tries to give others relief in knowing they aren’t alone.

WOW okay I wrote way too much. Tbh I actually cut a ton out of this but if anybody wants a part 2 I’d be happy to share more. Shoutout to my brother for helping me source all this with his comics lol.

If you read all this, you’re a real one. And I’m so glad we’re all witnessing the Logan Howlett Renaissance

[originalmkh]

I don’t think we should sweep these things under the rug. I don’t think we should pretend they didn’t happen. I don’t think we should pretend they’re not still happening, somewhere in the world this is still happening. This is playing on a loop in someone’s head. I don’t want them to be alone with it.

[clip-the-simp]

A Logan Holiday

Ao3 Master list

Pairing: Logan Howlett // Wolverine x mutant!fem!reader

Word count: 2,536

Cw: slight proofreading, fluff, slight angst, winter holidays, language, alcohol, talks of war (?), this really is just kinda fluffy.

Summary: The reader tried to find Logan to celebrate the winter holidays. She finds him isolating himself from the festivities but doesn’t allow him to sulk in peace.

A/N: I got the writing bug and it’s for Logan. 7 year old me should NOT have been so down bad for this man but she was. But I guess that’s what happens when you have raging parental issues. Enjoy this very out of season dribble.

The air had chilled from the winter that settled in during December. Snow dusted over the grounds of the Xavier Institute as it fell softly from the sky. Most of the children had gone home for the winter break but there were always a few that stuck around the mansion. However, even with many of the school's inhabitants gone, the halls were still lively with the holiday spirit.

Gambit along with Rouge were busy in the kitchen whipping up treats for everyone to enjoy. Their laughs could be heard from the hall as you passed which filled your heart with warmth.

Jubilee tasked herself with the responsibility to run through the mansion halls and decorat to her heart's content. She had nearly ran into you multiple times from not paying attention but it was understandable. Her and Kurt had challenged one another to see who was the better decorator. And from the look of things Jubilee was going to win this one.

Jean and Scott were busy putting up a pine tree in the massive living room. The tree towered over everyone who stood near it but that just gave ample opportunity for decorating. Scott of course took the lower branches while Jean used her abilities to fly to the top. Presents laid under the tree for everyone who stayed for the winter and it brought a smile to your face as you thought about all the love that filled the school.

Leaning against the door frame, you couldn’t help but think about how much you would enjoy spending this time with Logan but he was nowhere to be found. He had run off that morning and you couldn’t track him down. You knew he didn’t like the holidays but you wish he wouldn’t run off like he did. There was a hand suddenly on your shoulder that forced you out of your thoughts. Startled, you jumped around and found Ororo behind you. She looked just as shocked at your reaction as you were.

“Wow now it’s just me.” She reassured you with a smile. Having taken her hand off your shoulder, she returned it to her hot coffee mug that was in her other hand. You let out a sheepish chuckle as you caught yourself.

“Sorry Ororo. Been a little in my head this evening.” You leaned back against the door frame and continued watching as Jean placed the star at the top of the tree. Ororo hummed an understanding note with a nod.

“You’re worried about Logan, aren’t you?” She questioned as she took a slow sip from her drink. You gave her a weak smile at her acknowledgment. Everyone knew you were close to Logan, but no one knew just how close.

It was a one sided kinda love. The two of you had lived through the same worldly events. With every war you had found your way back to him. Although he never had noticed you. Your role was always that of a medic and since Logan never needed medical attention he had never taken notice of you. Sure there were many occasions he would bring a fellow soldier back from the battlefield, bloody and barely holding on to life, but he never stayed long. Through every war you had been there to watch him and his brother fight both on and off the field. When a war would end the two of you would part ways for the time, but war never changed and it always brought you back.

During the Vietnam war however was when you thought you lost him forever. After Logan’s brother Victor had killed a commanding officer they were sent to be executed. You knew it wouldn’t work but there was still a pain in your chest from knowing you wouldn’t see Logan again. That was until many years later when Scott had hauled Logan’s limp body into the institute which caused your heart to seize in your chest. But even with Logan being so close now you didn’t dare confuse that love you still felt for him. Not only because of your cowardice but also due to his lack of memory. There was no chance you would pursue what only you could remember of him.

So you decided to build a new. Scrubbing your memories of the old Logan for ones to make with the one standing today. He was still mostly the same gruff man you knew, but he no longer remembered what all had happened to him. With those thoughts floating though your head you shook them away to bring yourself back to the moment. Ororo looked at you with a soft smile and gentle eyes.

“How did you know?” You asked jokingly as you crossed your arms over your chest. Your smile became more stable as you straightened your posture. “You haven’t seen him have you?”

“Not since this morning. But Charles may have better knowledge of his whereabouts.” She offered before stepping through the large doorway. You watched as she settled herself down on the couch in front of the fireplace. The fire crackled and kept the room warm despite the large windows that covered most of the walls in the room.

Deciding to take Ororo’s suggestion you went to find The Professor. If you remembered correctly he and Hank had settled into the library to play chess while reminiscing on the past. Making your way there you bumped into Kurt who teleported right in front of you causing him to run into your chest.

“Oh, sorry! Gotta run! Can’t have Jubs beat me!” And with that he was gone in a flash. A chuckle left your lips as you made it to the library where you found Charles. The men sat at a table with a chest bored in front of them, but as you entered both raised their heads to look at you.

“Hello professor, I’m sorry to bother you but have you seen Logan?” Your words came out more rushed then had been intended but you were starting to get antsy. He couldn’t have just dropped off the face of the earth. All the vehicles were still in the garage so you know he was here somewhere.

“I haven’t my dear. But we both know how he gets around the holidays.” The Professor informed you with a wariness in his voice. Charles was the only one to know of your history with Logan and understood your care for the man. You let out a sigh as another attempt to find Logan failed.

“I know. But Thank you Professor, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. See ya.” You bid farewell to the two chess players before walking to your room. It was almost driving you mad trying to find Logan. Deciding to take a break you went to your room to change and grab the gift you had for the Wolverine. You had been walking around the mansion in your sweatpants and a festive long sleeve shirt but decided it was time to take the search outside.

As you finished changing into your jeans and put on a jacket over your long sleeve you looked out the window. When looking outside you’re immediately greeted with the pond, but if you look farther you can see some of the trees that scatter the grounds, limbs bare of leaves. In one of those trees you had spotted a shadowy figure amongst its branches. There was no doubt in your mind who it was. So in a quick fashion. You laced up your shoes, grabbed the gift off your night stand, and ran out the door as you tucked it into a large inner pocket of your jacket.

The air bit at your exposed skin as you stepped out. The snow was still falling steadily to the ground as you found yourself outside. Not wanting to get your shoes to wet you formed a small disk of light particles and jumped on.

Your mutation allowed you to manipulate atoms on a subatomic level which you used to your utmost advantage. But you never used them in the ways a villain would, only ever utilizing them for shield defense or healing small injuries on others.

Maneuvering the disk under your feet you made your way over to the tree Logan resided in. It didn’t take long before you were at the base of the tree. Dissolving the light you had used leaving you standing in the snow behind Logen, you stared up at him.

Logan’s face was lit only by the full moon that hung high in the sky, casting a glow over his features. His brows were furrowed while deep in thought as he slumped over the tree limb he was perched on. You couldn’t help admiring him even if he seems upset. Taking a moment to clear your throat you began to speak.

“Mind if I join you?” You heard a grumble from the man as he registered your existence. Taking a moment to unslouch his shoulders he looked down at you .

“I just can’t seem to lose you can I?” Logan gruffed as he watched you summon another disk to lift you up into the tree. His eyes trained on your every move as you plopped down beside him on the sturdy branch.

“You have no idea.” You retorted as you let your legs swing back and forth. He raised his eyebrow at that remark which caused you to pale slightly. “Why don’t you come inside? It’s a lot warmer and you wouldn’t be alone.” You quickly changed the subject back to your mission. A slight growl left Logan’s throat as he slumped back into his previous stance.

“That’s why I’m out here, kid. I want to be alone.” His eyes became fixed on the vast yard that laid before him. The snow was building steadily over the grass as the temperature continued to drop.

“Well that’s too damn bad.” You informed him which only caused his brow to furrow deeper. His leather jacket tightened against his back as he inhaled. Logan knew you weren’t going to just leave him. No matter how mean he got or how unsavory, you stayed. He never understood why and figured he never would.

“But since you’re not going to come in,” you opened up your jacket to pull out the present. He turned his attention back to you and his eyes widened just a fraction. “here. I got you a little something.”

It wasn’t wrapped due to its odd shape but you figured he wouldn’t mind too much. As you handed it over he took a moment to examine it. On an overnight mission in Ireland Logan and yourself had found a local pub. He wasn’t too picky when it came to his whisky but you couldn’t help notice the way he enjoyed this particular brand.

So on the last day of the mission you had wandered back into that same bar and bribed the bartender to sell you an unopened bottle. You were lucky to not have been caught with the liquor on your way back into the institute.

It clicked in Logan’s head instantly as he turned the bottle over in his hands. The Amber liquid sloshed steadily around the glass as he turned it. You watched as he examined it, slowly starting to become self conscious of the gift. His silence wasn’t helping either. The cold had started to bite through your jacket causing you to pull the zipper up your neck. Your gaze fell to the ground below as you started to ramble.

“I saw how you enjoyed it while we were in Ireland so I just thought-“ you were cut off as Logan pulled you into his side. His hand rested on your waist as he brought you closer. The warmth he radiated through his own jacket soothed the chill that had begun to settle into your bones. You looked up at Logan a bit astonished and found he was already looking at you.

“Thank you.” He said simply. There was a genuine appreciation in his tone which caused your face to warm. He was so close which sent your system into overload. Your body grew hot as a spark shot up your spine from the contact.

“No problem.” You replied with a slight shake in your voice. Logan’s grip on your waist disappeared as he shuffled beside you. Too focused on the loss of contact you were startled when his jacket was draped over your shoulders. The smell of his cigars and a lingering scent of pine filled your nose. You couldn’t help tucking yourself further into the warm leather, pulling your arms through the sleeves.

“Thank you. Guess my jacket wasn’t as thick as I thought it was.” You sheepishly admitted. Logan let out a chuckle before placing his arm back around you. His other hand still gripped the bottle of Whisky.

“You should get back inside before you catch a cold.” He warned, his thumb slowly rubbing your side. You let out a chuckle before poking at his shoulder.

“I’m not leaving without you.” A smile bloomed across your face as he let out a sigh. He knew you weren’t lying when you said that. There had been many occasions you had done it before, he both loved and hated that about you. With a grumble he removed his arm from around your waist and jumped down from the tree.

“Come on then.” He said before placing the bottle of whisky in the snow and reached a hand up towards you. A look of skepticism passed over your face as your head tilted to the side.

“Are you going to catch me?” You couldn’t help but ask. There was no doubt in your mind that he wouldn’t. Logan never deliberately hurt you, except for a few times during training. But you had asked him to not hold back, so he didn’t.

“Always.” Logan reassured you with a smile across his face. The branch wasn’t too high up but it would still hurt like a bitch if you landed wrong. So with cautious movement you pushed yourself off and within seconds you were against Logan’s chest. Your arms wrapped around his neck and he held you flush to his body.

You didn’t want to let go. It felt so right being this close to him in his embrace. However you knew that moment had to come to an end. He put you down so your feet were on solid ground before turning to pick up the whisky bottle. Your grip tightened on Logan’s jacket as he began to walk toward the mansion. You summoned one last disk before gliding beside him. Hovering off the ground you were now eye level with Logan.

“I knew you’d come around.” You leaned in to elbow him, he was so easy to tease. Sure Logan had a bad temper and an even worse past, but even with his gruff exterior he was a sweet guy underneath. As much as he didn’t want to admit it. He looked over at you and placed an arm across your shoulders. Hand resting on your shoulder and giving a slight squeeze.

“Shut up.” He grumbled.

[rolandtowen]

Happy Sunday! Have a chapter three <3

Bucky’s excited to be in therapy today. He feels like he’s done a really good job this week, actually – he’s been eating well every day this week, thanks to Sam’s cooking lesson and Sarah sending him recipes to try. He can’t remember the last time he’d made a point of making himself a hot meal. Normally, he’d prioritized efficiency – why spend hours cooking when he could just drink a few meal replacement shakes every day? But he’s noticed that he’s sleeping better, his body is recovering better after training, and he feels a little less like punching someone every day.

He tells Carlos as much. “And it’s also good, because now Sam can stop hovering so much, if he knows that I can feed myself decently enough. He’s the one who started this, of course, because he worries about me a lot. I’m looking forward to the next time we go to Delacroix so I can help Sarah with the cooking,” Bucky takes a breath as he looks down at his hands. “I have to eat so much more than the rest of them, I feel a little bad every time I visit and Sarah has to put other stuff on hold just to prepare more food for me.”

“I want to pause here and talk through a theme I’m noticing,” Carlos says, glancing down at his notepad. “I’m really proud of you for learning a new skill. Feeding ourselves well is a very powerful act of self-care. But I’m noticing that part of the appeal of learning to cook for you has been that you become less of a burden to others – or you’re excited about being able to serve others. Does that sound right?”

Bucky’s a little stunned, but damn – Carlos isn’t wrong.

“Well, I like being able to help other people.”

Carlos nods. “And that’s not a bad thing – but self-care is about you first. Put on your own oxygen mask first, you know?”

And Bucky does know that phrase, because Torres is a stickler for flight safety on missions, despite Bucky trying to insist that he can do with less oxygen, he’s enhanced, he’s fine –

Carlos continues. “So, let’s think about something you can do this week, just for you. What did you like to do before the war?”

Bucky thinks. It’s been a long time since he thought about his pre-war self. He has the sense that he’s wiping dust off of his old memories, like someone who’s inherited an abandoned house. Like they’re the memories of someone else.

“I liked to read,” he says finally, and Carlos smiles, making a note.

“Okay. Then this week, I want you to take yourself to a bookstore. Pick up a book you think you’d like. Not –” Carlos pauses to wag his finger for emphasis – “because you think it’ll help you catch up on things you missed, or you feel like it’s something you should know. Just pick a book you’re interested in.”

“That it?”

“And I also want you to read this,” Carlos pulls a paperback out of one of his desk drawers. “I recommend this to almost all of my veteran clients. I know this one can be intense, but if you’re able to read some of it this week, I’d like you to note down some of your thoughts. Or quotes you find interesting, perhaps.”

Bucky turns the paperback over in his hands. The cover had a photo on it, mostly shadow – but he could make out the silhouettes of soldiers, walking in a line. The title – The Things They Carried – stood out starkly against the shadowy men. “Which–” Bucky’s voice catches a bit. “Which war is this about?”

Carlos hums, thoughtful. “Vietnam, technically. But really, it’s about every war. That’s why I recommend it. I think it helps to know that other people have felt that same way before.”

Bucky nods, slipping the paperback into his backpack alongside his notebook. “Thanks, doc.”

*

There’s a place near Bucky’s apartment. A tiny, secondhand bookshop, with shelves to the ceiling absolutely stuffed with paperbacks. He'd walked by a few times when he was out in the city, and popped in once on a day where he'd gotten soaked in a freak rainstorm. He'd been caught without a coat or umbrella, and so he stood for a few moments, dripping on the welcome mat, before an accented voice chirped: “hot chocolate?”

Bucky couldn't tell where the voice was coming from until he looked down. A blonde-haired woman, at least a foot shorter than him, stared up at him from behind an extremely cluttered counter. She spoke again, leaving no room for argument: “you look like angry kitty. You get hot chocolate.”

And that was how Bucky met Lydia. He'd figured out pretty quickly that she was Romanian, and was so happy to have someone else to speak her mother tongue with. Bucky visits her store at least once a week, and they spend his visit chatting in Romanian. Bucky buys his history books from her, as well as a notebook at least once a month. Though he knows logically that his memories should be safe now, he can’t help but continue writing them down.

“Hello Lydia!” He calls in Romanian as he opens the door to the shop. She’s on the way back from Carlos’ office, so his homework assignment for this week could not have been more convenient.

“Angry kitty,” she calls back affectionately, and Bucky can just barely see the top of her head over a bookshelf. “What can I interest you in today?”

Bucky clears his throat. Normally he heads straight to the history section when he’s here, but doctor’s orders – “You got a fantasy section?”

To Bucky’s delight, he learns that Tolkien had published sequels to The Hobbit, called The Lord of the Rings. He buys all three immediately, plus some of Lydia’s recommendations, and the older woman smiles at him. “Seems I will have to keep my fantasy section well-stocked, yes? You like Mr. Tolkien?”

Bucky nods, then asks: “Are there…even more of his books?”

Lydia smirks knowingly, before nodding. “Yes, angry kitty. So many more.”

*

Bucky didn’t have any missions this week, and Sam was away in D.C. for the “public relations” part of being Captain America, so Bucky’s time was split between training, cooking, and reading. It was…good. Peaceful, even. When he and Sam were fighting the Flag Smashers, Bucky had gotten into a bad habit of keeping the news on the TV in the background all the time. He felt like he had to stay alert – not only about the Flag Smashers, but about all the shit going down with John Walker too. Carlos had (correctly) suggested that the constant stream of news about humans doing terrible things to each other was probably not the best for a traumatized super soldier’s mental health.

“Trust me,” Carlos had said. “If there’s something you need to know, the news will find you. But why invite unneeded anxiety into your home?”

Bucky kept thinking about that. While he thought of Delacroix as his true home, Carlos did have a point. He spent most of his time between missions at his Brooklyn apartment. And if there was any time he needed a stress-free environment, it was directly after a mission.

So he’d started small. He got a bookshelf for his growing collection, then an armchair next to it. Sam had convinced him to get the firmest mattress at IKEA, though he still hasn’t felt safe enough to move it to a bed frame. Still, his body is clearly thankful that it’s not resting directly on top of hardwood anymore.

Bucky sets his backpack by the door (could use a hook there, Sam’s voice in his head reminds him), pulling out his notebook and new books and heading to his armchair. Carlos had said that one book could be intense, so he decides to start with that. Usually, he’s in the best headspace of the week directly after therapy – probably the best time to get an idea of if he can handle Carlos’ recommendation.

Bucky knew about the Vietnam War. Mostly from books, but he thinks that the Soldier had also been deployed to Cambodia at some point. But those memories, the more recent ones, had been more effectively wiped by a constantly improving brainwashing protocol. And the US either didn’t have or hadn’t declassified any documents relating the Soldier’s movements during the 60’s and 70’s. Honestly, Bucky’s glad. He doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want any more names on his list, any more guilt to carry.

He curls in the armchair, notebook and pen in his lap, before cracking open The Things They Carried. Carlos had stuck a sticky note at the beginning of each chapter with content warnings, and after skimming through them all, Bucky thinks he's going to okay, and he turns to the first chapter.

“They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried.” Bucky wrote that line down in his notebook. He thought about the Howlies, how he was the last one left of them. Did they carry the same kind of grief and pain that Steve did to the end?

“They carried the common secret of cowardice barely restrained, the instinct to run or freeze or hide, and in many respects this was the heaviest burden of all, for it could never be put down, it required perfect balance and perfect posture.” Bucky underlines this line before transferring it to his notebook. He wonders if Sam has read this book yet. He thinks about the burden on Sam’s shoulders, being Black and wearing the stars and stripes, and about all the times he’s come home to find Sam damn near falling apart under the pressure. And yet, Sam insists that he’s fine, because he has to have it together for some reason.

Before Bucky realizes that any time has passed, he’s reached the end of the first chapter. He sets the book down and takes a second to check in with his body, like Carlos had shown him. He closes his eyes, presses his feet firmly into the floor, and takes a deep breath. His breathing is good – even, not too fast. There’s a bit of a twinge in his shoulder, so he’ll have to stretch it out soon. He doesn’t feel hungry, but he does feel thirsty. Finally, Bucky checks in with his mind. He’s thinking a lot, but the good kind of thinking – he’s not panicked or angry or scared.

Bucky stands and stretches, and then heads to the kitchen. He makes himself a cup of tea, then returns to his armchair. He takes a sip of his tea, and then cracks the paperback open again, pen in hand.

“Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can’t remember how you got from where you were to where you are now. Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story.”

Bucky underlines this too, and writes simply in his notebook:

What is my story?

hey! are you also feeling shitty this week? so am i. so i wrote a fic framing self-care tasks as a form of spite. you know, for reasons. this'll be quite a few chapters, so please enjoy.

read on Ao3 or under the cut:

I'm doing this for revenge / I am doing this to try and stay true

I'm doing this for the ones / We had to leave behind

I'm doing this for you

-  "Training Montage", The Mountain Goats

Bucky likes his new therapist. 

After helping to defeat the Flag Smashers, he’d started looking for a new therapist. While Dr. Raynor had been helpful, he felt that he was shifting into a new phase of his recovery, and they just weren’t clicking anymore. Luckily enough for him, the US government decided that he was trustworthy enough to pick his own therapist after saving the world (again). He’d asked both Sam and Dr. Raynor for their recommendations in the Brooklyn area. He wanted someone who had a lot of experience with PTSD, had worked with veterans extensively, and hopefully disabled veterans specifically. He didn’t mention this to Sam or Dr. Raynor, but Bucky also wanted a queer therapist. Oh, and the therapist also needed to be comfortable with phone therapy in case Bucky, you know, needed to save the world again. 

That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

That’s how Bucky ended up in the office of one Carlos Sanchez. He was sitting on a couch, like with Dr. Raynor, but that’s where the similarities ended. Dr. Sanchez’s office was colorful and open, and one wall of the room was entirely covered with bookshelves. He’d gone to adjust one of the pillows on the couch before realizing it was a green dinosaur, and it was… heavy?

“Oh, that’s Rodger,” Dr. Sanchez smiles, wheeling out from behind his desk. “He’s weighted, some of my clients find it comforting to hold him on their laps while we talk.”

If Bucky had to guess, he’d say Dr. Sanchez is in his thirties. He’d come highly recommended from Sam, and Bucky’s own internet searching reassured him. A veteran himself, he’d been hit by an IED on his second tour as a medic, causing lower-body paralysis. After being honorably discharged, he went back to school to become a therapist, specializing in PTSD and trauma-informed therapy. On his website, Bucky noticed a little flag with a rainbow on it, and the phrase “queer-friendly” next to it. So far, Dr. Sanchez is checking all of his boxes. 

“Mr. Barnes, I’m really glad you came in,” Bucky shakes his hand. “Before we get started, are there any questions you want answered right away?”

Bucky takes a second to consider before shaking his head. “No, Dr. Sanchez. And please, call me Bucky.”

Dr. Sanchez smiles, making a note on his notepad. “Of course, Bucky. And you are welcome to call me Carlos if you want – I know some clients prefer the formalities, but I want you to know that it’s not necessary here.”

Bucky nods. They spend the first half of the session going over Bucky’s history. Carlos had been sent all of Dr. Raynor’s notes, as well as several files detailing the history of the Winter Soldier, although these were heavily redacted. Carlos asks about his life now, about Sam, and about his current work. Bucky finds him easy to talk to, and when Carlos takes notes, it doesn’t feel like a punishment the same way it had with Dr. Raynor. It feels like Carlos is actually listening to what he’s trying to say. 

Carlos checks his watch. “We have about half an hour left, and I feel pretty caught up on your background – was there anything you want to start talking about today?”

Bucky flounders for a second. Carlos has been nothing but kind to him today, but if he says what he wants to work on – will he laugh? Judge Bucky? “You can say whatever’s on your mind, Bucky. I promise, I’ve heard stranger.”

“I don’t like myself.”

“I see,” Carlos says, making a note. “That’s quite understandable. A lot of veterans struggle with lower self-esteem – that’s something we see in people with PTSD in general. Can you tell me a bit more about that?”

They spend another twenty minutes talking about Bucky’s view of himself before Carlos pauses. “This is a really good start, Bucky. I have an idea I want to run by you.” Bucky nods and Carlos continues. “I’m hearing that self-care is hard for you because you don’t think you deserve it, does that sound right?” Bucky nods again. “So, I’m wondering what it might look like if you started viewing self-care as a form of revenge. Spite, if you will.”

“Spite? In spite of who?”

“In your case, HYDRA. You spent seventy years of your life being denied care and compassion – perhaps it would help to imagine that every time you care for yourself, you’re taking revenge on HYDRA.”

Bucky’s brain tries to wrap itself around the concept. Would it really help him eat better, sleep better, care for himself better if he imagined he was doing it to spite HYDRA? If he’s honest with himself – yeah. “I want – I want to try,” he says. 

Carlos smiles at him. “Alright. Then your homework for this week is to identify at least one self-care task you can improve, keeping in mind this idea of spite. Any questions?” Bucky shakes his head. “Alright, I’ll get you booked for the same time next week, and of course you have my number if you want to meet earlier.”

His first opportunity for spite/self-care (spite-care?) comes the next day. Sam’s been visiting him in Brooklyn, for the first time since their relationship became official. Sam’s helping him unload his groceries for the week, peering into his fridge before saying – “Damn, Buck. You got anything with flavor?”

“What are you talking about?” Bucky gripes, turning to look at Sam. Sam gestures broadly to Bucky’s fridge. “I don’t know man, everything is just, plain, you know?”

Now that Sam’s pointed it out, Bucky supposes that the contents of his fridge aren’t usual. There are a lot of protein shakes, formulated by Shuri especially to deal with his enhanced metabolism. There’s peanut butter and jelly, some fruit, a gallon of milk, and some overnight oats. “What’s wrong with plain food?”

Sam hums, wrapping his arms around Bucky. “Nothing wrong with it. But you seem to really enjoy Sarah’s cooking, so this is surprising to me.”

“I love Sarah’s cooking,” Bucky sighs. He resigns himself to be embarrassed. “I just don’t really know how to cook like she does.” 

“Surely you know how to cook a little bit, right?”

Bucky spins around to look Sam in the eye. “I learned how to cook during the Great Depression, Sam. The extent of my culinary skills is being able to boil potatoes three ways.”

That gets a laugh and a kiss from Sam. “Okay, I see your point. Do you want to know how to cook better?”

“Like Sarah?” Bucky asks. “God, yes.”

“Okay, we’ll make a date of it then. I’ll text her tonight and see what she thinks a good beginner recipe is, and then we can go back to the store tomorrow, yeah? I know her recipes pretty well, but we can video call her too.”

“Really?” Bucky hates how small his voice sounds. There’s the familiar feeling closing in around him, the voice in the back of his mind whispering you don’t deserve this. But he takes a breath and thinks about what Carlos said. Taking care of himself is an act of revenge. HYDRA would have never considered if he liked the food he was eating. Hell, they didn’t even care if he was fed. 

“‘Course, Buck,” Sam’s voice brings him back to the present moment. His phone pings, and he reads a text from Sarah. “Okay, she’s just sent me our grandma’s jambalaya recipe.”

“Sounds like a date,” Bucky murmurs, resting his head against Sam’s shoulder. 

Bucky Barnes is going to make a jambalaya to spite HYDRA.

[pedrito-friskito]

strawberry wine - joel miller x fem!reader

during - part eight

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

hope is a dangerous thing.

a/n: it’s heeeeeeeeere. full disclosure - it might be a few days until part 9 goes up; as far as I know, tonight’s ep shows some flashbacks which means I might have to do a bit of revamping! plus I really don’t wanna burn myself out with this one, there’s still so much ground to cover!!

word count: 4.5k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, angst, canon-typical violence and injuries, death, blood, yearning, nightmares, mentions/allusions to sex, if I missed something let me know.

✨follow @friskito-library for updates on new works/chapters!✨

The days bleed into months, and before you know it, the snow comes. Winter.

You haven’t left the mall. Or, haven’t been allowed to leave the mall. Every time you cross paths with Cowan, it’s the same conversation.

“Let me through the gate.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You’re nothing if not persistent, but you try your best to make yourself useful. You and Deanna have formed some kind of friendship, and you help her out as much as you can. At first, you don’t know much about treating injuries besides the bit you remember from an old first aid course, so you pay close attention to her movements, handing her supplies when she needs it, taking her orders in stride.

She was an army nurse, you learn, and lost her husband long before the outbreak. “Just as well,” she told you, a sad smile on her face. “He barely came back to me after Vietnam. I don’t think he could have survived this.”

They never had kids, but she tells you her niece and nephew may as well have been her own. “They live in Cape Cod, on the coast.” Her face went dark. “Lived.” Then she looked at you. “You remind me of my niece, you know. Fierce little thing.”

She teaches you how to dress wounds and clean them, when something needs stitches and when glue will do, how to stretch the materials you have left as far as possible. When injured soldiers show up after the first snow, she puts you to work.

Cowan’s among them, a ricochet bullet in his shoulder. Deanna hasn’t shown you anything like that yet, and you balk a little as he pulls off his gear, blood pouring down his arm. “Wait here.”

You sprint across the floor to where Deanna is literally elbow-deep in another soldier who clearly hadn’t been as lucky as Cowan. “What d’you need, kid?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, spying a pair of forceps on the table nearby and grabbing them. “Just these. I’ll come help you after—”

“You go take care of Nicky,” she orders, her voice almost stern. “You don’t leave his side until you know he’s all right, you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You sprint back to Cowan, finding him hunched over, hand pressed to his arm, blood staining his knuckles. You grab a pair of scissors from the tray beside you, hooking your arm under his shoulder and getting him upright. “Fuck!” he shouts, and you grit your teeth.

“Sorry.” You cut away his t-shirt, pulling the fabric from where it’s wedged between his fingers, and his other hand curls into a fist on the table. “What happened?”

“Bunch of runners,” he breathes out, and you yank his hand away from the wound quickly, replacing it with a thick scrap of towel, pressing your hand into his shoulder. He winces, tipping his head back. “Came right up over the fence.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “I told you that chain link wouldn’t hold forever.”

“Yeah, yeah, you should run the world.” He meets your gaze, holds it. “You ask me to let you through the gate again, and I swear to god—”

“I wasn’t going to,” you say quickly. It’s not entirely the truth, but it’s not a lie either. “But I want to help, if I can.”

The towel has already soaked through with his blood, and it makes your gut twist. “Help?”

“Teach me to shoot,” you say. You’re trying to distract him, and grab his hand, pressing it against the towel. “Hold this.”

“Bat’s not enough for you?”

“No, but the rifle I found in the sporting goods shop upstairs will definitely help,” you reply, grabbing the forceps and wiping them down with a bit of antiseptic. “Especially once I get out of here.”

Cowan stares at you, that hard gaze he’s become famous for. “Why d’you wanna get out of here so bad? You’re—”

“If you tell me I’m safe here, Corporal, I’m leaving that bullet in your shoulder.”

He actually laughs. “God, you are something else, you know that?” 

You freeze, for a moment. Suddenly, you’re standing in your kitchen, in Austin. Joel Miller is handing you a bouquet of daisies and telling you you’re beautiful and kissing your cheek. The memory catches you off-guard, and you only come back down to earth when Cowan squeezes your wrist, peering at you.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” you reply instantly, shaking your head. “We need to get that bullet out.”

You hold up the forceps, bracing your hand on his collar. “This isn’t gonna feel great, is it?”

“Well, it sure as hell won’t tickle,” you admit. “Is this the first time you’ve taken a bullet?”

“No. Second.”

“Pull this away, when I say,” you instruct, tapping the back of his hand. “I gotta be quick.”

“Have you done this before?”

You lift a shoulder, a nervous little laugh falling out of your mouth. “I watched Deanna do it a couple weeks back. It was in the guy’s gut though, not his shoulder.”

“Did he live?”

You go quiet. “Move your hand.” He hesitates. “Now, Cowan.”

He moves his hand, pulling the towel away, and you push the forceps in. The air seems to go completely still as you fish for the bullet. Cowan’s face is screwed up in pain, both hands curled around the edge of the cot, white-knuckled. “Did the guy live?”

“No,” you admit finally, feeling the soft clink of metal hitting metal. Bingo. “But we found a bite on his leg after, so the internal bleeding was probably the better way to go.” You twist the forceps, and he hisses in pain. “Tell me about the first time you got shot.”

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Is it working?” you quip, and he actually smiles.

“It was basic training,” he starts, and you nod, focusing on his shoulder. The forceps pinch around the bullet, and you pull ever so slightly. “My buddy and I were just fucking around. He didn’t know the thing was loaded.”

“He shot you on purpose?” you ask, brows raised. You pull a little more, making sure the grip holds.

“Not on purpose,” Cowan replies, and you can feel his eyes on your face. “We were just kids, then. Just screwing around, trying to fill the time. And now…”

“He still around?” you ask, prompting him further. “Your buddy.”

“I hope so,” he replies. “He moved to California, after we finished basic. I really hope he—motherfucker!”

You pull the bullet all the way out with a flourish, dropping the forceps onto the tray and grabbing a fresh piece of gauze. He hisses again when you press the new gauze to his shoulder, and you scoff. “Baby.”

“You just pulled a bullet out of me.”

“I’m aware,” you throw back, pressing a little harder. “I still think you’re a baby.”

He gives you the signature Stare before glancing down at his shoulder, taking over the pressure you’re holding, and you step away to get an actual roll of gauze. “Meet me at the south entrance tomorrow, and I’ll teach you.” You turn back, your brows raised. “To shoot, I mean. Bring the rifle. You have ammo?”

Your jaw nearly drops. “Yeah, managed to find a few boxes.”

“Good.”

You nod, unable to hide the grin that pulls your lips. “Good.”

+

They’re somewhere near Nashville. He thinks; Tommy’s been navigating, Joel’s just been following his brother. The weather has held up mostly, but now they’re holed up in some shack Tommy found in the woods, hiding from the rain. It’s been constant, nearly three days now, and Joel can’t fucking sleep.

He hasn’t slept well since they left Austin, not that he expected to. The few beds they’ve found have been heaven, but every time he closes his eyes, the dreams come, and he’s reliving that night all over again. Doesn’t matter how many days go by, and he knows it doesn’t matter at all how much time passes. He’s never gonna forget.

He took first watch, told Tommy to get some shuteye and parked himself on the front porch, watching the rain slide of the metal roof, pooling in front of the shack, running downhill like a river. There’s mud caked on his boots, and he feels dirty down to his bones. It’s been a few days since they had real shelter, though, and he revels in the silence, being away from the main roads.

But the silence lets his mind wander, and when that happens, it lands on you, more often than not. Sarah is always there, in the back of his head, the sound of her voice forcing him further, but when he gets a moment alone — a rarity now — he lets himself remember you.

Your last conversation still haunts him. The fear in your voice, the way you’d sounded so out of it when you first picked up, and he’d brought you back down, focused you. Patch yourself up. Take what you can and go. Get the hell out of Boston.

I’ll find you, baby.

Sometimes, the hope invades his heart like a disease, branching through his limbs and making his chest ache with it. He has to hope that you made it out, that you’re alive somewhere, that your paths are leading straight towards each other. Every time they come over a hill or turn a corner, he feels that tug in his gut, a quiet promise that this time, you’ll be heading straight towards him, a big smile on your face.

But Joel knows that hope is a dangerous thing to let in, to nurture. As hard as he wishes you alive, he knows the opposite is more than likely. He sees it when he does manage to get some sleep, nightmares infiltrating his brain until he wakes up panting, the phantom feeling of his daughter’s blood on his skin melting away far too slowly.

Right now, he’s forcing himself to remember the good.

That last week, before you’d left for Boston. He took you to that open field every night, almost, held you in his arms, kept you close and never let your mouth get too far from his. He’d buried his face in your neck and memorized the smell of you, the feel of you, the taste.

You pulled on his hand, led him away from the truck and into the open field. You laid down in the grass side by side, the sound of crickets and the soft wind the only thing you could hear. He’d leaned over you, cupped your cheek in his palm, rubbed his thumb over your bottom lip. You kissed his fingers, giggling when he rolled himself on top of you a moment later, his mouth chasing yours.

He planted his hands either side of your head and you reached for his belt, dragging your hands down his chest. He could feel your heartbeat, when he pressed himself against you, the twitch of your knees along his ribs as you held him closer. That’s how it always was between you two, who could get the other closer, how much could you pull until the space between no longer existed?

Joel still remembers the noise you made when he pushed into you, right there in the grass. The way you’d dug your nails into his back so fucking hard it made him moan louder, the sound echoing through the night. The blissful smile on your face as the pleasure ripped through you, and Joel felt it, the tightness of your body, the way he could taste it on your tongue.

God, he loved you so goddamned much.

A clap of thunder yanks him out of his head, and he flinches hard, the gun in his lap sliding onto the wooden porch. He’s on his feet in a moment, shoving both hands through his hair, and without another thought, he steps out from under the shelter of the roof. The rain pelts him instantly, soaking through his clothes, making goosebumps rise on his arms.

It feels good. He tilts his face towards the sky, feels the water drip down his arms.

He hears your voice, in his head. What you said that night, under the stars, laid out on his chest, your eyes glassy. “I won’t ever stop thinking about you, Joel Miller. Not for a million years.”

He never should have let you leave Austin. Not in a million years.

+

Cowan stays true to his word. He teaches you to shoot, not just the rifle you’d stolen from the mall, but other guns, too. Shows you some tricks with the hunting knife you’d found in Dean’s bag, even teaches you how to build a fire. You stop asking him to let you through the gate, and he stops giving you the Stare. After a few lessons, he starts bringing you along on patrols. You carry the rifle and the bat, the hunting knife strapped to your thigh. The temperature is dropping, the snow sticking consistently, and the UPS jacket you’d stolen months back comes in handy, keeping you warmer than you expect.

There’s not much conversation to be had between you two, and when you do talk, it’s light shit. You avoid the subject of families, partners and the like. You mostly talk about music, and you laugh the hardest you have in a long time when Cowan admits to you that he’s seen the Backstreet Boys in concert three separate times. You’re bent in half with laughter, tears in your eyes, and he starts laughing along with you.

The laughter stops, however, when you circle back to the mall. There are four trucks outside, and the hair on the back of your neck stands up when you see Deanna step through the doors. Everyone else who’d been inside, faces you recognize, people you’ve met, they’re all coming out of the mall. Deanna has blood on her scrubs, a strange look in her eye.

“McCoy!” Cowan calls once you’re close enough, and a soldier turns. “What’s going on?”

Both the soldiers step to the side, and you make a bee-line for Deanna, swinging your rifle onto your back. “What happened?”

The older woman looks shaken, and she grabs you once you’re close enough, her hands digging into the sleeves of your coat. “T-Tim,” she stutters, and your brow hardens. You know who she’s talking about;  Tim, his wife Marcy, their two kids. Their cots weren’t far from yours in the department store. You’d helped their youngest son, Henry, when he’d cracked his forehead on the tile, tripped on his own feet chasing his little sister, Emily, around the mall. Hell, you’d had dinner with them just the night prior, you and Tim had made the kids giggle slurping your noodles. “He just…” Deanna trails off, and fear twists your stomach in an iron vice.

“Are the kids okay?”

She nods furiously, still holding onto you tightly. “But…but Marcy, she…he just…” She looks back towards the mall, gestures for a moment before clapping her hand over her mouth. “I’d never seen one up close before.”

Deanna collapses into your arms, and you hug her tightly, half worried she’s passed out, but the worry passes when you feel her hands fist in the back of your jacket. Over her shoulder, you see a soldier leading Henry and Emily outside. Henry still has a bandaid on his forehead, and Emily is clutching his hand, tear tracks on her face. Your heart aches.

“I’m gonna go with them,” Deanna tells you, pulling away after a moment, and you just nod. She jogs after the kids, and you turn back to where Cowan and McCoy are still talking. Cowan has a hard look on his face, and his jaw tightens as you approach.

“What the hell is going on?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “We’re supposed to be safe in the mall, Corporal. That’s what you said. I could have been halfway to Texas by now. Hell, I could have been in Texas by now.”

“I know what I said,” he bites back before heaving a sigh. “We got an update, from FEDRA HQ.”

You lift a brow. “And?”

He glances at the stream of people still filing out of the mall. “The fungus, the thing that’s causing this, it’s in the food. We need to check everything that was in the mall, everything that was handed out. Production dates, expiry dates, it’ll give us an idea of what needs to be destroyed, but—”

“But there’s a chance everyone in there ate something contaminated,” you finish, swallowing back the bile that rises in your mouth. “There’s a chance we’re all already infected.”

Cowan’s throat bobs. “Yes.”

“What do we do now, then?” you ask, jutting your chin towards the people filling the street outside the mall. “Where do we go? Standing around here like this, it’s just gonna attract them.”

“There are buildings that have been deemed safe,” McCoy tells you, and Cowan just nods. “The quarantine zone has been marked off. We take everyone there, separate you for now, keep an eye out for anyone changing.”

Cowan nods. “Check everyone for bites, again.” He meets your eyes for a moment before calling for two other soldiers. He starts barking orders, and you turn to McCoy.

“I thought the city was the quarantine zone.”

He shakes his head. “Too much space. FEDRA gave us the borders, showed us where to go. The walls’ll go up soon, and we’ll be that much safer.”

You balk. “More chain link bullshit?”

McCoy shakes his head again. “No, ma’am. Bricks. Guard towers, barbed wire. The whole kit and caboodle.”

You swallow hard. Shit.

+

The chain link stays up. The walls of the quarantine zone press deeper into the city, and as promised, you’re shuffled into apartment buildings. There’s still blood everywhere you look, damaged ceilings, broken windows. It’s not perfect by any stretch, but the building itself is intact, and that’s apparently good enough for FEDRA.

They put you in separate units, the number of survivors taking up less than half the building. You stay with Deanna and the kids. Emily clings to your side, her arms wrapped around your leg more often than not. She hasn’t said a word since you left the mall.

The soldiers patrol the streets and the hallways, and after a week, six more people turn. They’re put down without a second thought, their bodies carried out of the building. The food supplies are carted from the mall to a warehouse within the new zone limits, and everything that was given to you is taken back for inspection. It’s a lot of waiting, of pacing the floor of your new home, of trying to come up with ways to distract the kids from what’s happening.

Shortly after you’d been evacuated from the mall, they’d brought out Tim and Marcy’s bodies, and your hands had started to shake violently when you saw the blood on Tim’s face, the deep gouge in his wife’s throat. Bullets in both their skulls. It had all happened so fast.

And you’d been eating the same things they had.

The worry gnaws at your stomach. You’d protested, at first, when Deanna insisted you come with them. You couldn’t explain it, couldn’t bear to see the pain on the older woman’s face deepen when you admitted you feared the worst. She still managed to pull it out of you, later that night, after you’d put the kids to sleep in the only bedroom, the pair of you sitting at the kitchen table.

“If it happens, it happens, kid,” she said, gripping your hand tightly. “And we deal with it. That’s all we can do.” You’d nodded, and she’d reached into her bad, producing a bottle of gin. “Something to take the edge off.” You nodded again.

A week passed, the six were put down, and you were safe. Your mind started to wander. Trucks filled with construction material arrived at the edges of the quarantine zone every day; you could see them from the apartment. More FEDRA soldiers, some venturing into the city to find usable materials. Soon enough, the wall was starting to take shape.

And if the wall went all the way up, that meant you were never getting out of Boston. Never getting the opportunity to find your family, or Joel.

But, the wall has only just begun, which means there are still holes in the boundary, and with more soldiers assigned to the quarantine zone itself, that means the chain link is left unguarded, for the most part.

They announce curfew hours and the consequences for breaking those hours, and you start planning. Collecting things, weapons and food that won’t spoil, refilling your first aid kit. You take what ammo you can find, nicking a few boxes from the FEDRA tents when no one’s paying attention. You still have the maps from the bookstore, your hastily-drawn path still marked on the pages.

You wait for nightfall, and you run.

You leave Deanna a note, tell her you’re sorry, tell her you’ll try to send a message that you’re safe, once you are. The kids are fast asleep, and you kiss their heads before you go.

Your path through the city leads you right past your apartment, and your heart nearly stops. The entire front of the building has been exploded inward, no doubt a result of the bombings. If you look hard, you can see the edge of your living room, behind the twisted rebar and broken bricks. You want to linger, but you don’t, the shout of an Infected pushing you forward, gripping the bat tightly.

The construction of the wall left a lot of tools laying around, and it was all too easy to find a pair of large wire cutters. You found a piece of chain link in an alley within the quarantine zone, and tested it out. Sure enough, a clean cut.

There are still patrols along the chain link, but they’re more sporadic. The guard posts have been dismantled, dragged further inwards, set up again along the new walls. You see a soldier pass by the spot you’re aiming for, and wait until he’s completely out of sight before bolting across the pavement to the fence, pulling out the wire cutters.

You have one foot through when you hear a familiar voice.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Cowan’s kept his distance, since you moved into the building. It bothers you and doesn’t at the same time. But in a way, you got what you wanted from him; you’re more confident that you could make it beyond the fence now. Especially with the rifle strapped to your back.

Your head drops, and you pull your leg back out, straightening and turning on your heel towards him. “You really thought I wouldn’t try it?”

“I really didn’t think you were this stupid,” he shoots back, and you scoff, rolling your eyes. “I’m serious. You will die out there, why don’t you get that?”

You grip the chain link, the metal rattling beneath your shaking fingers. “I can’t just sit around here for the rest of my life, Cowan.”

“So you’d rather waste it, out there?” He gestures towards the fence with his rifle, to what lays beyond. “What good will that do? You’re smart, you know there’s a good chance your family is dead.”

“But until I know—” you start, and your voice betrays you, cracking on the word. You swallow hard. “Why can’t you just let me go? What difference does it make?”

His strange dark eyes narrow at you. They’re blue, you’ve come to learn, but a dark shade that sometimes looks black. “Come with me. There’s something I want you to see.” You open your mouth to protest, and he lifts a hand. “Come with me first; if you still want to leave afterward, then I’ll take you through myself.”

You stare at him for a long moment before slinging your bag from your shoulders, pulling out a length of rope. You thread it through the split fence, yanking the metal back into place and tying it off. Once you’re done, you get back to your feet, and when Cowan turns to leave, you follow.

He takes you back to the quarantine zone. A few soldiers shoot you looks, since you’re out past curfew, but Cowan waves them all off. “She’s with me.”

You keep following him, heart hammering in your throat as he leads you into one of the buildings they’ve cleared out. Down a long hallway, a few more soldiers giving you looks, before Cowan ducks through a doorway, waving at you to follow.

“What is this?”

There are tables everywhere, cords spilling out of boxes, hooked along the walls. On the walls, all sorts of maps and notices, FEDRA orders staring back at you. A soldier sits in the middle of it all, headphones hooked over her ears, twisting the knobs on a gigantic radio, adjusting the antenna. When she sees you and Cowan standing there, she pulls off the headphones, a grin on her face. “Hey, Nick.”

“Melissa,” he nods, and juts his thumb towards you. “Can you set it for the Austin base? And give us a sec?”

She just nods, her face falling slightly, and twists more of the knobs. Her brow furrows a bit until she gets the right frequency, and then she gets up out of her chair, holds the headphones towards you. “Hit the red button to talk, and let go once you’re done, or else they can’t talk back.”

“Thank you,” you say, taking the headset from her. You look at Cowan. “What is…?”

“It’ll connect you with the FEDRA base in Austin. You can give them the names, of the people you’re looking for. They’ll be able to tell you if they’re in the shelters there. If they’re not there, there’s no telling if they’re alive or dead, but at least you’ll know if they’re safe or not.”

Your brow furrows. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“I can’t reassure you,” Cowan says bluntly, and as you sink into the chair, he perches on the desk beside you. “No one can. The world is a fucking minefield, and while yes, I’ll admit you’re a good shot and you clearly know what you’re doing with that bat, you will die out there. If your family isn’t still in Austin, I can almost guarantee you, they are dead.”

You rip your eyes from his face, turning your gaze to the radio, the little flashing lights and the knobs. “You don’t know that.”

There’s a hand under your chin a second later, and Cowan turns your face towards him again, drags your eyes back to his. “I meant what I said. If you still want to leave, I will take you through the gate myself, no more bullshit. But talk to the base first. Find out if they’re still there before you throw your life away on hope.”

PREV | NEXT

[xmalereader]

Miles Miller X Vampire! Male Reader

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|| Masterlist ||

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Authors note: Finally! Posting again 😭 been so busy and I’ve been full of inspiration to write for many characters but gotta take my time, anyone this shot is semi related to the plot of Bad Times At El Royal. I recommend watching it, a little slow but huge twists here and there and wanted to change some thing up to make it interesting so enjoy!

Summary: Miles works at the hotel El Royale after the war in Vietnam. He’s finding a way to cope through the trauma so what better way then to bury yourself in work? Let alone in a hotel full of vampires and with him being the only human.

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of blood, slight angst, PTSD, mentions of Vietnam war, 1960’s, Vampire reader, Vampire OCs, hotel clerk, Miles is Shy and submissive, hints of possessiveness, reader is the boss, slight NSFW 18 +, mentions of biting, masturbation, pet names.

Word count: 2.5K

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Miles can see the snow sticking from outside the hotel window. He’s been working at the Hotel Royale for two years now and he’s grown used to the weather change, knowing that the winter season is the most popular for customers to rent out rooms in order to give themselves the chance to ski on the storm dies down.

He also knows that he’s to expect some important guests that he’s been taking care of during his time at the hotel. For years, Miles has been look for a distraction from his time serving in the Vietnam War, after he return back home he turned to drugs and alcohol like many others soldiers who returned.

It was the only way to keep himself grounded, but after some time the drugs only affected him more and worsened the situation and instead turned to keeping himself busy with work. Miles was lucky enough to get hired at the El Royal hotel.

A hotel set between the borders of Nevada and California a very popular location for many guests visiting and looking for a place to stay. The first time he arrived the hotel was low staffed, not many stayed for long and Miles ended up handling many different positions.

He worked the front counter, did the cooking, cleaning, made sure that everything was ready for the next customer. It wasn’t until the hotel was purchased by a man he didn’t know much about.

All he knew is that the hotel was purchased and under new management.

Miles expected himself to get fired or let go due times management but instead was allowed to keep his job. Many others were let go or replaced with new people. It reached a point where Miles was the only staff member who didn’t get fired and was allowed to stay.

He didn’t know why the new management wanted him, he never asked and instead did his job. He made sure guests paid or their stay and signed the ledger.

It wasn’t until a year later that Miles found out the truth about the new management.

—

Miles had finished checking in a new couple who were staying in a room in Nevada, providing them there key and letting them know about there breakfast hours.

His soft smile soon faltered when the double doors up front are pushed open, revealing a women wearing a long black coat and a large hat that covered her face, but enough to see her smirk as she approached the front desk where Miles stood.

Miles swallows nervously. “Veronica.” He says softly towards the women in a soft greeting as she removes her hat and sets it aside, both hands on the counter as she leans forward.

“Miles, the usual please.”

Miles gives a hesitant nod. He’s worked with the women for months now and should be used to her presence but each time she made an appearance he always found her intimidating. Holding out the ledger he provides her the key to her room.

“Room 6 in California.” He says as Veronica pays him the twenty dollars, enough for an entire week.

Miles watched as she signs her name on the ledger, setting the pen down and taking the key from the counter and giving him a sweet smile. “Miles, I’d appreciate if you could bring me a drink to my room.”

“Of course,” He nods his head, giving off a bashful smile before watching her leave, her long coat swaying as she makes her way outside.

Miles gives himself a few minutes to collect himself before letting out a deep sigh. Veronica stayed at the hotel during the winter due to her work in fashion. Miles knew very little about her but knew that she was famous in the fashion industry and there were times where they only spoke a few times, slowly becoming a regular at the hotel to the point where she speaks to him like a friend, even though he still fears her.

Before he could close the ledger the front door is pushed open causing him to look up to see another one of his regulars.

“Sophia.” He gives the dark skinned women a smile, getting the women’s attention as she approached him with a smile on her face. “Miles! It’s been so long.” She says with a kind voice.

Sophia cups Miles cheeks and pressed a soft kiss against his forehead in greeting before letting go. “My, look at you.” She coos at him, her long slender fingers fixing his curls as he blushes softly at her actions.

“Have you been sleeping?” She questions, noticing the bags under his eyes as Miles chuckled softly. “Winter season keeps me busy, ma’am.” His soft accent showing.

Sophia’s smile slips away into a frown. “That’s not very good, I’ll talk to Y/n about it and make sure he finds an extra counter boy—“

“No! I—that won’t be necessary. You know that Mr. Y/n only trusts me with our guests and with regulars too.” His voice shows a hint of determination. His boss, Y/n, who he’s only met once had placed his trust on Miles to take care of the hotel. He couldn’t lose the man’s trust after working hard on keeping things well hidden.

The women before him sighs deeply, getting his attention before nodding. “Very well, if it gets bad you tell me.” She reminds him before signing her name on the ledger and handing him a twenty.

“The usual?” Miles questions, earning a sly grin from the women. “You know me.”

Miles blushes softly, heading towards the cabinet to collect the room key and handing it over to her.

“Room 8, Nevada.”

Sophia takes the key from his hand. “Thank you, darling.” She gives him a wink before walking away she turns back to Miles. “Oh! I forgot to mention, Y/n should be arriving soon and he’s not in a good mood.”

Her last words cause Miles to freeze in panic. “You know what to do, it’s that time of the year.” She reminds Miles, giving him one last wink and leaving to her own room.

Miles appreciated Sophia’s heads up, he’s known her the longest before Veronica. She was the first women to ever be kind to him, always showing her worry towards him and making sure that he’s healthy. Sophia was an actress, her beauty and her way with words swoon the crowd. Every time she entered a room all eyes were on her and she knew it.

After she lets him know about Y/n coming he’s quick to clean up, locking the cabinet and putting away the ledger along with cleaning the counter. Even though he’s been working here for two years he likes to stick to his schedule and tasks in order to keep his boss satisfied.

When he first met Y/n he felt fear for the first time in years. The man always wore a stoic expression, wearing a fancy suit and only talking when someone was asking him a question, he was never one to start conversation from what Sophia has told him, but each time him and Miles meet it’s like his boss has changed.

The stoic act changes the minute he steps through those double doors. Miles didn’t know much about Y/n, only that he bought the hotel and that he was using it for special occasions, usually during the winter which is why Miles was always nervous when the season approached.

The young man moves around the lobby quickly, making sure that everything is cleaned and cursed under his breath when he remembers Veronica’s request for a drink. There regular cook wasn’t in today and won’t be in until tomorrow, giving him the chance to enter the kitchen and towards there large fridge where there regular guests food is stored.

Upon opening the fridge he’s met with a shelf full of blood bags, gently reading the labels and making sure that he provides Veronica the one she enjoyed the most before taking it into his hand and grabbing a wine glass on his way out. He makes it to Veronica’s room, giving the door a soft knock before she’s yanking the door open.

“The usual?” She questions, stepping aside to let Miles enter the room.

“Fresh, just how you like it.” He answers, setting the glass down and pouring the blood into the glass. The first time Miles did this he wanted to vomit but after some time he grew used to it.

Once the blood bag is empty he sets her glass next to the bedside table and sets a napkin next to it.

Veronica sits on her bed and smiles. “Thank you, pretty boy.” She takes the glass between her fingers and inhaled the scent, exhaling in satisfaction while Miles shuffled in place nervously.

“Enjoy, if you need anything else I’ll be at the lobby.” He gives the women a nod and heads out of the room before she decides to keep him busy with her work stories, pouring her stress onto him, which he did not have the time for.

Miles moved onto his next task, keeping the human guests from leaving there bedrooms. The winter season was his busiest, not with humans but with Vampires.

The hotel was used during the winter by various vampires who came to relax and enjoy a drink or two without having the human race exposing them to the world. The hotel wasn’t just used for Vampires but humans too, which Miles handled.

His boss, Y/n, purchased the hotel as a safe heaven for both vampires and humans. He knew that humans could easily find out about them if see drinking blood during dinner or small parties that were hosted. Y/n wanted to keep the peace with humans and tasked Miles to make sure that they are to keep there guests indoors and away from the lobby.

So, every winter Miles would enter the back room where he has access to walking behind the walls of each hotel room where he switched on a sleeping gas that released into the guests bedroom at a certain hour. The gas kept their human guests asleep for the rest of the night while their real guests enjoyed their night.

Miles wasn’t proud of his work, but it was the only way of keeping them safe from the hands of vampires.

Y/n was strict towards his rules; if any Vampire laid hands on a human guest he wouldn’t hesitate to kill them. Miles hasn’t seen that happen, yet and hopes that it never does.

Miles is busy cleaning the bar that the sound of slamming doors startled the poor man, eyes wide as he watched Y/n step inside the hotel lobby with a glare on his face. He knew that the man wasn’t in a good mood.

He’s quick to abandon his work and make his way over to Y/n.

“Uh…Mr. Y/n, sir?”

His voice gets the man’s attention, his glare directed towards Miles until it slowly softens. “Miles.” Y/n breaths out, earning a small smile from the clerk boy.

“Sir, Sophia told me that you weren’t doing well. Would you like me to get your room ready and perhaps something to drink?” Miles offers.

Y/n sighs deeply, removing his coat and hanging it on the coat rack near the entrance. “Please, make sure that extra pillows are provided.” He adds on while Miles nods at his words. “Anything planned tonight? Would you like me to prepare anything else?”

“Not tonight,” Y/n lets Miles know as he walked around the lobby with Miles following behind him. “No special occasion?” The clerk boy wonders with a raised brow.

“Not this year, I’m not in the mood to deal with some old friends.” He grumbled out, too upset to even talk about it. “Are Sophia and Veronica here?” He suddenly asks, getting Miles attention.

“Yes, sir. Veronica is staying in California and Sophia is in Nevada. Would you like me to get them?”

Y/n sighs. “No, I can deal with the two for now.” He makes his way to the bar, finding an empty seat and slumping down while Miles makes his way around the counter and sets a glass out to serve Y/n a drink, blood bag in hand as he pours it into the glass.

“Anything else you’d wish from me tonight? I’ll make sure to provide you those extra pillows you requested.”

Y/n takes his glass in hand and drinks it down, blood dripping past his lips and chin when he’s finished, using his own hand to wipe away the blood that smears his chin. Miles can’t help but stare at the man before him, watching him closely before clearing his own throat.

“I’ll go ahead and make sure that your room is ready.” He stammers out, lowering his head and making his way towards Y/n’s suite. The room is always cleaned after everyone leaves but Y/n’s room was personal and only Miles had gained the privilege to enter without any trouble. Y/n trusted Miles with his personal space that the young man only cleaned areas that needed to be cleaned while the rest he left in its same place.

Miles made sure that he brought extra pillows for Y/n, making the bed and setting the pillows in a way that look comfortable. Miles doesn’t notice Y/n standing behind him, watching everything from the doorway as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as his own eyes roamed up and down Miles body.

The amount of times that Y/n wanted to pin the man down and have a taste of his blood, he could hear his heart beat from miles and knew how fast it increased the minute he made an appearance. The times that Miles would whimper from nightmares in his one room when he was alone.

Y/n had wanted to pull the man close and reassure him that he was safe that he could keep him safe that he could give him what he wanted to please him to pleasure him.

The Vampire growls at his thoughts, avoiding them as much as possible. He couldn’t do anything that’ll frighten Miles even more, poor kid was still getting used to the fact that he was working in a hotel full of Vampires that lusted for blood.

“All done.”

Miles voice brings Y/n back to reality, looking up to stare at the man before him, shifting his eyes towards the made bed and smiling softly.

“Thank you Miles.” He steps inside the room and approached his own bed, sitting on the edge and working on removing his tie. His sudden actions gets Miles flustered as he stutters out.

“I will attend to the others, please get some rest and if anything is needed—“

“I’ll make sure to call for you.” Y/n finished for Miles who smiled at his words.

“Uh—have a good night.” With that Miles closed the door behind him, leaning Y/n at his own devices while the older Vampire huffs out a chuckle at the sound of Miles heart beat increasing from the other side of the door.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

New England Alfred always pulls at my heartstrings, but consider Detroit-flavoured Alfred. A city born in his brother's foreign tongue, its archives are as full of the 18th century as anything on the Atlantic, but never in English. He looks upon Frank Lloyd Write and Monet and doesn't flinch at the odd gunshot in the background. The American dream turns towards the all-American waking nightmare with the soundtrack of Delta Blues, Detroit Rock City, and the Real Slim Shady. He's dislocated a shoulder smashing on the riot shields, refusing to give another inch to the ruling class. He walks down a street that was once considered the crown jewel in America's Paris and later used to train teenage soldiers how to hunt in urban combat and shivers. He never does get as much credit for the winters here as Matt does for his.

The summer a grenade rolled under his cot in Vietnam, the rest of the country and much of the world swooned with the summer of love. That summer, San Francisco laid languorous with lust, but he went home to Detroit. Because Detroit burned. It's always burning. The Black Day In July never ended. They don't bother putting out the fires anymore. Urban sprawl drains the city like open veins, blue and red lights flashing, and that eternal American question: Who are you? It can't be answered the way it used to. "An optimist." He'd say, scoured clean by fire hoses set on strikers. But now it's harder to answer. Now, democracy's arsenal lay open on the morgue table. And a city, a country and he are vivisected by one scalpel stroke, and one bone saw blade cracks open one chest to answer. What went wrong in Detroit? What's happening to American democracy? Who are you, Alfred? Who are you?

Detroit's only real Van Gogh stares at him from under a sun hat as intently as the locals do that Bruins jersey he forgot to take off in the airport bathroom. The river that parts him from his brother whispers under the silence of the city desolate and depopulated: O, American Atlas, are your shoulders still as broad as the Spirit of the Detroit?

[eleanorblythe]

Romantic Homicide - Anton Chigurh x Original Female Character - One Shot - NSFW

This is a supplemental to my first three chapters and explores Anton and Her before the events of Romantic Homicide.

This is how she died (part 2)

Also on Ao3 with authors notes and translations - here

Winter of 1978

Filipe Andrews had lived a long life. An interesting life.

Living through two world wars and serving in both World War 2 as a soldier and the Vietnam War as a war doctor, Andrews was quite familiar with the darker side of life and humanity. He intrigued him. After Vietnam, he found he didn’t want to live the typical American life. He’d had a taste of the darkness and he wanted more. He had decided to put his medical skills to use in America’s underworld, serving the frightening (but insanely rich) people within it.

But he was tired now. And older. Semi-retired and finally living the quiet and sedate existence he rejected as a young man.

As long as no one saw the fully kitted out surgery suite in his basement, he had a perfectly ordinary home and life.

He supposed a lot people in his world must have also believed he was retired. In its heyday the basement would see any number of agents, gang members, corporate cleaners come through its soundproofed walls in a given week. But now, the space lay dormant.

He was currently standing over his stove slowly and rhythmically stirring milk in a saucer, for his now customary 2am warm milk to help him go back to sleep. Sometimes Andrews really hated getting older. His house was bathed in darkness with the exception of the orange street lights offering a soft glow against the Formica counters. The silence of the outside world was simultaneously peaceful and eerie. He was just emptying the contents of the saucer in a cup when the thumping of a fist against his front door nearly made him drop it.

Confused and cautious, Andrews removed the 12 gauge shotgun hidden under the kitchen island and moved towards the door. He hesitated wondering if the person had moved away or Andrews had simply made up the sound in his own head when he heard a muffled, but familiar voice.

“Andrews. I can hear you. Open up.”

Andrews carefully placed the shotgun down on a nearby table and opened the locks of his front door. He was met with a grim scene.

Anton stood, skin clammy and stained with dried blood. Not his, Andrews quickly noted. Although the crumpled body ensconced in Anton’s arms made it easy to determine where the blood was coming from.

“What’s happened to-“

“-She’s been gutted, she’s lost a lot of blood.”

“So I see…” Andrews passed a cursory glance over her. She was already dead. Or as good as. Anton would have known that. Andrews drew his eyes to meet Anton’s and was slightly taken aback by how desperate they looked.

“Filipe. Please.”

Holy shit.

So he was in love.

Andrews gave a single nod and moved aside as Anton carried her throughout the house waiting patiently by the false wall that would lead to the basement, as Andrews securely locked down the house.

The silence and stillness of the basement was cut off by the quiet tink tink of the fluorescent turning on followed by the rushed sound of footsteps on concrete stairs.

Anton lay her on the surgical table and quickly found something soft to place behind her head.

“You’ll need to wake her up.” Andrews said as he rolled up his sleeves and started to scrub in.

Anton shrugged off this jacket and tossed it aside as he held her face in his hands, quietly but urgently calling her name.

Her eyes fluttered open and was immediately met with a bright white surgical light shining in her face. She tried to turn away but was pulled back. She whimpered out a complaint. All Anton could do was apologise.

Filipe issued some instructions in Spanish as he approached the table. She couldn’t translate quickly enough but based on how Anton sprang into action, it was clear Anton was taking on the role of the surgeon’s assistant.

The two men continued to murmur in their native tongue as she saw occasional glimpses of glinting metal surgical tools and eyes scanning over her through blue scrubs and face masks.

The pain was blinding. A part of her was angry with Anton for putting her through this excruciating suffering, and from the few words and phrases she could hear and translate, it wasn’t looking hopeful.

She had expected to be shushed with all the noise she was making. She screamed and cried so much, her throat felt bloody and raw. However, for her sins, she was met with the occasional cool towel being dabbed carefully against her forehead (Andrews) and a reassuring squeeze of her shoulder or soft caress against her temple (Anton).

It was always a small wonder to Andrews how much blood a human body could hold…and lose. She had practically been ripped open on one side. At least, this meant he wouldn’t need to make too many incisions.

“She needs a hemicolectomy.” Andrews stated dispassionately before moving away to get out his supply of general anaesthesia.

Anton swallowed the lump in his throat, but started to clean her arm ready for injection.

“I think I understood more when you guys were speaking Spanish.” She slurred. Her head lolled to the side and weakly reached her arm towards Anton.

“He needs to remove a section of your small intestines. He’s going to put you under.”

“Why didn’t you let me die?” She whispered. Anton froze what he was doing and pulled down his mask. He went to say something, when Andrews came back holding what must have been the most intimidating looking syringe known to man.

“¿Estàs lista?”

“Lista,” She croaked. Andrews nodded and stuck the needle into the crease of her arm.

“Remember. No guarantees.” Andrews added.

She managed a small genuine smile, on her pale, tear-stained, face.

“I always did love your bedside manner, Filipe,” she said softly. That was all she said before her eyes drifted closed.

………

Early Summer of 1978

She couldn’t remember the last time she had woken up feeling so blissful.

She felt pleasantly warm. She watched the curtains sway slightly with the morning breeze, allowing pockets of sunlight to stream across her bedroom floor. She was taking a vacation - if such a thing existed in her line of work. She wondered if what she was experiencing was the “Friday feeling” she had heard her- what she would call - ‘normal’ friends talk about.

She stretched and made to get out of bed, but an arm locked around her waist prevented her from doing so. She turned around carefully to face, a still sleeping, Anton. It was one of the few times she could watch him where he looked totally at peace. He almost seemed to smile in his sleep, which made a nice change from the deeply unimpressed look he would usually wear. His hair was mussed and covering his eyes. She suppressed a girlish giggle and delicately combed her fingers through his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, and away from his face.

“That tickles.” Came a muffled and very deadpan voice. Anton opened his bleary eyes and gave a very deep inhale and exhale as if all the stress of the world had melted off his body.

“Apologies. Perhaps you should have taken the scrunchie I offered after all.” She said with a smirk. Anton scrunched his nose in distaste before leaning forward and nuzzling his face into her neck, pressing a light kiss here and there. She hummed and stretched again raising her arms to drape around his shoulders and back.

As Anton attacked her neck with lazy kisses and small bites and nibbles, she drew random patterns and traced over some scar tissue that littered his back. She was particularly mesmerised with an angry, twisted looking scar near his shoulder. She was trying to determine if it was a burn or a bullet wound when Anton lifted his head up and murmured in her ear;

“Napalm burn. Vietnam.”

“Oh.” She said apologetically and her hand dropped down to rest on his bicep. Anton grinned against her skin and suddenly rolled on top of her keeping her pinned with his lower half and searching to meet her eyes.

“Oh?” He mocked her, “What was that for?”

“I just know most guys don’t like to talk about ‘Nam’.”

He hummed noncommittally and roved his eyes over her naked form.

“I’d sooner we didn’t talk at all, right now,” he dipped his head to lightly nip around the edge of her breast.

She scoffed and wriggled underneath him slightly.

“You’re such an animal. You weren’t even awake 2 minutes ago,”

“I’m very awake now.”

“Yes. It’s hard to ignore.”

“You’re still talking…”

Her laugh was cut off as he leaned down to smother her lips. He ground into her soft skin, then used his knee to pry her legs apart. She lazily hooked her legs over his hips and crossed her ankles on his back. Anton deepened the kiss, as his calloused hands made a slow meandering path down her face, neck, chest and finally to that most intimate place of her.

He dipped his fingers into her folds, drawing slow circles on her clit. She let out a sigh and practically whimpered against his lips;

“Fuck me already, guapo,” she punctuated her request by squeezing her legs around his waist and pulling him even closer to her.

Anton, suppressing his smirk at his newest nickname, pushed into her warm, wet heat with little resistance.

He released a pleasurable groan and dropped his head to her shoulder, rocking gently into her. He felt her press a kiss to his hair and shifting her hips to match his languid pace.

Anton didn’t believe in heaven.

But if he did, he hoped it would feel like this.

It was his own fault, really. He had allowed himself to get too comfortable. He, sometimes, wondered if she was a bruja as she seemed to have this unexplainable hold over him.

He told himself right from the start he would never stay the night.

He was thankful he had no one to hold him to account for that. As he had abjectly failed to do so. In every instance.

The most infuriating thing was she was quite accommodating either way and even said she wouldn’t be insulted if he didn’t want to stay.

He hated that.

He loved her for that.

He hated that he loved her.

It had been a year since they met. Anton wouldn’t call himself happy, he didn’t know what ‘happy’ meant, but he imagined it was similar to this feeling, now - losing himself in her, feeling every inch of her, knowing her body so well that he knew just the right angles and depth that would make her-

He heard her hiss and felt her thighs tighten around his waist. She grabbed his face with both hands and pulled so they were nose to nose, cradling his head and kissing him desperately, asking him to do it again.

He happily obliged.

They continued to rock in tandem, calmly. Sweetly. Coming dangerously close to being considered “making love”. In a moment of panic, one of Anton’s hands that had been fisting the sheets, jumped up and gripped her throat. She quirked an eyebrow, but shifted one of her hands until it was pulling his hair. He grunted but, was once again, thankful that she was some kind of witch and she knew exactly what he needed in that moment.

God, how he hated her.

Her legs clamped more insistently, and the heel of her foot dug painfully into his back.

It reminded him of times they had crossed paths on the road. Anton pile-driving her against stained and peeling motel wallpaper with her heeled boots cutting into his back. Fucking each other senseless, before they got caught. Violence really was the most powerful aphrodisiac.

He was brought back to the present, by the sound of a high pitched whine beneath him. She was close. She leaned up to tug on his earlobe with her teeth, before using the Spanish she had practiced to whisper sensually in his ear.

“ven dentro di mi.”

Anton froze mid thrust. He had noticed the Spanish dictionary she had tried to hide when he arrived the previous evening. She had clearly practiced that phrase a lot, her pronunciation was near perfect. A part of him was touched she was trying so hard.

Another part of him was beyond turned on.

He pushed her back into the pillows and snapped his hips roughly into hers. She gave a little yelp, biting her lip to stop her laugh from bubbling over. She felt no small sense of pride from surprising a man as equable as Anton Chigurh.

She knew he was close, she had been holding on for the last five minutes, but wanted to see him come undone. She felt his hand tighten its grip around her neck and the sound of hips snapping together become louder and increasing in intensity.

“Pagarás màs tarde,” Anton gritted out between his teeth. She wasn’t quick enough (or knowledgeable enough) to translate what he had said, but hearing him speak Spanish made her insides clench, which was all Anton needed to tip him over the edge.

He hunched over her body and let out a grunt as hot streams of release hit her cervix. Finally satisfied, she dug her nails into his shoulders and fell off the edge with him. Feeling her flutter and constrict around him was almost enough to make him come again. If he was younger man, he might of. Instead he rolled over onto his back, bringing her with him. He didn’t want to crush her, but he wasn’t ready to stop feeling her skin against his.

She lay her head on his chest, trying to keep the smug smile off of her face. She could feel Anton stroking through her hair and along her back. They stayed like that, in post-coital bliss until one of them spoke.

“How long did it take you to learn that?” He finally asked. She tore her eyes away from her hand which was sifting through the small patch of hair on his chest and sat up to look at him properly.

“Not too long, but I wasn’t sure about the pronunciation - your reaction assured me it was correct.”

“It was…close enough.” He tried to dodge an incoming pillow and huffed out a rare laugh. “You have a good tongue.”

“Well, you would know,” she said suggestively. He hummed in agreement. She leaned forward and kissed him soundly on his lips before slipping out of bed.

“Where are you going?” He called, body unmoving except for his eyes.

“I’m going to shower and then…whatever we like, there’s a new cafe downtown that supposedly does the best eggs in the city. If you’re feeling adventurous we could go hiking…”

“I don’t care what we do,” Anton started.

“As long as we’re together?” She finished in a saccharine voice, she batted her eyelids and popped her leg. Anton’s face remained impassive and she scoffed and sauntered out of the bedroom, calling over her shoulder that he was welcome to join her in the shower.

He sat up and turned over what she said. Although she was clearly being facetious, he couldn’t ignore the feeling of…longing at her words.

No. That was ridiculous.

He didn’t need her, it’s not like he was forlorn when she wasn’t around, but he did notice, now. His existence was even quieter without her and he would, very rarely, wake up in the night and turn over expecting to find her there.

Once he spent a couple of nights at her place, when he knew she was away. He put everything back where he found it, but when she did return home, she phoned him and joked that he could just ask for a spare key the next time.

He didn’t need her.

He reached for his jeans, that had been strewn across the room and took out a coin. He would do it every now and then, when it came to her. He knew what he thought, but ultimately it didn’t matter. That was the beauty of the coin. He could never argue with it. It was simplicity. It was honest.

He flipped the quarter onto his open palm and stared down at the side he knew would greet him. Either she was living on an insane amount of luck, or it really was fate. He wanted to cringe at the thought, but he simply curved his lips up and followed the sound of running water coming from the other room.

………

Winter of 1978

Anton wasn’t sure how long it had been, it was certainly long enough for dawn to start peeking through the letterbox window at the top of basement. The dreary, depressing blue light started to creep its way across the bottom of the bed he was currently sitting on.

He had previously been sitting on a dining room chair that had been hastily dragged down from upstairs, needing to be close and diligently monitor her progress. However, after several hours he couldn’t ignore his discomfort and had, carefully, managed to sit against the headboard, leaving her undisturbed.

He watched her chest slowly rise and fall, she was still pallid, but no longer ashen. She had walked right up to death’s door, but had seemingly turned back at the last minute. Even Andrews seemed surprised she had survived.

For now.

Anton reached out and held her hand, under the guise of checking her pulse. It was slow, but stable. Consistent. Reassuring.

He would never cry. He wasn’t sure if he was even capable at this point. But, of this, he was sure: if she died, he would not stop until every single person involved, was hunted down and slaughtered.

Hell, they would be hunted down and slaughtered anyway.

He glanced over at the clock and stood to check on her IV. As he rose from the bed, Anton realised how exhausted he was. Filipe had recommended he rest immediately after surgery, but Anton had insisted he would wait until she woke up.

Anton finished adjusting one of the connectors and rubbed his eyes, trying to fight off the oncoming tide of sleep. He looked down to find her eyes open, watching him.

He immediately knelt down and softly greeted her. Her lapis eyes were dulled, and she seemed to be struggling to keep them open. She dragged up her hand until it knocked against his arm. He took hold of her pressing his dry lips against her fingers. She managed a small smile, but even that seemed pained.

“Did you mean what you said?” Anton asked quietly.

Her brow furrowed slightly and turned her head more to look at him.

“I should have let you die?”

She closed her eyes and gave a dry swallow, her other arm not attached to an IV, thumped the empty space next to her on the bed. She opened her eyes and met his eye.

“Come.” She barely breathed. Anton carefully put her hand back down, making sure nothing would catch or pull from the IV, and made his way over to the other side of the bed, removing his boots before settling down next to her.

She blindly reached her arm until she felt the soft locks of his hair and stroked along his jaw. As soon as Anton settled into the mattress and felt her hand caressing him, the tension could finally start to seep out of him.

He was home.

She turned her head and made small gesture for him to edge closer. With foreheads pressed together, she nuzzled against him and whispered;

“Thank you.”

Anton pressed a kiss to her forehead then settled into the crook of her neck. She settled into a more comfortable position but slipped her hand into his as she slipped back into unconsciousness.

Anton peeked his eyes open and waited until he could once again see the slow rise and fall of her chest. When he knew she was definitely asleep, he squeezed her hand.

“No me dejes,” he said lowly as he finally succumbed to sleep.

[the-chosen-none]

I have no real interest in mods aside from somewhat following the Frontier mess, but when I found out that the fairly popular old New Vegas Bounties mods included incredibly blatant references to Judge Holden and Glanton from Blood Meridian, plus a character named "Javier Sugar" who speaks several lines lifted straight from No Country for Old Men, I wanted to find out how many references to other things pop up throughout the three mods. Turns out, a LOT.

I identified some of them myself, but eventually when I realized how much time it would take for me to watch a whole playthrough or try it out myself, I decided to look up the rest on TV Tropes and put them all together in a list.

The aforementioned Judge Holden knock-off is also said to be seven-feet tall and is a child predator (though only technically implied to be in Holden's case)

The character literally named Glanton runs a group who goes around killing "tribals"

There's a character named Cormac, as in Cormac McCarthy

During the scene with "Javier Sugar", in addition to all the NCFOM quotes there's also a random quote from the movie The Outlaw Josey Wales thrown in there... to spice things up? IDK, the quote is something like "Dyin' ain't no way of livin', boy"

A character called "Harmonica" references one of the main characters of Once Upon a Time in the West

The ghoul Doc Friday references the historical figure Doc Holiday, and his revolver the Huckleberry references the famous quote from his depiction in the movie Tombstone, "I could be your huckleberry"

Marko's outfit seems to reference the character Loco from the movie The Great Silence.

The Frosthill segment of III is also lifted from The Great Silence, what with its Utah setting during the winter, the main character getting shot through the hand, and bounty hunters pretty much kill the whole town.

Aaron Flagg the cult leader seems to be inspired by Randall Flagg the Stephen King villain

The sniper Charlie Halfcocked references the U.S. Marine sniper during Vietnam, Carlos Hathcock, the previous record holder for the most kills

Tom Quigley references the movie Quigley Down Under, the titular character being played by Tom Sellick.

Enclave members Quantrill and Onoda, who keep fighting despite the Enclave's repeated defeats, are named after Confederate guerilla William Quantrill and WWII Japanese soldier Hiroo Onoda, who did the same for their sides (okay, I thought that reference was pretty good)

Eileen the Fiend = serial killer Aileen Wuornos

Tony Idaho = Tony Montana from Scarface

Tommy the former Omerta enforcer who killed a made man references Tommy DeVito from Goodfellas

Alex and his gang in Freeside reference Alex DeLarge and his droogs from A Clockwork Orange

Freddie the ghoul = Freddy Krueger

Jack, former muscle for Heck Gunderson, references the villain Jack Wilson from Shane, his revolver is called "Shane's Bane"

Albert Quisling = Vidkun Quisling

Mario Barksdale = character from The Wire

Prometheus is named after the subtitle for Frankenstein: "The modern Prometheus", his Deathclaws are Mary and Shelley

Pancho Cortina = Pancho Villa

"Squirrelly" Bill Blasius references outlaw "Curly" Bill Brocius

Angel Lee is a combination of Angel Eyes from The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly, and the actor Lee Van Cleef

Godwin, who mails out bombs, probably references Unabomber

Joe Frost = Edward Snowden

Guys fighting over treasure named Clint and Tuco

Fiend chem lab has characters Walter and Pinkman, references Breaking Bad

John Ramsey's body is put on display with a quote referencing the movie Unforgiven, "This is what happens to assassins/rangers around here".

Those are the ones that I either caught myself or saw other people list, if there's more, go ahead and add on.

Some of the historical references are kinda funny, though others are either tasteless (Aileen Wuornos) or eye-roll worthy (Carlos Hathcock = Charlie Halfcocked, GEDDIT IT'S A GUN JOKE), and the majority of the pop culture references are so blatant and so numerous that it gets annoying.

If I made my own mod or anything else, of course I too would love to stick in a bunch of references to the things I love, though I would try to be less obvious about them, put different spins on them, you know? You can't really judge mods to the same standard as the source, and I would be more forgiving if the rest of the mods didn't look like such an edgy slog.

[humanityshrieks]

Aaron Bushnell's self-immolation obviously brings to mind Thích Quảng Đức protesting the South Vietnamese puppet government and Norman Morrison protesting american military involvement in Vietnam but I'm also reminded of the important work of the Vietnam Veterans Against the War and how much they helped change public opinion

Veterans and dead american soldiers were often used as a cudgel to dismiss and de-legitimize anti-war protests but veterans and the mothers of dead soldiers coming out to publicly decry the brutality of the US military was powerful and changed a lot of minds

you can't hide behind patriotism and loyalty when the very men committing war crimes in your name are documenting and sharing the atrocities they committed

the VVAW filmed themselves talking about the terrible things they did: the killing of babies and children, countless rapes of young girls and women, mutilation and torture of prisoners, the destruction of homes, livestock, and food stores

many attempted to surrender themselves as war criminals at the pentagon

VVAW members tossed their medals, ribbons, and discharge papers on the Capitol steps in protest

John Kerry went before the senate and basically said "we are committing war crimes, i committed war crimes, you must stop this now"

they didn't stop the war but they helped change public opinion. denouncing your government as a service member in the US is powerful

Aaron Bushnell's death is powerful because he was an active duty member of the air force and he refused to kill in his governments name

if you haven't seen the Winter Soldier documentary or Kerry's testimony please do so

Scott Camil of the VVAW, who appears in the documentary, is still fighting the good fight at nearly 80. He is Jewish and in his biography he compared his killing of women and children as a marine in Vietnam to a Nazi during the Holocaust

[iamcautiouslyoptimistic]

AHHHHHH I NEED MORE INFORMATION ABOUT YOUR BOCW OCS!!! I LOVE THEM SM

I'M SO GLAD YOU LIKE THEM😭🫶🏻❤️ I'd love to share more about them, thank you for asking!!!

Y'all already know who Helina is at this point but I'm still working on a proper ref for her that will include way more info. School is just getting in the way right now😵 ANYWAY, she was actually adopted by Perseus and raised by him, though not much is known about those early days. What is known is that he was raising her with the intent that she would one day replace him as Perseus.

Eileen is an expert in behavior analysis and was actually one of the first to pioneer the study of the subject (at least in the BO universe). She's usually called in to analyze targets being pursued by Hudson and Adler, giving them insight on the best way to approach these people and what their next moves could be. Most notably, she provided an analysis on the woman who became Bell but wasn't involved in the actual brainwashing.

Hanh has a rather complicated relationship with the United States and the CIA. She's thankful that they're working to remove communist forces from Vietnam but knows it's not really for the betterment of the people living there. At this point, she's using her position in the CIA to advocate for her country's freedom from both sides of the political spectrum. She occasionally works alongside MACV-SOG but does not operate as a permanent member of the group.

Ilya used to be a member of the KGB before joining up with Perseus. He earned his alias "Hydra" from his ability to mimic the behavior of other people after observing them for a short time. His fellow agents likened him to the mythical hydra, comparing the multitude of personalities he's "collected" over the years to the beast's multiple heads. Also, the name may or may not be a reference to a movie *cough* Winter Soldier *cough*

[dailyanarchistposts]

Yesterday an active-duty Air Force soldier named Aaron Bushnell self-immolated in front of the Israeli Embassy. His last words were “Free Palestine.” Of the cops responding to the scene, some pointed guns at him while others sought to extinguish the flames; the image of a cop pointing a gun at a man on fire is the most American thing I have ever seen.

On June 11th, 1963, a Buddhist monk named Thích Quảng Đức set himself on fire in Ho Chi Minh City (then Saigon). In South Vietnam, Buddhists were an oppressed majority, ruled by a Catholic minority—the Buddhist flag was banned, Catholics were chosen for all the better jobs, and protesting Buddhists were being murdered in the streets or sent to concentration camps.

So Thích set himself on fire and calmly burned in front of hundreds of spectators on a public street. There’s a film of it, and I’m not big into “watch people die on film,” but some moments in history are worth seeing. He didn’t cry out; he just sat in lotus position, engulfed in flames. Afterwards, the cops tried to take his remains, but thousands of angry protestors took him back, and they re-cremated him for a proper funeral. His heart didn’t burn. It solidified in the fire. Today it is today a sacred relic. I have no explanation for this.

Other monks in Vietnam followed his example. By the end of the year, the CIA led a coup and toppled the Catholic dictator of the country. This isn’t “the US being good,” mind you, they’d been propping the asshole up in the first place. Thích’s sacrifice is often credited as what brought down that regime.

Two years later, the first American set herself on fire in protest of the Vietnam war. Alice Herz was a German Jew, 82 years old. She’d seen some shit. She’d fought for feminism in 1910s Germany, helped bring about the Weimar Republic, fled Germany to France only to end up in a Nazi concentration camp. Survived. Made it to the US. Lived in Detroit and became a Unitarian. Then one day she wrote a letter about how horrible the Vietnam war was, went out to the street, and set herself on fire. She wasn’t the last. In South Vietnam and the US alike, Buddhists and Quakers and Catholics set themselves on fire in service of the same cause.

When a 16 year old Catholic named Ronald Brazee set himself on fire in October 1967, a Catholic Worker named Father Daniel Berrigan wrote a poem for him called “In the Land of Burning Children”

He was still living a month later I was able to gain access to him I smelled the odor Of burning flesh And I understood anew What I had seen in North Vietnam I felt that my senses Had been invaded in a new way I now understood the power of death in the modern world I knew I must speak and act against death because this boy’s death was being multiplied a thousandfold

The Dutch resistance to the Nazi Occupation was characterized by a unique nonviolence, focusing primarily on hiding Jewish people and acts of sabotage. This wasn’t necessarily an ethical or even strategic decision, but one forced onto them by circumstance—according to one resistance fighter, since the Dutch government maintained a firearms registry before the invasion, the Nazis were able to acquire that list and go door-to-door to disarm the Dutch population.

But what the Dutch resistance lacked in firearms it made up for in mass participation. Roughly a million people were involved in sheltering people, secreting people away, striking, or helping those who were doing such things. The two most active groups were churches and communist organizations.

The Nazis responded with collective punishment. The occupiers cut off food supplies inside the Netherlands, blockading the roads between farms and cities. The entire population of the country went hungry during what’s called the Hunger Winter of 1944-1945. Between 18-22,000 people starved to death. Four-and-a-half million people were living off of something like 600 calories a day each. A whole generation of children born or living at the time suffered lifelong ailments. Audrey Hepburn grew up in Occupied Netherlands (and as a preteen performed ballet to raise money to support the resistance). Her time in the hunger winter left her with lifelong ailments like anemia.

In case the parallel I’m drawing is not obvious, Gaza is currently being starved by the Israeli government.

Quite notably, quite worth understanding in the modern context, the Hunger Winter persisted despite relief efforts until the Allied forces liberated the Netherlands from the fascists in May 1945.

Aaron Bushnell was twenty-five years old when he died. He sent a message to media outlets before his act: “Today, I am planning to engage in an extreme act of protest against the genocide of the Palestinian people.”

He posted on Facebook: “Many of us like to ask ourselves, ‘What would I do if I was alive during slavery? Or the Jim Crow South? Or apartheid? What would I do if my country was committing genocide?’ The answer is, you’re doing it. Right now.”

His last words, engulfed in flames, were “Free Palestine.”

I know that what stopped US involvement in Vietnam was the military victory of the Vietnamese people against US forces, combined with the direct action action efforts of the American Left that made the war harder to execute. I know what ended the Nazi occupation was the Allied invasion. I know what stopped legal chattel slavery in the US was the deadliest war in our country’s history. I also know that what stopped Jim Crow was… nothing. Nothing has stopped it, not completely. The long, hard, thankless work of a combination of reform and direct action has mitigated its effects somewhat.

I can’t say I think others should follow Aaron’s example. I doubt he wanted anyone to. An act like this needs attention, not imitation. What we can follow is the moral courage. What we need to decide for ourselves is how to act, not whether or not to act. I don’t have any answers for me, and I don’t have any answers for you.

I can say that he shouldn’t be forgotten, that he ought to be remembered when we ask ourselves if we have the courage to act.

I can also say that it takes an incredible number of people doing an incredible variety of work to effect change. That poet, Father Daniel Berrigan, did a lot more than write poetry. He and others in the broader Catholic Left raided draft offices and burned records, directly impacting the US’s ability to send young men off to die in an imperialist war. A group of people who came out of their movement (but were primarily Jewish and/or secular) raided an FBI office and uncovered the spying and disruption that was done of the peace movement under the name COINTELPRO.

A vibrant and militant counterculture sprang up, drawing Americans away from the clutches of conservative propaganda. They built nationwide networks of mutual aid and they helped draft dodgers escape the country.

An awful lot of American soldiers in Vietnam directly defected, enough that “fragging” entered the English language as a verb for throwing a grenade at your commanding officer.

As for the Hunger Winter, it was not ended until the Nazi party was ended through force of arms, but its worst effects were alleviated by the bravery and thankless work of uncountable people who cobbled together meals from nothing or who organized to bring food aid in across German lines.

In the US now we’re seeing a growing movement opposed to our country’s collaboration with the genocidal regime in Israel.

It’s impossible to know if it will be enough. When you pile straw onto the proverbial camel, you never know which straw will be the last. We just keep piling.

And in the meantime, we remember names like Aaron Bushnell, Ronald Brazee, Alice Herz, and Thích Quảng Đức.

[thesobsister]

"Winter Soldier" was more than just the nom de guerre of Bucky Barnes in the MCU. A story that features Jane Fonda and a young Lt. John Kerry in the background and, in the foreground, a lot of brave Vietnam vets trying to expose the systemic abuses committed by the military against Vietnamese civilians.

Fast-forward 50 years. Oh, hi, Israel!

[renaissanceofthearts]

[ TONY'S MEMORIES ]

[BLUE PRINT OF ARC REACTOR]

The arc reactor keeps Tony Stark alive. In the different versions of Iron Man, Stark's group has been ambushed in Vietnam, the Persian Gulf, and Afghanistan. Stark sustained serious injuries as a result. He created the personal arc reactor to generate energy for an electromagnet keeping shrapnel away from his heart.

Stark is initially depicted as an industrialist, genius inventor, and former playboy who is CEO of Stark Industries. Initially the chief weapons manufacturer for the U.S. military, he has a change of heart and redirects his technical knowledge into creating mechanized suits of armor, which he uses to defend Earth.

After the Ultron Offensive, Stark retired from active duty, still haunted by his role in the chaos the A.I. created. The guilt of creating Ultron and causing so much destruction and loss of life eventually convinced Stark to support the Sokovia Accords. Stark was forced to lead a manhunt for his ally Captain America when the latter began protecting the fugitive Winter Soldier, igniting the Avengers Civil War. The result left the Avengers in complete disarray, especially after Stark learned of the Winter Soldier's role in his parents' deaths. Afterwards, Stark returned to New York to mentor and guide Spider-Man into becoming a better hero than he ever was, also becoming engaged with Potts in the process