#U.S. Army Reserves

[deadpresidents]

A questionnaire from the U.S. Army Reserves completed by then-Senator Harry S. Truman of Missouri during World War II.

In 1917, as he approached his mid-30s, Truman had been deployed to Europe and saw combat in France during World War I. As the commander of an artillery battery, Truman and his unit actually fired some of the last shots of the First World War just hours before the Armistice went into effect on November 11, 1918.

As he noted in this questionnaire from 1942, the 58-year-old Senator Truman was more than willing to fight in World War II as well, but when he personally offered his services to Army Chief of Staff General George C. Marshall, "he very firmly informed me that I was not only too told for my rank, but that he didn't want any Congressmen or Senators in the Army." Truman, who would become Commander-in-Chief of all American forces fighting the war just three years later, added "I am ready to go any time and still consider myself a pretty good Field Artilleryman."

[voidami]

This article delves into the concept of the reserve army of labor, primarily focusing on the U.S., while recognizing that these dynamics are part of a broader international capitalist system. It examines how economic inequality and politics are entrenched through the marginalization of not only the unemployed but also the underemployed, precariously employed, incarcerated individuals, Migration and the homeless. In the U.S., over 50 million people fall into these categories, kept on the fringes to maintain low wages and worker exploitation. The article concludes that true solidarity across national and economic lines is essential to challenge the capitalist structures perpetuating this reserve army of labor.

[monkeyssalad-blog]

Farm to Win "Over There" by Library Company of Philadelphia Via Flickr: World War I-era poster places the image of a boy plowing over a battle in the background to recruit young men to join the U.S. Boys' Working Reserve, "the army behind the army." Published by the U.S. Department of Labor; artist: Adolph Treidler, ca. 1917-1919. Accession Number: P.2284.239 Click here to view the record of this poster on ImPAC, the Library Company's digital collections catalog.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: forced into attending a gala event, you go to john for help with your dress. things turn incredibly heated.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader (requested).

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), established relationship, talk of insecurities, insane levels of yearning, rougher john, bathroom sex (on the counter), groping, heavy kissing, brief handjob, dirty talk, john walker’s praise kink, brief fingering, mutual orgasm. cute ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: he’s my favorite part of the thunderbolts — yep, I said it !! my yearning levels are off the charts for him. thank you guys so much for your continued support! 🫶 I love writing for him sm !!

The last time John Walker wore a suit was at his wedding — five years ago, in a Georgian chapel where he’d grown up, nothing lavish. It was traditional, smaller, friends from high school, his family, Lemar’s family.

Part of him had detached himself from those memories, as if it were a different him that’d lived through it all.

Shame still festered, an ever-looming shadow, haunting his steps. There were some past mistakes that he would never be able to make amends for, but he was trying, making a valiant effort to forge something new.

John was a flawed man, an imperfect soldier trying to pick up the pieces, make something of himself again. Being an Avenger was his step forward in the right direction, wanting to help people again, a hero.

Publicity and being in the spotlight wasn’t a new concept for John, whose brief stint as Captain America was packed with shaking hands, playing the part, smiling for the camera.

When Valentina had pitched a charity gala to draw attention to the new Avengers, it was mandatory for everyone on the team to be in-attendance, with Bob as the singular exception. There were still reservations about him being exposed to any media attention.

Admittedly, the entire team still had reservations about Valentina altogether, a reluctance to work for her. He couldn’t blame anyone — she’d tried to kill them, created a superhuman, participated in an endless string of illicit activities.

Though, they’d found ways to exploit her generosity when it came to the Avengers ordeal. He’d gotten the well-equipped training room he’d asked for, a new suit, and a new shield, currently being constructed behind the scenes.

He told himself to enjoy tonight — allow himself to feel a sense of normalcy, fraternize with wide-eyed senators, repair what threadbare reputation he already had.

In the mirror, John was posturing, adjusting his cufflinks, pushing strands of blonde away from his temples. He was still uncertain about whether or not this was a good idea — losing the role of Captain America still stung.

He wanted to use this new opportunity to be himself, no Captain America, no U.S. Agent — just John Walker, former Army captain, now an Avenger.

Crisp, light linen of a pressed dress shirt clung to his musculature, dark blazer strung over the bathroom door. A line of pearlescent buttons were strung through the center, formal attire perfectly tailored to his physique.

It felt strange, standing in a suit jacket instead of kevlar and body armor; uncomfortable, even. Smoothing a hand over the ivory material, his brows pinched together, jaw twitching in mild annoyance.

Tugging at his collar, John sighed, an indignant huff escaping him as he heard a knock at his door. “Just a minute.” He called, still attempting to fidget with certain elements of his suit.

“It’s me.”

Timid, the softer cadence of your voice carried, ripping him from his thoughts, as if he’d been shoved off-balance. He was softer for you, towards you — the team noticed, everyone noticed.

Cocksure arrogance had bled away to something sweeter, vulnerable; John was sluggish to trust, but you’d shattered that barrier with ease. He had you to thank for growing, for beginning to heal from everything else.

With a soft stirring in his throat, John stopped over-analyzing his outfit, dress shoes polished, slacks ironed and without a single wrinkle. It was required of him to steam his dress uniform before special events back in the Army.

Stepping toward the door, John hits the panel, tinted windowpane sliding open with a soft hiss. Cerulean hues search until they find you, abashed and hunched in on yourself as if you’re attempting to conceal something.

Fashion is a foe, it isn’t your forte; Yelena had attempted to assist to the best of her ability, but even then, you felt fumbling and awkward.

The dress you’re wearing is formal, pressed silk the shade of a graying sky, nothing exorbitantly vibrant. It’s pretty, you think you feel pretty, but the stilettos do nothing except make you feel as if you’re walking on nails.

Though, you’re having too many issues with the zipper, which seems stuck toward the small of your back, no budging in sight. A light layer of cosmetics compliments your features, tresses modestly styled — you clean up nicely.

Too nicely; John’s jaw is unhinged, agape with a thinly-veiled awe as he swallows, words turning to ash within his throat. Unable to tear his gaze away, his appraisal is soft, burning with affection as he steps forward.

“You look …” John begins, cadence disarmingly gentle, as if he’s speaking to a startled doe. You drive him crazy, and that’s not something anyone can do; you’re drop-dead gorgeous.

“Awful?” Interjecting, your voice teems with underlying insecurities, brimming with a veiled frustration that laces into your physicality. You seem somewhat upset, as if something else is bothering you.

With a scoff, John’s lip curls in disdain, preparing to shoot your self-deprecation down in one clean swipe. “Stop it,” He warns, stern and sharp as he moves aside, letting you come in. “We’re not arguing about this.”

Admittedly, you’re thankful that John is quick to destroy your nervousness, shoving it aside as if it was an insignificant thing. “I just … This doesn’t feel right at all. This party, the publicity, this dress won’t zip up, either —”

John stops you, large palm splaying over the small of your back, dragging you against the warmth of his musculature. “You’re nervous,” He deadpans, as if he’s solved the puzzle. “Relax, honey.”

That damned nickname; it sometimes slips out in sweeter, vulnerable moments, often in the comfort of your own rooms. It’s only spilled from his mouth in front of the team on one occasion, in the heat of a mission, but it’d been brushed off as condescension.

“You’re calm about this.” It’s an observation — a blatant one, but he doesn’t seem nearly as perturbed about this as you are. For as mouthy and smug as John could be, he wasn’t outwardly ruffled by new situations.

“It’s a charity event,” John shrugged, thumbs stroking comforting circles over your spine, attempting to quell your tangle of nerves. He can taste your anxiety, see it in your pupils. “We’re there to shake hands and get funding.”

“You’ve done this before,” Mellowing, a flicker of realization crosses your features, a sense of understanding. “I know that I shouldn’t be nervous, but I’m still getting used to the spotlight.”

John knows plenty, having done news interviews as Captain America, public speaking, countless events where he was the center of attention. Back then, he thrived as best as he could — now, the notion seemed incredibly dull.

Shaking hands and throwing on a facade wasn’t who he wanted to be anymore, but if it meant funding and upgrades, he was willing to play nice. If it weren’t for the Avengers, he might’ve been on the run, or sitting in a cold cell somewhere.

“Yeah,” He gruffs, unwilling to cage himself into a reminder of his past. John’s tongue darts to wet his lower lip, palm still flush to your back as he wordlessly guides you towards his bathroom. “We’ll stay together.”

His assurances are gentler than you expected, and you know John’s never been the most tactful with words. Through action alone, through touch, he conveys a sense of understanding, of your anxiousness.

Standing before the mirror, John appraises you again, thinly-veiled affection oozing through his gaze, incendiary. You’re so beautiful that he feels entirely unworthy, and he knows just how lucky he is to have you.

There’s still an hour before you’re set to leave, limousine service ordered by Valentina herself. Alexei had offered to drive the team, but there was strong pushback from her end.

Hands find the zipper seated at the base of your spine, tugged up only an inch or two. “Need some help?” John inquires, even though he already knows the answer. Sometimes, he likes hearing you say it; that you need him.

“If you don’t mind,” Flustered, you feel inept, an Avenger who can’t zip up her own dress. Though, part of you had deliberately ensured that John assisted you in some capacity, just to be close to him. “Thank you.”

With a brief nod, he steps forward, towering behind you, chest briefly ghosting over your back, tantalizing. Doggedly, John’s calloused digits snare around the zipper, giving it a tug to set it straight.

It’s eerily quiet, save for his heavier exhales and your excitable tremor, catching him staring at you through the mirror. Warmth slithers over the nape of your neck, creeping over your spine like ivy upon a column of stone.

A brief chuckle jostles his chest, as if he’s thought of something humorous without letting you in on it. Perplexed, your gaze flutters, meeting his own through the mirror. “What’s wrong? Is it still stuck?” You sigh, defeated.

“No,” Through a low hum, John plants a slow, careful kiss to the nape of your neck. “I’m lucky, that’s all.” It’s all he really needs to say, and you preen beneath his words. Despite the simplicity, there’s a depth conveyed to you, a mutual understanding.

Fire stirs within your belly, mere embers brought to life by soft-spoken murmurs. His hands still over the zipper of your dress, calloused thumb circling over the bare flesh of your spine, left exposed by the gap in your gown.

Warm breath plumes over your shoulders, licking across the back of your neck. A hush falls between, a comfortable one, crackling with splinters of tension that threaten to expand, grow.

John’s stare is exceedingly soft, something reserved for you, blonde lashes kissing the faint freckles beneath his eyes. There’s something starving within him, a hunger revealing.

Pale-blue fabric curls around your form, accentuating your curves, as if you’re part of the sky. A hitch forms within your throat, feeling his hands steady over the swell of your hips, fingers clamping down.

Rough lips pepper themselves to the hollow between your throat and shoulder, placing a careful string of kisses along your flesh. A sharp, poignant exhale comes rushing from your lungs, spine shivering with exhilaration.

“Stop looking at me like that, John.” Through a sheepish murmur, you shrink beneath his ogling, as if it might burn a hole right through you.

Feigning innocence, he laughs; dry, but it’s genuine. Pressing another kiss to your shoulder, your pulse quickens, climbing as he shrugs. “Like what?” He inquires, body exuding ripples of heat.

“Like you’re starting something,” It’s a threadbare warning, but he responds by squeezing your hips, chest shaking with a light scoff. “Something that you won’t finish before …”

“I’ll finish it, if that’s what you want.” Placating, John smooths a kiss over your jaw, thick shadow of a beard prickling your flesh. It sends shivers down your spine, exhilaration mounting into a knot of excitement.

He’d made your heart lurch, bones already molten with warmth, thighs shifting together beneath your dress. There’s time to spare before the gala, and your concern for your garments diminishes entirely.

His mouth tempts you, his eyes — John stares at you as if you’re the center of his universe, blonde brows creased together, lip curled in concentration. Maneuvering within the sliver of space, you turn, chest flush to his own.

“You’re so handsome,” Swooning, there’s stars in your eyes as you tilt forward, palms flattening over his chest, fingertips tracing idle patterns into his shirt. “So perfect like this.”

Bristling beneath your praise, John huffs, attempting to cling to some fraction of restraint. It’s thin, threatening to snap into two as he pulls you in, mouth locking with yours.

From the first scrape of lips, the fire festers, raging into something uncontrollable as he cages you in against the countertop, hungry. Fingers begin to curl into his chest, a moan bubbling from your mouth as he surges forward.

“Jesus,” He whispers into your mouth, reverent, hands molded to your curves as he picks you up with ease, placing you on the solid granite. Bullying between your legs, he’s eager, cock twitching to life within his pants. “You’re so beautiful.”

Behind closed doors, the bravado and swagger dissipate, leaving only the rawness of John at his core; in his essence, he’s good. There’s a disarming gentleness to each ministration, every look one of a veiled affection.

Silk rides up along your thighs, your dress beginning to bunch and pool around your hips. A sigh feathers from your lips, hands climbing toward the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there.

Lips clamor for one another, ceaseless, dragging into another kiss and then again, again; your heart threatens to burst from your chest. He holds you steady, hips rutting into yours until you feel something firm.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

It doesn’t take much for him, kiss stuttering as a low grunt rips through his diaphragm. Arousal sits heavy in the pit of his abdomen, a taut coil charged with heat, preparing to loose as he rocks into you.

Rough, careworn hands begin to caress beneath your dress, digits snaring into the soft cotton of your panties. There’s a brief exchange of glances, his jaw twitching, lips agape as he looks to you for consent. “Yeah?” He gruffs, waiting.

With an enthusiastic nod, you’re squirming with an unbridled want, feeling his hands drag your underwear down, lower, until they’re dangling from your ankles. Kicking them to the floor, your hands go clawing at his belt.

One hand grips the granite countertop, and with enough flexing, leaves behind a faultline fracture that snakes through stone. Muscles pull taut in his forearms, knuckles bruised, his flesh rougher, akin to leather.

Urging him in for another kiss, you’re lost within the heated labyrinth of his lips, savoring that rugged scratch of his beard. A low moan rouses within your chest, caught between your mouths.

He’s wedged between your legs, other palm holding steadfastly to your haunch, fingertips pressing into pliant flesh. As his belt clatters and loosens, John feels your hand, cold as it wraps around his cock.

A pleading groan splits his diaphragm, hot and disheveled beside your ear as his hips absently jolt forward. Your hand is like silk, tense against his length as you begin to stroke in easy, rhythmic flicks of your wrist.

“Christ,” John pants, brows pinched together, countenance contorted into an expression of sheer bliss. A thrilled gasp leaves you when he urges into you again, oozing heat against your palm. “S’good, good.” He grunts, groping at your thigh.

“I want you,” You exhale, your saccharine sigh wafting over his features, dragging him in with your magnetizing pull. Even then, you’re still touching him, his cock aching within your grasp. “God, John — I need you.”

Through the strained pitch of your voice, he’s more than eager to comply, mouth dropping to your throat, kisses wanton and thirsty. He plants a string of greedy kisses there, like hot brands to your skin.

If it weren’t for the gala, he would’ve marked you a time or two, but it was best to avoid any sharp questioning from the team.

However, it doesn’t stop him from scraping his teeth over the sensitive flesh of your neck, feeling you shiver against him. Arousal coalesces between your thighs, slick and warm, making you squirm atop the slab of granite.

Bodies close any sliver of space, friction taking root, an explosion of heat festering between. John’s mouth climbs over your throat, nipping at your jugular, catching the moan that floats from your lips.

Tension unfurls from his muscles, now released into this, into being intimate. He withdraws, lips ghosting over yours, feeling you collide into the kiss with a searing passion.

One hand snakes from your thigh to the heat between, cerulean hues flickering to gauge your reaction. A soft gasp tumbles from your mouth, and you have the audacity to give him that doe-eyed stare, his heart stuttering.

Finding your slit, John drags two digits over your core, biting back a haughty smirk, forehead dipping to flush against yours. “Figured as much,” He teases, voice a low husk beside your ear. “Is that for me?” He murmurs.

Flustered, you want to rip the cheeky remark right from his mouth, growing unbearably warm beneath his gaze. “Yeah,” You huff, smothering a whine when his fingers graze over your cunt, pushing past your folds. “John, please.”

He’s often one to tease you a little if he can, but time is running short and he’s just as eager, if not more, than you are.

John nods knowingly, rucking your dress up around your hips, slotting you closer, until his hips brush yours. Slipping your hand from his pants, there’s a shuffle of fabric, intermingled with sharp inhales, tremulous sighs.

Loosely hitching one leg around his hips, you’re bracing for the pressure, watching as he guides his cock to your cunt. “Still with me?” He mumbles, planting a kiss to your jaw.

“Mm-hm,” Through a gentle hum, he’s parting your legs, arms flexing as he maneuvers you as he sees fit. The flushed tip of his cock splits your folds, dragging through a time or two. “Please, I need you.”

Unable to suppress a groan, he’s fighting against baser instincts, against the primal urge clawing inside of him. “Say it again.” He grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

“Need you,” With urgency this time, you reached for his biceps, thick and firm beneath your palms, nails scratching over his dress shirt. Hot, labored sighs drift between one another, wanton; you’re desperate for him. “John, please.” You plead, not above begging.

Christ, he needs you, too — craves you more than anything else, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. Locking you in against him, he groans, mouth melding with yours, pulling another grunt from his sternum.

“You’re my girl,” John murmurs, subdued and husky, scratching an itch in your brain. Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, listening to his excitable sighs. “Good?”

Attentive, he ensures that you’re prepared before taking him, writhing as his cock pushes incessantly against your cunt. “Good.” Conceding, your hips lurch forward, creating a spark of tension.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, burying his way into you with sluggish rolls of his body.

An entangled cry escapes you, followed by a choked sob that catches in your throat. His own sounds are gruff, rugged; his face is flush to yours, brows furrowed in concentration.

He knows he’s going to be thinking about this for the rest of the night — your body against his, your dress ruffled around your hips, the gleam in your eyes. John continues, hand strangling the granite countertop.

“You feel so perfect,” Feeding into his deep-seated desire for praise, you notice the tick in his jaw, the way he manhandles your leg. “So handsome like this, John.” You know exactly what you’re doing, and it induces some frenzy within him.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. “Jesus,” He grits, jaw clenched, body coiled around you. “You’re tight.”

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

A soft whimper escaped you, feeling yourself clench around him out of sheer want. His groan vexed you, your fingertips cupping the nape of his neck. Carding through blonde tresses, you tug, coaxing him in for a messy kiss.

It’s all teeth, tongue, affection — he briefly bites at your bottom lip, savoring the sharp inhale you give him, leg snug around his hips.

His pace was agonizingly sluggish at first, drawing out each thrust in an effort to let you grow accustomed. Hot sighs of passion fluttered between the both of you, lips brushing over one another as he rolled his hips forward.

Your heart pounded within your ribcage, so powerful that you thought it might burst through. “God, you’re mine.” He gruffed, cadence hoarse, permeated with possessiveness.

John’s movements had started slow before turning into calculated thrusts, sharp and precise, cock buried deep into your cunt. There’s a pattern to it, an erratic rhythm, born of a mutual desperation that you feed from.

He began to thrust into you, hunching in and over, stabilizing himself with one palm flat atop the counter. Stone splintered and groaned beneath, malleable in the wake of John’s inhuman strength.

Your head spun, clouded by desire as your paramour ravished you in the way that you deserved. “M’yours, John.” With a keening moan, your hips rolled forward, pulling a grunt from his throat.

His countenance echoed your sentiments, shadowed with the haze of want, a carnality that clawed at your being. You let your forehead press to his, brows screwed together in a state of bliss, grasping at his tresses.

“Drivin’ me crazy.” He drawls, visage contorting into a look of pleasure, head dropping toward the hollow between your throat and shoulder. His beard scratches ragged over your flesh, sending a shudder through your spine.

As he moves forward, his cock beginning to sheathe itself fully within your cunt, your nails dig crescents into the nape of his neck, back arching forward.

It’s a push-and-pull, euphoric as you cling to him like a drowning woman, unbridled noises escaping you in droves.

With each sluggish rut of his hips, you feel everything, his cock rocking into you with a rhythm that only seems to climb higher, higher still. He’s a little rougher, passionate; it makes you want him even more.

Rooted within you, John’s hips withdraw, enough to rut forward with a sense of urgency, filling you to the brim with his cock. Lewd, crass noises reverberated in the haze of heat that enveloped you, his thrusts gathering in intensity.

“Fu— John, please,” Through a strangled whine, you roll your hips again, friction blossoming between bodies, eliciting a groan from him. Arousal mounts, wanton, and you’re eager for a release. “Please.”

A low whimper left you as he snapped forward, letting passion and want pour into each ministration, cock sheathing itself inside of your aching cunt. John does it again, again, again — a pattern of rhythmic thrusts that jostle your body.

He’s getting close, perspiration building along his brow, hands moving to hold you close, cage you in against his musculature. “Jesus, you’re perfect.” John growls, the noise making you shiver, cunt pulsing around his length.

“Touch me,” You plead, noticing the look he gives you, cerulean hues boring into you. John doesn’t grouse nor protest, head jostling in a brief nod as one hand snakes to the heat between your legs. “Th—There, shit.”

Seeking your clit like a missile, his thumb presses over the clutch of nerves, circling over it, watching as you writhe from the contact. He huffs a breathy scoff, lips smoothing over your jaw, hips rutting into you with a fervor.

Each snap of his hips are drawn-out, deliberate; it is a lascivious torture that torments the both of you, cunt tightening pathetically around his length.

“That’s it,” John grunts, the husky cadence of his voice sending you into some frenzy. Molten heat pools between your thighs, legs rattling like leaves as you hold onto him. “That’s my girl.”

Between the careful caresses over your clit and his cock, still pounding away at you, the amalgamation of sensations is nearly overwhelming. You’re pushed into your release, falling over the precipice, body a furnace of bliss.

It’s white-hot and feverish, as if you’ve been washed in fire, all-consuming. He’s touching you still, grinding over your clit, panting beside your ear as if he’s running a marathon.

Grunts continued to spill beside your ear as he reached his peak, but you were already there. It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, sobbing with ecstasy.

A coil of heat began to unfurl within the both of you, bodies constantly shifting against the other, an amalgamation of friction.

John fucked you through your release, cock steadily rutting into your cunt, pressing a messy kiss against your mouth. He’s breathing fire, lungs burning, stinging in the wake of your shared orgasm.

He cums inside of you, holding steadfastly to you like a vice, fingers groping at the swell of your hips, the other recoiling from between your thighs. Everything is warm, the room blanketed in a haze of heat that settles in the afterglow.

Each sigh feels ragged, blistering through your chest, foreheads flush together as he peppers a string of kisses over your temples. “How am I supposed to get through the gala now?” You mumble, breathless.

John laughs; a genuine chuckle, something rarely heard, lacking the typical sardonicism. “Should’ve thought this through,” He remarks, though it applies to him, too. He’s visibly disheveled, blonde tresses mussed. “Jesus.”

He doesn’t withdraw immediately, getting a good look at you, beautiful beyond compare. You’re quick to press a kiss over his scruffy jaw, stringing along until you reach the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry about your hair,” Licking your fingertips, you attempt to smooth his tresses back into place, but it’s noticeably shoddy. “You still look really handsome.” You smile, and he’s grinning, catching a flash of pearlescent teeth.

There’s a knock at his door — sharp, hurried.

“We have to leave in ten minutes! Please make yourselves presentable, at the very least.” It’s Ava, whose tone is already thick with amusement, and you swear you can hear Yelena’s laughter somewhere beyond the door.

Caught, John groans, visage contorting slightly as he pulls out of you, but he’s just as quick to get a wet towel and help clean you up. “Next time, we’ll do this a couple hours before.” He murmurs, gracing your shoulder with a kiss.

Smitten, the both of you are quick to clean yourselves up, look presentable again. He finally zipped up your dress, suit jacket tugged on over his broad shoulders, crimson dissipating from his features.

As you’re making for the door, his hand smoothing over the small of your back, you stop, peering up at him with an affectionate smile. “Was it worth it?”

John kisses your brow without a lick of hesitation, a glimmer within his eyes before he smirks. He answers you, no stammer or reluctance to his response.

“Yes.”

[wilwheaton]

I think it’s very possible that the U.S. is on the verge of a major, major military campaign that it wasn’t considering at all just a few days ago and that we may be doing that more or less solely because Donald Trump is jazzed about and attracted by the idea of “winning.” And Israel is now “winning.” So he wants in. It’s important to step back and recognize that there is really literally no one in the inner discussion of U.S. foreign policy today who has any level of foreign policy or military crisis experience at all. That’s a big statement. But I think it bears out. The two heads of the U.S. intelligence apparatus have zero experience in intelligence work. The head of the Pentagon is Pete Hegseth and he appears to have surrounded himself with lackeys. Marco Rubio is both Secretary of State and National Security Advisor. He did focus to a degree on foreign policy in the Senate. But he’s never been involved in any national security crisis. He’s never worked in the executive branch. Even the people who are hardcore Trumpers but had some real level of foreign policy experience, like Keith Kellogg, now have other assignments. Kellogg is envoy to Ukraine. The current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs isn’t a career Army Officer. He spent a significant amount of his career in the Reserves. (I don’t think at least — but not certain on this point — that he ever served on the Joint Staff.) The point is that there’s really no one in the room, as it were, who is in a position to keep the President from just riffing. And I think there’s a decent chance that’s exactly what’s happening.

Thoughts on Israel’s Iran Campaign and Donald Trump

[ralfmaximus]

On June 14, 2025 Trump is throwing himself a birthday party in Washington DC featuring a military parade, just like they have in the USSR Russia. It's gonna cost tax payers $45+ million.

And guess what?!

TICKETS ARE FREE

Visit events.america250.org to reserve up to two (2) free tickets per phone number. And yes, it's totally free!!

Whether or not you plan to attend. Which, it's totally understandable if you're busy on June 14th. Oh well. Maybe next time.

Imagine how thrilled Trump will be when he gazes around the venue at hundreds, possibly thousands, of empty seats! Wouldn't that be a shame? You know his narcissistic ass would thoroughly enjoy that.

Anyway, just a thought.

[thebongomediaempire]

There's 2 GOOD REASONS that there are no other stories about Al Timiter...

1. It was a bad idea, and

2. They never figured out who THOUGHT of it.

[dertaglichedan]

DOGE prepares gold reserve 'audit' after top Republican invites Elon Musk to review Fort Knox

Sen. Rand Paul is inviting Elon Musk to come to his state of Kentucky to review the largest reserves of gold in the U.S.

A libertarian X account with 2 million followers asked the leader of the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) to set his sights on Fort Knox to make sure the U.S. supply of gold is still in its reserves.

Musk questioned why the gold supply is not reviewed every year, leading to speculation that he could look into the military base with the fortified vault full of U.S. gold.

Since President Donald Trump took office and put Musk in a position of power in Washington, the billionaire has targeted multiple agencies for cuts that the duo feels will save the federal government from 'wasteful spending.'

He helped completely dismantle USAID – either firing or putting more than 10,000 employees in limbo – and has cut billions in funding in agencies like the Department of Education and fired four of the top financial officials at FEMA.

'It would be great if Elon Musk could take a look inside Fort Knox just to make sure the 4,580 tons of US gold is there,' the libertarian Zero Hedge news aggregator account posted to X. 'Last time anyone looked was 50 years ago in 1974.'

Musk responded to the post with: 'Surely it's reviewed at least every year?'

But Republican Sen. Paul of Kentucky said 'nope' and invited Musk to 'do it' and have his DOGE staffers conduct an audit of the reserves located in the Fort Knox Army base.

[crash-c0rpse]

Screenshot from the new MCR vid (credit to @xxfangirl365xx )

K cool theory time because I'm fucking insane

Two arrows are often a symbol of war, but an arrow in a deer's mouth symbolizes the cycle of life/death as well as suffering and the struggle to survive. Deer often represent innocence and adaptability, but one with an arrow is usually used to represent suffering.

Or resisting pain.

It could be a reach but knowing Gerard fascination with spirituality and repeated inspiration from other cultures it could also be intentional.

In Buddhism there's this thing called "the second arrow". The Buddha says that people can't control the "first arrow" which represents our initial pain over something, but based on how we react we can control whether we feel the "second arrow" which is suffering we feel based on our own reactions to the first arrow

The two arrows symbolize resisting pain. the first arrow represents the initial experience and the second, self-inflicted arrow represents the suffering caused by that resistance. Now I could go deeper and connect this to the emotions of the black parade into danger days but that might be even more of a stretch.

NOW. wheat seems to be repeated. A lot. So let's talk about that. We were first presented with a concrete dystopia so this expands on the world a bit. Perhaps it is to show prosperity, this is clearly a broadcast to the people of DRAAG and is obviously government propaganda. There are also lots of factories pictured....it seems to me the wheat field in the shot might be used to show abundance, maybe people are starving and the broadcast is made to appear as though there is no such suffering?

In Nazi Germany they implemented the "Hunger Plan" a policy to starve occupied territories, especially in the Soviet Union, by requisitioning their food supplies and resources. but looking at propaganda for this, it really doesn't connect so ...

I have a different theory. In 1917 the US started discouraging Americans from consuming lots of wheat or butter or sugar, but mostly wheat. This was to be able to supply shortages to wartime Europe, and to support the u.s army, as well as Europe's... Well this world is post wartime (I believe?), but ruled by a dictator, perhaps showing off the abundance of what used to be a food not reserved for the people. I don't have enough historical knowledge to have trust worthy theories but. I'm like 16 and no one is gonna read this.

Anyway, maybe that's too literal and the wheat is a symbol, because it's also used in that picture above as a laurel wreath... A symbol of abundance and prosperity.

Even if it's not taken in a literal way as an abundance of food or a wartime strategy, the wheat still is used as propaganda to put forward an image of prosperity. Maybe the circle shape even represents renewal like a circle of life ... And the Laurel represents victory and triumph, clearly as triumph over war or over the people

Anyway that's it. I'm fucking crazy. Ok.

[us-cj]

𝖘𝖎𝖈 𝖘𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖞𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖎𝖘

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed. — U.S. Constitution Second Amendment

The militia of the United States consists of all able-bodied males at least 17 years of age... — 10 U.S. Code § 246

Patrick Henry

* “Guard with jealous attention the public liberty. Suspect everyone who approaches that jewel. Unfortunately, nothing will preserve it but downright force. Whenever you give up that force, you are inevitably ruined.”

George Mason

* “To disarm the people…[i]s the most effectual way to enslave them.”

James Madison

* “The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. A well regulated militia, composed of the body of the people, trained to arms, is the best and most natural defense of a free country.”

* “The ultimate authority, wherever the derivative may be found, resides in the people alone.”

Noah Webster

* “Before a standing army can rule, the people must be disarmed; as they are in almost every kingdom of Europe. The supreme power in America cannot enforce unjust laws by the sword; because the whole body of the people are armed, and constitute a force superior to any bands of regular troops that can be, on any pretense, raised in the United States.”

Samuel Adams

* “The Constitution shall never be construed to prevent the people of the United States who are peaceable citizens from keeping their own arms.”

Richard Henry Lee

* “A militia when properly formed are in fact the people themselves…and include, according to the past and general usuage of the states, all men capable of bearing arms… “To preserve liberty, it is essential that the whole body of the people always possess arms, and be taught alike, especially when young, how to use them.”

Thomas Jefferson

* “I prefer dangerous freedom over peaceful slavery.”

* “What country can preserve its liberties if their rulers are not warned from time to time that their people preserve the spirit of resistance. Let them take arms.”

* “The laws that forbid the carrying of arms are laws of such a nature. They disarm only those who are neither inclined nor determined to commit crimes…. Such laws make things worse for the assaulted and better for the assailants; they serve rather to encourage than to prevent homicides, for an unarmed man may be attacked with greater confidence than an armed man.”

* “The Constitution of most of our states (and of the United States) assert that all power is inherent in the people; that they may exercise it by themselves; that it is their right and duty to be at all times armed.”

**********************************

No emergency justifies the violation of any of the provisions of the United States Constitution.

----------------------------------------------

Ex parte Milligan, 71 U.S. 2 (1866) which yet stands to this day: "The Constitution of the United States is a law for rulers and people, equally in war and in peace, and covers with the shield of its protection all classes of men, at all times, and under all circumstances. No doctrine, involving more pernicious consequences, was ever invented by the wit of man than that any of its provisions can be suspended during any of the great exigencies of government. Such a doctrine leads directly to anarchy or despotism..."

----------------------------------------------

Volume 16, American Jurisprudence 2d, § 52: “It is sometimes argued that the existence of an emergency allows the existence and operation of powers, national or state, which violate the inhibitions of the Federal Constitution. The rule is quite otherwise.

No emergency justifies the violation of any of the provisions of the United States Constitution. An emergency, however, while it cannot create power, increase granted power, or remove or diminish the restrictions imposed upon power granted or reserved, may furnish the occasion for the exercise of power already in existence, but not exercised except during an emergency... The Constitution of the United States is the law for rulers and people, equally in war and in peace, and covers with the shield of its protection all classes of men, at all times, and under all circumstances”

----------------------------------------------

Volume 16, American Jurisprudence 2d, § 177: "The general misconception is that any statute passed by legislators bearing the appearance of law constitutes the law of the land. The U.S. Constitution is the supreme law of the land, and any statue, to be valid, must be in agreement.

It is impossible for both the Constitution and a law violating it to be valid; one must prevail. This is succinctly stated as follows: The general rule is that an unconstitutional statute, though having the form and name of law, is in reality no law, but is wholly void, and ineffective for any purpose; since unconstitutionality dates from the time of its enactment, and not merely from the date of the decision so branding it.

An unconstitutional law, in legal contemplation, is as inoperative as if it had never been passed. Such a statute leaves the question that it purports to settle just as it would be had the statute not been enacted.

Since an unconstitutional law is void, the general principals follow that it imposes no duties, confers no rights, creates no office, bestows no power or authority on anyone, affords no protection, and justifies no acts performed under it... A void act cannot be legally consistent with a valid one. An unconstitutional law cannot operate to supersede any existing valid law. Indeed, insofar as a statute runs counter to the fundamental law of the land, it superseded thereby. No one is bound to obey an unconstitutional law and no courts are bound to enforce it."

----------------------------------------------

“All laws, rules and practices which are repugnant to the Constitution are null and void ...if any statement within any law which is passed is unconstitutional, the whole law is unconstitutional.” Marbury v. Madison, 5th U.S. 2 Cranch 137, 180.

----------------------------------------------

"Even a state of war and the declaration of secession by the people cannot suspend the Constitution or remove its protection." Houston County v Martin, 232 Ala 511, 169 So. 13.

[sarkos]

Trump’s loyal surrogates have duly embraced the project — perhaps no one more zealously than Ivan Raiklin, a retired Army Reserve lieutenant colonel and former U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency employee, who bills himself as the former and would-be president’s “future secretary of retribution.” Raiklin is seeking to enlist so-called “constitutional” sheriffs in rural, conservative counties across the country to detain Trump’s political enemies. Or, as he says, carry out “live-streamed swatting raids” against individuals on his “Deep State target list.” “This is a deadly serious report,” Rep. Jamie Raskin (D-MD) told Raw Story. “A retired U.S. military officer has drawn up a ‘Deep State target list’ of public officials he considers traitors, along with our family members and staff. His hit list is a vigilante death warrant for hundreds of Americans and a clear and present danger to the survival of American democracy and freedom."

Trump’s ‘secretary of retribution’ has a ‘target list’ of 350 people he wants arrested - Raw Story

[starseedpatriot]

🇱🇾 USAID & NGOs were the Hidden Hand Behind Libya’s Destruction

For over four decades, Libya thrived under Gaddafi, but in 2011, the U.S., NATO, and Western-backed NGOs engineered an uprising, leading to his overthrow and Libya’s descent into chaos. USAID and its affiliated organizations played a critical role in financing, legitimizing, and facilitating the regime change operation.

How USAID & NGOs Helped Topple Gaddafi

USAID:

• 2011-2012, USAID funneled $75 million into “civil society” groups, opposition media, and transitional government structures.

• Funded the National Transitional Council (NTC), the de facto government after Gaddafi’s fall.

• Assisted in setting up opposition-run election commissions to ensure Libya remained under Western control post-regime change.

NED:

• Funded exile-run opposition media like Barada TV, which broadcast anti-Gaddafi propaganda from Washington, D.C.

• Provided grants to “civil society” groups that later funneled support to jihadists, including Free Syrian Army (FSA) members who later fought in Libya.

• Trained and promoted exiled opposition leaders who were later installed in Libya’s post-Gaddafi government.

OSF: Soros’s Role in Libya

• Pushed Western narratives on Libya, reinforcing media campaigns to justify NATO intervention.

• Funded opposition movements that aligned with U.S. geopolitical interests.

• Lobbied for mass migration policies in Europe, using Libya’s collapse to drive refugee influxes.

What did Libye lose?

Before 2011:

• Debt-free economy with $150 billion in foreign reserves.

• Free healthcare, education, and subsidized housing.

• One of Africa’s highest literacy rates at 87%.

• The Great Man-Made River Project provided sustainable water to the entire country.

• Oil wealth was distributed among the population.

After NATO & USAID Intervention:

• Libya became a failed state with rival militias battling for control.

• Open-air slave markets appeared, with migrants sold openly.

• Oil production collapsed, foreign corporations took over key sectors.

• ISIS and jihadist groups flourished.

• The country became a hub for weapons trafficking and human smuggling.

Gaddafi's Final Warning Before NATO Bombing in 2011?

“If Libya falls, chaos will take over North Africa, the Mediterranean will burn, and waves of migrants will flood Europe.”

Gaddafi knew what was coming. He was right.

The U.S. and its NGO network didn’t remove Gaddafi for “human rights.” They targeted him because he threatened Western financial dominance and refused to comply.

USAID used Libya as a practice round to hone their skills to be used in future campaigns:

Ukraine (2014): Funded Euromaidan protests → Led to civil war & U.S. economic control.

Syria (2011-2024): USAID financed the opposition → Led to over a decade of war.

Venezuela (2002-Present): Funded opposition coup attempts → Economic collapse under U.S. sanctions.

Georgia (2003/2023): Engineered “color revolutions” → Destabilized the country.

Libya, once Africa’s most prosperous nation, is now a shattered warzone. A direct result of U.S.-backed regime change funded directly by USAID.

🔴 @DDGeopolitics | Socials | Donate | Advertising

[krispyprincesstraveler]

Battle of the Little Bighorn

The Battle of the Little Bighorn, fought on June 25, 1876, near the Little Bighorn River in Montana Territory, pitted federal troops led by Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer (1839-76) against a band of Lakota Sioux and Cheyenne warriors. Tensions between the two groups had been rising since the discovery of gold on Native American lands. When a number of tribes missed a federal deadline to move to reservations, the U.S. Army, including Custer and his 7th Cavalry, was dispatched to confront them. Custer was unaware of the number of Indians fighting under the command of Sitting Bull (c.1831-90) at Little Bighorn, and his forces were outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed in what became known as Custer’s Last Stand.Battle of the Little Bighorn: Mounting TensionsSitting Bull and Crazy Horse (c.1840-77), leaders of the Sioux on the Great Plains, strongly resisted the mid-19th-century efforts of the U.S. government to confine their people to Indian reservations. In 1875, after gold was discovered in South Dakota’s Black Hills, the U.S. Army ignored previous treaty agreements and invaded the region. This betrayal led many Sioux and Cheyenne tribesmen to leave their reservations and join Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse in Montana. By the late spring of 1876, more than 10,000 Native Americans had gathered in a camp along the Little Bighorn River–which they called the Greasy Grass–in defiance of a U.S. War Department order to return to their reservations or risk being attacked.In mid-June, three columns of U.S. soldiers lined up against the camp and prepared to march. A force of 1,200 Native Americans turned back the first column on June 17. Five days later, General Alfred Terry ordered George Custer’s 7th Cavalry to scout ahead for enemy troops. On the morning of June 25, Custer, a West Point graduate, drew near the camp and decided to press on ahead rather than wait for reinforcements.Battle of the Little Bighorn: Custer’s Last StandAt mid-day on June 25, Custer’s 600 men entered the Little Bighorn Valley. Among the Native Americans, word quickly spread of the impending attack. The older Sitting Bull rallied the warriors and saw to the safety of the women and children, while Crazy Horse set off with a large force to meet the attackers head on. Despite Custer’s desperate attempts to regroup his men, they were quickly overwhelmed. Custer and some 200 men in his battalion were attacked by as many as 3,001 Native Americans; within an hour, Custer and all of his soldiers were dead.The Battle of the Little Bighorn, also called Custer’s Last Stand, marked the most decisive Native American victory and the worst U.S. Army defeat in the long Plains Indian War. The demise of Custer and his men outraged many white Americans and confirmed their image of the Indians as wild and bloodthirsty. Meanwhile, the U.S. government increased its efforts to subdue the tribes. Within five years, almost all of the Sioux and Cheyenne would be confined to reservations.

[nuttykoalacandy]

Battle of the Little Bighorn

The Battle of the Little Bighorn, fought on June 25, 1876, near the Little Bighorn River in Montana Territory, pitted federal troops led by Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer (1839-76) against a band of Lakota Sioux and Cheyenne warriors. Tensions between the two groups had been rising since the discovery of gold on Native American lands. When a number of tribes missed a federal deadline to move to reservations, the U.S. Army, including Custer and his 7th Cavalry, was dispatched to confront them. Custer was unaware of the number of Indians fighting under the command of Sitting Bull (c.1831-90) at Little Bighorn, and his forces were outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed in what became known as Custer’s Last Stand.Battle of the Little Bighorn: Mounting TensionsSitting Bull and Crazy Horse (c.1840-77), leaders of the Sioux on the Great Plains, strongly resisted the mid-19th-century efforts of the U.S. government to confine their people to Indian reservations. In 1875, after gold was discovered in South Dakota’s Black Hills, the U.S. Army ignored previous treaty agreements and invaded the region. This betrayal led many Sioux and Cheyenne tribesmen to leave their reservations and join Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse in Montana. By the late spring of 1876, more than 10,000 Native Americans had gathered in a camp along the Little Bighorn River–which they called the Greasy Grass–in defiance of a U.S. War Department order to return to their reservations or risk being attacked.In mid-June, three columns of U.S. soldiers lined up against the camp and prepared to march. A force of 1,200 Native Americans turned back the first column on June 17. Five days later, General Alfred Terry ordered George Custer’s 7th Cavalry to scout ahead for enemy troops. On the morning of June 25, Custer, a West Point graduate, drew near the camp and decided to press on ahead rather than wait for reinforcements.Battle of the Little Bighorn: Custer’s Last StandAt mid-day on June 25, Custer’s 600 men entered the Little Bighorn Valley. Among the Native Americans, word quickly spread of the impending attack. The older Sitting Bull rallied the warriors and saw to the safety of the women and children, while Crazy Horse set off with a large force to meet the attackers head on. Despite Custer’s desperate attempts to regroup his men, they were quickly overwhelmed. Custer and some 200 men in his battalion were attacked by as many as 3,000 Native Americans; within an hour, Custer and all of his soldiers were dead.The Battle of the Little Bighorn, also called Custer’s Last Stand, marked the most decisive Native American victory and the worst U.S. Army defeat in the long Plains Indian War. The demise of Custer and his men outraged many white Americans and confirmed their image of the Indians as wild and bloodthirsty. Meanwhile, the U.S. government increased its efforts to subdue the tribes. Within five years, almost all of the Sioux and Cheyenne would be confined to reservations.