#migrants shouted

[itsagrimm]

Leida Mothma and the struggle for identity

Mon Mothma says about her daughter Leida practicing traditions: "It's weird. It's stronger here than it is at home." And I can't stop thinking about Leida Mothma and her portrayal as a very privileged yet uprooted kid with a migrant background being unusually traditional.

Growing up away from the culture and the people she is supposed to be part of, is challenging and confusing. It is hard to find identity as a teenage migrant, culture and personal access to her people's traditions when removed from it. And it is not surprising that Leida seeks out the most overt and uncomplicated access she can find to her culture and heritage, even if those are conservative and regressive. Those practices are a lifeline for her, simply because she has or knows of no other options.

As someone with a fairly similar background IRL I sympathise deeply with her character. It is a failure of the society she lives in to include her as she is in a way, that would not drive her into dogmatic traditionalism for identity. And it is worryingly normal for kids to feel like they have to hyper-conform in one way or another to have access to their migrant families background or the societal expectations of the place they live in now. It's as if we still haven't figured out how to be inclusive of those we don't understand. And the most vulnerable are the collateral of that.

[silver-esq]

Am I allowed to talk about fantasy football on this thing or do I gotta suppress that side of me now that I’m here?

[caffrey-coffee]

i’m so fucking tired

i hardly fucking manage to do the bare minimum to go to work and stuff

and things just keep fucking happening

[parttimepunner]

Tumblr has entirely replaced the role that Reddit once had for me. I used Reddit for quite a while so I still think of reblogging as upvoting. And I’m reblogging all over the place.

[flaynbestgirl]

i get that when americans talk about "british english" theyre most likely talking about RP english and they, like, Dont Know about all the classist implications of mocking various uk english dialects

but it still fucking sucks to see, yknow?

[stroebe2]

[bingqiv]

being an adult is realising that your family members have really fucked up views

[himbo-thoughts]

I enjoy the implications of the word following on tumblr.

In any other context saying “I have several followers” is cause for an iota of alarm

Here it’s normal, milquetoast even.

[sayruq]

So, I've had people asking, why does it matter if rockets are fired towards Tel Aviv and other settlements when they cause a fraction of the damage done by an Israeli missile?

Psychological warfare - the rocket barrages eliminate any sense of security that Israelis might have during the war. It reminds them that there's a price for the occupation of Palestine. I can't tell you how many videos I've seen of people in luxury resorts and other high class lodgings shouting and fleeing in fear at a rocket from Gaza or Yemen. It makes it hard for them to go about their daily life ignoring what is happening. Furthermore it undermines the strength of the IDF. Netanyahu can go on TV and claim to have complete control over Gaza but a rocket barrage undoes that easily. A rocket barrage tells Israelis and the rest of the world that not only is Hamas (and the other groups) still intact, it has enough of a stockpile to still bomb parts of Israel over 50 days into the conflict. Israeli media is constantly shocked every time this happens because there's always the assumption that Palestinians are unprepared in every way for the conflict we're seeing today. It forces them to take the threat posed by the Resistance very seriously which of course leads to the existential meltdowns you see on Israeli social media accounts.

De-settlement - There are hundreds of thousands of internally displaced settlers right now. Most of them are unwilling to return because the settlements are still getting hit and it's obvious the IDF is struggling to get things under control. The annexation of Palestinian land and the formation of settlements has led to a great deal of violence towards Palestinians in both Gaza and the West Bank. Hence, why forcing settlers to evacuate is seen as a great success by the Resistance and their supporters. Hezbollah, for example, has mentioned that several times while doing debriefs of their efforts in the conflict

Hits to the economy - if the settlers are evacuated, who will run local businesses? Not to mention underpaid and overworked foreign migrant workers have fled the country while exploited Gazan workers are trapped in Gaza. Israel is trying to combat this by making deals with countries like India and Mali to get tens of thousands of workers but it's not going to be enough especially the longer this conflict goes on. There's also the fact that tourism won't recover to pre war levels due to security concerns. The same thing with foreign capital leaving the country. Israel is too unstable and evidently incapable of regaining that stability (by quickly defeating the Palestinian resistance) which makes it risky to invest in Israeli businesses.

Logistical nightmare - Gazan rockets are cheap to produce, Israeli interceptor missiles are not. Israel is spending more to stop the barrages of rockets than the Resistance has spent probably in the past 5 years. It's the same issue on the Northern border to Lebanon and whenever Yemen sends its long range missiles. It's not like both Israel, America and Europe have endless supplies of weapons and ammunition, they sent most of their stockpiles to Ukraine. The longer this goes on, the more dire things will get but we're already seeing the strain

[spiderbeam]

congrats on 1k eve!!!! 🫶

🎧 + lando + 27 :)

🎧 — mercho by lil cake, migrantes & nico valdi

bonus: frat au!lando

You can still hear the music coming from downstairs as you stand inside the bathroom. It’s more muted now, but not easily ignored.

Your top is on the sink. Pretty, expensive, and now with a personalized stain of cheap wine bleeding into the white fabric. There’s frustration boiling inside your gut as you stare at it. It’s ruined. It’s unsalvageable. It’s—

A gentle knock on the door.

“You okay in there?” Lando asks from outside his bathroom, voice slightly muffled.

You inhale sharply, nodding even though he can’t see you. You start pulling his orange shirt over your head as you open the door, shrugging it on.

When your face finally pokes through, you find Lando leaning against the doorframe, eyes expectant. He smiles, dimples showing. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you say, averting your eyes to look down around his shirt. “So. I look like a traffic cone.”

Lando clicks his tongue as his eyes drop to his own shirt wrapped around your frame. “I think the words you’re searching for are thank you.” His gaze lingers, before returning back to your face. “I can take it back if you don’t want it.”

You scoff. “Yeah, right. I’m not going back to a frat party without a shirt on.”

Lando shrugs, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Suit yourself.” But then, even inside his dimly-lit room of his frat, you can see his eyes staying a moment too long on his papaya-colored shirt.

You tilt your head. “What?”

“Nothing,” he answers, a bit too quickly. Lando smiles at you, and for just a moment, you think you can see pink dusting his cheeks. “Nothing, it’s just… never mind. It looks good on you, I guess. Oversized stuff, I mean. Not that I didn’t like your other shirt—”

“I thought you frat boys were supposed to be smooth.”

“I am,” Lando replies defensively. “Or I can be. When I want to.” You make a noncommittal ‘ah’ before Lando tilts his head towards the door of his bedroom. “Whatever. Ready to join the party again?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Lando offers his hand, and you’re not quite sure why you choose to take it. You’re not that close—friends, sure, but less of the type that tell each other secrets, and more of the kind that can share a laugh at a party. And so, when you got your entire front drenched in wine, you expected Oscar to come to your aid, maybe Logan—but Lando?

He guides you out of his room and down the stairs with his hand still holding yours. The music beats against your eardrums. You can hear shouting from downstairs, alongside singing and cheering. Funny, how for a moment there your whole night seemed to be ruined—and yet the party didn’t even stumble.

By the time you reach the end of the stairs with Lando, the song that’s blearing over the speakers is making it hard to hear anything other than its lyrics. And yet, even past the music that threatens to make your head spin, you still manage to spot him across the room. The reason you got cheap wine spilled on you. The reason Lando had to come to your rescue in the first place.

Your ex-boyfriend.

He’s pretending not to notice, but you can see him angling his face towards you. His eyes drop to your—Lando’s—shirt, to your hand in his. And only then do you realize he seems to be talking to another girl, his hands on her waist.

Asshole.

Lando notices. “You okay? We can—”

You turn to him abruptly. “Do you wanna dance?”

Lando blinks at you, brow twitching. “What?”

“Do you wanna dance?” you repeat, still feeling your ex’s stare on you. You tilt your head towards the mass of people on the opposite side of the room, still holding his hand.

The corner of his lips curve upward, and he laughs lightly, but follows you into the dance floor anyway. The music seems to vibrate against the walls. Bodies bump against yours, swaying to the song. Your hands settle around Lando’s neck, his resting on your waist.

Lando leans closer to your ear. “I know what you’re doing, you know.” He’s looking somewhere behind you—you wonder if he’s meeting your ex boyfriend’s stare. You hope he looks pissed. You hope it ruins his night.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you answer simply.

Lando chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s okay.” His eyes drop from your face, to his shirt, to your lips. “I don’t mind being used by you.”

the funny thing about this song is that mercho (song title) is just slang for mercedes lmao

eve’s 1k event 🎧

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Sign of the Day... in Greenwich Village...

(Mary Elaine LeBey)

* * * *

Kamala Harris meets the moment!

September 11, 2024

Robert B. Hubbell

Kamala Harris’s debate performance exceeded the unfair and asymmetrical expectations imposed on her by the press and pundits. She was terrific—in command of the facts, unfazed by Trump's bluster, personable, sincere, and likable but strong. That is a difficult mix to maintain in the face of a torrent of lies shouted by a bully who could not be controlled by the moderators. For those who were worried about the possibility that Kamala Harris would somehow stumble and harm her electoral prospects, put those worries aside. The reverse happened. She soared while Trump collapsed into his hollow shell.

Kamala Harris was confident and at ease. Trump sputtered and dodged in a futile effort to avoid answering the moderators’ questions.

I was struck by judgments delivered during the debate by two preeminent historians. I follow both Heather Cox Richardson and Michael Beschloss on Twitter. Near the end of the debate, the historians posted the following comments, which encapsulated the debate for me:

Heather Cox Richardson: “Trump is proving world leaders like him by citing Viktor Orban. Dear heavens. She is walking him like a poodle.” Michael Beschlossos: “From start to end, Kamala Harris has just delivered what is easily one of the most successful Presidential debate performances in all of American history.”

First, I hope HCR writes a book or starts a rock band with the name, “Walking Him Like a Poodle.” HCR’s comment gets to the pith of the debate: Kamala Harris was in charge, leading Trump into traps he knew were traps but could not avoid. In the instance cited by HCR, VP Harris chided Trump, saying that world leaders laugh at him and military leaders believe he is a “disgrace.” Trump responded by citing Viktor Orbán as a leader who respects him. As HCR said, “Dear heavens.” Trump was outmatched and outclassed—bigly.

Michael Beschloss’s comment is significant because it ranks Harris’s performance in the historical context of presidential debates. The precise ranking of her performance matters less than the fact it will be near the top, according to one of the nation’s preeminent historians.

There is too much to cover in tonight’s newsletter, so I will focus on the major newsworthy positions revealed in the debate. I will return later in the week to additional subjects when transcripts and analyses are available. Of note:

Harris presented herself as a candidate offering “generational change.”

Harris advocated for the middle class and small businesses.

Harris promised to sign a bill enacting the protections of Roe v. Wade.

Harris promised to sign the border bill that Trump convinced Republicans to kill.

Harris promised to reinstitute the child tax credit and institute a $6,000 credit for families with newborns

Trump refused to acknowledge that he lost the 2020 election.

Trump refused to express any regret for anything he did or failed to do regarding the January 6 insurrection.

Trump refused to say whether he would veto a national abortion ban.

Trump repeatedly claimed that Democrats advocate for the execution of babies after birth.

Trump refused to say why he urged Republicans to defeat the border bill.

Trump claimed that tariffs are “taxes on foreign nations.”

Trump refused to say whether he hoped Ukraine would defeat Russia war of aggression.

Trump said he didn’t have a plan for healthcare after nine years but has only “concepts for a plan.”

Trump repeated a racist slur that Haitian migrants are stealing and eating pets them in Springfield, Ohio.

No one who watched the debate could believe anything other than the fact that Kamala Harris is smart, capable, and up to the challenge of serving as president and commander-in-chief. Moreover, the debate served as a hyper-charged “media interview”—complete with hostile questions and an obnoxious heckler.

One of the first commentators to publish a review of the debate is David Frum in The Atlantic, How Harris Roped a Dope | She stayed human when Trump went feral. Per Frum,

Vice President Kamala Harris walked onto the ABC News debate stage with a mission: trigger a Trump meltdown. She succeeded. Former President Donald Trump had a mission too: control yourself. He failed. Trump lost his cool over and over. Goaded by predictable provocations, he succumbed again and again. Trump was pushed into broken-sentence monologues—and even an all-out attack on the 2020 election outcome. He repeated crazy stories about immigrants eating cats and dogs, and was backward-looking, personal, emotional, defensive, and frequently incomprehensible.

One final note: During the debate, I received outraged emails from readers about the moderators' failure to control Trump or treat Kamala Harris fairly. While true, let’s not make the debate about the moderators. That is what Republicans are doing tonight—to avoid talking about Trump's meltdown. Let’s focus on Kamala Harris’s ability to show Americans that she is up to the job of being president. That’s the story; let’s not bury the lead.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[octuscle]

Late Night Possession

Inspired by @malevessel

It was a terrible day. Meetings that dragged on like chewing gum. The air conditioning in the meeting room was faulty, it was well over 30 degrees Celsius outside, much higher inside and the humidity wasn't much below 100 percent. I hate it when lawyers suddenly join us at the end of a project. They talk everything up without even having understood for five cents what it was all about. And my client's in-house counsel was not only annoying, he also stank from the mouth and smelled terribly of sweat. The air in the meeting room was stifling. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when we thought we were finally finished at 8pm. And then the pain in the ass said he had a few more questions….

It was really lucky that I got the last train home. I still had a three-hour journey ahead of me. It would be 02:00 when I was finally in bed. What a day! But I would take a nap now. The train was almost empty, I was sitting in the rest area, no one would disturb me.

"Hey bro, I swear! The bitch was begging for mercy. And then I fucked her all the more!" I am rudely torn from my reverie. Two seats away, a guy has sat down. A migrant with Arab roots, I'd say. Not a Muslim, because he doesn't perform ablutions. It smells of sweat and tobacco. The guy is on the phone at 11:30 at night in the train's rest area. On the phone? No, he's shouting. Without a headset of course, I can hear his "bro" on the other end just as well as I can hear him. And the guy is smoking. On the train. That's all I really needed today to be happy.

I may look weak. I am weak. Sport was never my thing. But I'm not anxious. Even if the guy has arms that make my legs look skinny. But he's not allowed to use the phone here. And he's certainly not allowed to smoke here. I stand up. I go to him. He only looks at me for a split second and immediately turns his attention back to his conversation partner. "Excuse me, this is a non-smoking train and you are in the rest area… So may I ask you…" BAAAAANNG! His fist hits me without any warning. My eyes go black.

Shit, why does my fist hurt? Shouldn't my head be hurting? I rub my fist. And see myself. On the floor. Knocked out. Shit! Shit! Shit! I look in the window. At my reflection. A migrant with Arab roots. "Yo dude, you good? Yo bro, spill the tea, what's the 411?" I hear from the cell phone. I pick up the phone, say that everything is okay, but that I have to take care of something here and hang up. I lie on the floor and sniffle. So it's the other one. Or is it me? Damn it! What's happened here? Take it easy now. This is a dream. I have brain trauma or something… What would I really do now if I were in that bastard's body? I'm like remote-controlled. I take my wallet out of my jacket pocket. I take my watch, the gold cufflinks and my glasses. I put everything in my laptop bag. The next station is coming. And I jump out of the train. I need a cigarette now. I don't smoke, but my body is obviously addicted to that shit. There's a Zippo and filterless Marlboros in my bomber jacket. I'm still a bit inexperienced with it, I have tobacco crumbs on my tongue. But the smoke feels good. So good. And my head is finally starting to work properly again.

Okay, I'm in the middle of nowhere in Stoke-on-Trent. Shit, I've got the belongings of a man who's been knocked out on a train to Manchester. I'm going to need money. I take the money out of my wallet, take the credit cards and pull the maximum amount out of the ATM in the deserted station concourse with each one. According to the departure board, there's a train back to London in ten minutes. The platform is empty. I get on, leave the laptop bag with everything that might remind me of myself in an empty compartment and quickly get off again. The train departs. Shit, shit, shit! I need one more cigarette first. I smoke the second one much more routinely on the station forecourt. Opposite the station is a somewhat shabby-looking hotel. While I'm thinking about going in there, a bus arrives. Destination Birmingham. Without thinking twice, I get on the bus. Birmingham. I drove through there a few hours ago. In a completely different body. I fall asleep.

It's dawn when my cell phone wakes me up. The phone of the guy who knocked me out. Mine after all. Shit, I'm not awake yet and the situation is challenging. The phone isn't vibrating discreetly, it's quite loud. BILLY TSTRK as the ringtone. One of my favorite hip-hop artists. He's also from Beirut. It's my buddy Dylan. He asks if everything's okay because I haven't been in touch. I say I've had a bit of stress with the wanker on the train and am now on the bus to Birmingham rather than Manchester. Dylan says cool, he'll tell Hamza and he'll pick me up at the bus. "You're a man of honor, I'll kiss your eye!" I say and hang up.

It's 05:30. I've been on the phone with Facetime. Without a headset. Several pairs of eyes stare at me in annoyance. "laenat alfilastiniiyn alkufaar" I curse and close my eyes again.

Had to go into hiding for a few weeks. The police were looking for me. Of course, there were surveillance cameras at the station. As far as I know, my old body is in a mental hospital. The story of the investment banker who suffered brain trauma after being mugged on a night train and then thought he was his tormentor was in the press. Not that I still read the papers. But it even appeared on Yasin's Instagram account, which is now my account.

My boys had to get used to it a bit. The investment banker is still in me. And that's a good thing. As Yasin, I have a pretty complex company to run. Import, export, all sorts of different stuff. I wash the money in investments in shisha bars and fitness studios. Hey, I only invest in things I know something about. And I practically live on the weight bench and in the shisha lounge area. Even though I think shisha sucks. I'll stick to cigarettes.

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰

It was your first classic car meet and you were excited for what lay ahead. Meeting others within the scene and maybe the possibility of making friends was your goal, but what awaited you was much, much more intense — for better, or for worse.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✯ Mechanic!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ✯ 3.2k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ✯ Fluff, violence, possessive Bucky (that's the understatement of the century) ჻჻჻ SMUT: Unprotected, public, car sex, gagging and restraints, oral fixation, multiple orgasms, cum play, Dom!Bucky ჻჻჻ KINKS: Praise, degradation, breeding, sir, exhibitionism

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ✯ This was written for a certain someone, and that certain someone knows who they are, and they know exactly what they did to me to inspire it — so, chaos kittens, enjoy some of the most depraved smut I have ever written.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 ✯ Keep It Down by Migrant Motel

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ✯ @allcapsbingo 𝗢𝟯 — Oral Fixation (September Monthly Mission) — Masterlist

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Are you sure–?”

Bucky grinned in the driver’s seat, downshifting the Mustang a gear as he took the turn into the expansive parking lot. “Baby, I am positive–tonight’s gonna be fun, and not only that,” he assured, taking his hand off the shifter to squeeze your thigh. “I’ve got the sexiest woman on my arm, and like hell am I not gonna show off what’s mine.”

“Such a sap,” you whispered, and he laughed. “But what if–”

“No buts. Just relax.” The Mustang purred as Bucky pulled into the rows and rows of cars lined in increments – each one shining under the bright spotlights. You watched with keen interest as Bucky drove past what seemed like hundreds of classic muscle cars. “Ah. There we are.”

The steering wheel spun with grace and suddenly, you were parked facing another Mustang, and another, and another… “Whoa,” you gasped, looking down the row you were parked in. “There’s so many.”

“What did you expect, sweetheart?” Bucky chuckled as he wound up his window. “It’s a meet–who knows what and who we’re gonna see tonight.”

You sighed, and prepared to step foot out of the car. Sure, you had wanted to fit in, and you had no doubts that Bucky had lost his mind over your choice of outfit – he had spent half an hour on his knees worshipping you before you had to force him to his feet so you wouldn’t be late, but still, nerves were an accompanying thing you wished you could go without. 

Bucky opened the passenger door and held out his hand. “M’lady.”

“Such a charmer,” you teased, and he smirked. 

“Always.”

The door shut with a loud thunk, affording you the opportunity to look Bucky over while he locked the door. He had chosen to wear your favourite Henley, pairing it with a black leather jacket and dark jeans that hugged his thighs perfectly. Heavy combat boots made his footsteps heavy, and the sound of metal clinking was the sign that he’d worn his favourite belt, too. “You like what you see, Honey?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Close your mouth or you’ll regret openin’ it, baby,” Bucky purred as he gripped your chin, forcing your jaw closed. When did it open? “Not here and not now, kitten.”

Graciously, a shout of his name down the row of classics distracted Bucky long enough for you to bite your lip and squeeze your thighs – real subtle, you inwardly laughed. 

A familiar face, blonde and far too handsome for his own good, appeared. “Hey, Honey Bee,” Steve said happily. You grinned back and then looked behind him to see Ari. 

“Hey, darlin’,” he greeted, and you rushed forward to give him a hug while Steve and Bucky stood and talked. “You ready for tonight?”

“No,” you replied honestly. “Excited though, Buck promised I’d be okay, so.”

Ari grinned at you. “Trust me, Honey, no one is gonna get between you and ‘im tonight. Look at him.” Covertly, you stole a glance at Bucky, only he was already staring at you with a fierce glint in his eye. “I suspect you chose this outfit just to fuck with my boss, huh?”

“Guilty as charged,” you whispered. Ari shook his head and laughed. 

“Alright,” Bucky said abruptly, and his arms encircled your waist while his chin rested in the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “If you fellas don’t mind, I gotta show my girl the ropes of a meet.” 

Both Ari and Steve saluted their farewells and they strode off to god-knows-where, their heads high and motivations sinful, no doubt. 

You grabbed Bucky’s hand and stepped away from his embrace. “Wanna show me the ropes, sir?”

“Behave, you lil’ minx,” Bucky scolded, eyes narrowed. “But, yes, let’s go.”

Bucky held your hand the whole time while he guided you up and down rows of cars, only letting go to guide you by the small of your back, but he never left your side. His presence was a blessing, if you were honest with yourself – a new environment full of men measuring their dicks just as much as they bragged about the power under their hoods was intimidating. 

Men stopped Bucky and asked how his business in restorations had been going since they last saw him, and while they spared you glances and pleasant greetings, few lingered and stared for longer than you’d liked. Bucky picked up on the tense line of your shoulders every time and cut the conversation short, guiding you away with his hand just above your ass. 

“They’re creepy,” you groaned. 

Bucky snarled. “I know, sweetheart. I thought they’d respect the- No, they’re men. What am I fuckin’ thinking?”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed and the sound made Bucky smirk. “You’re one in a million, babe,” you managed between fits of giggles. 

“Why, thank you, doll. You know how to make a fella feel special.” The dignified snort of laughter that left you made Bucky cough and sputter a laugh, too. 

The sky grew darker, streaks of indigo and navy across the stars as the moon rose higher, and the meet was in full swing. Cars revved and roared around you, men and women passed with nods and lingering stares; each more heated than the last. The attention gave you an inkling of something, similar to the feeling of striding alongside a king – you supposed that was the reality. 

After learning about Chevelles and Plymouths, Bucky took you down a row of other Mustangs, intermingled with the occasional Shelby. There were a few familiar faces interspersed, and you felt pride in the ability to willingly say hello to them – all of which were regulars at Bucky’s garage. 

“And how are you doing, miss?” One regular asked, and Bucky’s hand moved from the small of your back to your hip, innocently pulling you closer. You smiled at the action and replied to the friendly regular, keeping polite conversation about his own Mustang – a sixty-nine Mach One. “It’s good to see more of you at the garage,” he went on, and Bucky raised a brow in challenge. “Seeing Barnes in order is a pleasant surprise.”

“Shut it, Porter,” Bucky laughed. Porter – of which you assumed was his last name – laughed too and shook Bucky’s hand. “See you next week, yeah? You’re booked in with Bessie.” Bucky pointed at the black Mustang behind him. 

“Do all guys name their cars?” you asked, confused. 

Porter laughed and Bucky blinked once, twice, “Yeah, they do, Honey. Why?”

You stared at him, discerning his sudden sheepish expression. “Why haven’t you named yours–?”

“No reason.” Bucky turned to Porter and clapped him on the shoulder. “See you next week.” You parted his company with a wave, and then you watched Bucky’s profile as he guided you both away, until he looked at you from the corner of his eye. “What?”

“Why are you being suspicious?”

The abruptness of your question made him chuckle heartily, and he grabbed your hand. You squeezed it back. “Jus’–I haven’t named my babies because… Well, I was think-” 

A loud wolf whistle from a ways back made you jump in surprise, and Bucky froze mid stride. “Who was that to?” you wondered aloud, looking for a lone woman in case she’d needed help. “I can’t see anyone–”

“No, Honey-” Another whistle sounded, this time closer. The tune made you feel queasy and the hair on your nape stood on end. “For fucks sake,” Bucky cursed. “Keep moving.” The usual drawl and accent in his voice disappeared as he spoke, and you gulped – that meant he was pissed. 

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” A voice called. The implication made you freeze, and Bucky growled. “We just wanna see-”

“Shut the fuck up, punk,” Bucky snapped, rounding on the approaching pack of catcallers. “Take your shit out of here before I kick your ass to the curb.”

“Oh, god,” you breathed, and you pulled on Bucky’s hand, desperate to pull him back and away from them. “Bucky-”

“No,” Bucky growled, his voice dangerously low. His hands moved you behind him and you could hear the concussive silence over the boom of the speakers – even the people around you had paused whatever they were doing in their curiosity. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Huh? You think going around and hitting on anything with legs would get your dick wet?”

The man at the front of the pack bristled and advanced. “Don’t you fuckin’ talk to me like that-”

“Or what?” Bucky challenged, stepping closer to the pack of sheep. “What are you gonna do?” His broad back hid you from their view and you watched mesmerised as Bucky stepped even closer to the catcaller, invading his space. “You think you and your piece of shit friends scare me?”

“We’ll fuck you up-” The crack of skin on bone made you gasp loudly; your hands flew to your mouth in shock as you watched the man stumble and topple over. Blood spurted from his now very broken nose, covering his mouth and chin. “Fuck!”

There was suddenly a crowd of men around you – Bucky and the group in the centre as the bystanders tried to split them apart. “Get the fuck off me,” Bucky warned as one of the strangers neared, hand outstretched to touch his shoulder.

“Bucky, please, let’s just go,” you pleaded. Bucky shook his head and tensed his bloodied hand. 

It was a surreal experience – the visual of Bucky looming over a man that dared to reduce you to just an object, something to keep his dick warm and wet and a hole to fuck. 

“You fuckin’ think I’d let you look at what’s mine, you fuckin’ bastard? You think I’d let you touch her–Jesus Christ, you’re as fuckin’ stupid as you look!” The crowd was slowly dispersing as Bucky stared down at the cowering catcaller, but you were rooted to the spot, a mix of fear, awe, and downright arousal keeping you in place. 

Bucky knelt down on one knee, his face almost level with the bloodied mess he’d created. The low, gravelly tone of his voice shot a bolt of arousal straight to your cunt, and you quietly whimpered. “If you dare to look at another woman like you did my girl… I swear to god, punk, what I do to you will make your worst nightmare look like child’s play. I will hunt you down and feed you your own dick if I fuckin’ have to. Do you understand me?”

The reply was muffled by a torrent of blood from the catcaller’s nose, though Bucky seemed to be satisfied because he stood tall over his quarry, grinning like a predator that had locked onto its prey. “Get your sorry ass out of here, fucker.”

Bucky turned to you, eyes fierce and bright in his anger, and he kissed you full on the lips, his bloodied hand holding your throat. A squeak tore from your throat and Bucky rumbled against your lips, his grip tightening. “You’re mine, Honey. And I am gonna fuckin’ kill any man that thinks he can take you from me.”

“Oh.”

A groan of pain and scuffled footsteps from the catcaller as he stood went ignored as you stared into Bucky’s eyes – doe-eyed and unable to move. Fire was coursing through every nerve to land in your throbbing cunt, and you couldn’t take it anymore. “Bucky…”

His hand grabbed yours and he pulled in the direction of his Mustang. It was so late into the night that most people had cleared out and headed back home, the once packed parking lot now close to empty and abandoned. 

“That bastard thinkin’ he can take what’s mine,” Bucky grunted, and you began to pant with adrenaline, his grip had only tightened and when his Mustang came into view, you could have sworn something had possessed him – not that you were complaining. “Fuckin’ arrogant fuck–no, you are mine, and I am takin’ what’s mine.”

“Bucky, wait- I can-” You tried, but Bucky wasn’t listening. He marched you to the bonnet of his Mustang and you squealed in surprise when he forced your body over it, the cold metal biting through the outfit you’d chosen. 

“No, I won’t fuckin’ wait,” Bucky said lowly, his lips on your ear. You could feel his whole body over yours, as well as the tent in his jeans. “I need to show everyone that you’re mine–not anyone else’s.”  No one can fill your pretty pussy like I can, and no one can fuck you like I can–where you’re droolin’ and screamin’ for more.”

“Fuck,” you moaned, and your legs parted on instinct. “Need-”

“Tha’s it, doll–let those instincts take over, you’re gonna be a good girl for me, and you’re gonna take it all.” The sound of leather rubbing over denim brought you back from the imagery his words were casting in your mind’s eye, and you felt the smooth, cold surface brush your cheek. “Open up for me–there’s a good girl. You jus’ need somethin’ in that pretty mouth a’yours, huh?”

Humming an ascent, you took the leather into your mouth as Bucky cooed, the tent in his jeans rubbing tantalisingly over your ass. The leather tasted earthy and sultry, tones you couldn’t even describe in your lustful haze. 

“Good girl,” he praised. “You’re gonna bite down on that for me–I know you’re a screamer, but I don’t want anyone to hear those pretty noises you make, yeah? They’re just for your sir.” 

You nodded as Bucky chuckled, a dark sound that sent a thrill up your spine. “When we get home,” he drawled slowly and the threat in his tone made you squirm. “I am gonna fill that pretty mouth of yours, and I’m gonna fuck it like it’s your pussy. And, guess what, kitten?”

“Mm,” you mumbled around the leather. 

“You’re gonna fuckin’ take it, ‘cos I know you can,” he purred. The words sent a wave of slick to soak your panties, and you moaned low in your throat. 

His fingers danced over the clothes covering your crotch, and he whistled lowly. “Seein’ me be a possessive bastard made you this wet, baby? This all for me?”

“Mhm, yes,” you ground out past the leather, the words muffled on each syllable. “For you, sir.”

“Tha’s right, sweetheart. This pussy is mine, and I think she’s a greedy bitch that can’t get enough.” You shuddered violently at the words, and your cunt clenched around nothing. “And, you know what that means, Honey?”

A singular shake of your head snapped the chain that had held Bucky back, and he lost the last inkling of control. You gasped loudly when you heard the sound of fabric tearing, and the night air kissed your ass and thighs. It was an effort to stay grounded as Bucky shoved three fingers into your entrance to stretch it. 

“It means, sweetheart, that your pussy is gonna take me over and over, and she’s gonna beg for more–for me to fill her up, and even then…” Bucky trailed off. He curled his fingers, and you moaned loudly around the belt. “I won’t fuckin’ stop.” 

The initial breach of his length burned and stung, the ache making you whimper until he forced himself to the hilt and stilled. “Sir,” you whined and you rocked on the heels of your feet. “Fuck me–take me, please.”

“Beg correctly, whore,” Bucky spat, and the words caused a cascade of sensations to settle in your pulsing cunt. “You know how I like it.”

You sobbed and bore down on his cock like a vice, and his breath hitched. “‘M yours, ‘m yours, sir!”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he soothed. You felt his hand move to the back of your neck, and his other hand forced your arms back and up, immobilising you. “You take this cock like you were made to, and you thank me for it, bitch.” 

Bucky thrust forward with such force you were moved up the bonnet of the Mustang, your skin sticking to the now slick metal as he fucked you with abandon. Pleasure curled up your spine and your toes curled – the anticipation and downright feral state of Bucky had left you no time to call upon endurance, and your release loomed closer and closer, each pass of his cock over your walls bringing it to fruition. 

“Your cunt is so fuckin’ good, baby,” Bucky groaned, letting go of your arms so his front could press flush against your back. “Fuckin’ perfect for me–made jus’ for me to fuck and fill, to breed, huh?”

You screamed around the belt and nodded, tears filling your eyes at the onslaught. “Close! Please, please don’ stop, sir!”

“Already,” Bucky grumbled, and he followed the statement with such a harsh thrust your mouth opened wide in a silent scream – the leather falling from your mouth to land on the bonnet with a wet slap. “Whose cock makes you feel this good, doll? Say it!”

“Yours, sir! Sir’s cock!” you sobbed. “Uh, uh, fuck!”

“Can feel you squeezin’ me, Honey,” Bucky cooed, the mocking tone only stoking the fire of your climax. “You gonna cum for me? That what you want?”

“Oh, fucking- Fuck, yes! Wanna cum, sir, please,” you begged. The sudden feel of Bucky’s hand skirting over your hip made your eyes widen, and you gulped and choked as he circled your clit in tight, fast circles. 

The slick sound of his cock pumping in and out of you at a hard, deep pace, paired with the sound of his pants for air behind you only forced you closer to the edge. 

“This pussy is mine, isn’t it?” Bucky barked, his thrusts growing sloppy. “Fuckin’ tell me it’s mine—be a good girl and tell me.”

You moaned and groped over the bonnet for purchase, and Bucky slammed his hand down on top of yours, pinning it in place. “Bucky, Bucky–oh fuck, it’s yours!” 

The climax that had sped into grasping distance had finally started to crest and you whimpered loudly, a cry for release. “Soak my cock, baby, it’s yours. Fuckin’ cum for me, kitten–give it to me.”

Sweet, sweet release swept you away, and you sobbed through the intense waves that pulled you under. Your feet left the ground with each pump of Bucky’s cock while he fucked you through your climax, and the coattails of another one started to crest. “Gonna cum again, sir!”

“Tell them who you fuckin’ belong to, doll,” Bucky groaned, his hips faltering in their rhythm. “Call for me, baby–call me!”

Your second climax tore you from your body and you faintly registered the warmth blooming in your pussy while Bucky moaned, his hips rabbiting and pumping you full of his release so it fell in rivulets down your inner thighs. “Fuckin’ hell,” he panted, and you giggled weakly. “Baby–baby, you alright?”

“Yeah,” you panted. “Fucked me so good, sir.”

Bucky snorted and rested his forehead between your shoulders. 

Slowly, you came back down from your high, and just when you felt able to move, Bucky pulled out with a groan. You could feel his fingers force his cum back in your cunt, and the action alone made you moan quietly. “So fuckin’ pretty for me, baby,” Bucky breathed. 

He helped you stand and steadied you against his chest, when he kissed you on the forehead and smiled like a lovestruck fool. “Let’s go home, sweetheart, I made a promise and I know for fuckin’ sure there are other ways I can show everyone that you’re mine.”

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[collapsedsquid]

The Darién Gap was thought for centuries to be all but impassable. Explorers and would-be colonizers who entered tended to die of hunger or thirst, be attacked by animals, drown in fast-rising rivers, or simply get lost and never emerge. Those dangers remain, but in recent years the jungle has become a superhighway for people hoping to reach the United States. According to the United Nations, more than 800,000 may cross the Darién Gap this year—a more than 50 percent increase over last year’s previously unimaginable number. Children under 5 are the fastest-growing group. The U.S. has spent years trying to discourage this migration, pressuring its Latin American neighbors to close off established routes and deny visas to foreigners trying to fly into countries close to the U.S. border. Instead of stopping migrants from coming, this approach has simply rerouted them through the jungle, and shifted the management of their passage onto criminal organizations, which have eagerly taken advantage. The Gulf Clan, which now calls itself Ejército Gaitanista de Colombia, effectively controls this part of northern Colombia. It has long moved drugs and weapons through the Darién Gap; now it moves people too. Everyone who works in the Darién Gap must be approved by the cartel and hand over a portion of their earnings. They have built stairs into hillsides and outfitted cliffs with ladders and camps with Wi‑Fi. They advertise it all on TikTok and YouTube, and anyone can book a journey online. There are many paths through. The most grueling route is the cheapest—right now, about $300 a person to cross the jungle on foot. Taking a boat up the coast can cost more than $1,000.

[...] Guides and porters follow the migrants in the jungle with their iPhones rolling, asking, “Do you feel good?” and “Have we treated you well?” They film incessantly during the first day of walking, when people are still able to conjure a smile. (Even I ended up in one of their videos.) They post the videos on social media, selling trips across the jungle as if they were joyful nature walks. The profit motives of the cartel have become yet another factor fueling migration. [...] The porters we had paid to continue on with us told us to stay close together because bandits were thought to be intimidated by large groups. Later, we learned that was false—they were in fact targeting large groups, perhaps because it was more efficient than robbing a handful of people at a time. Our anxiety grew when we passed a couple of abandoned backpacks. We pushed through thicker and thicker brush until I realized there was no longer any sign of a path. One porter accused another of leading us astray. They started arguing, until a third hissed, “No yelling!” We turned around, but a bottleneck formed in front of a fallen tree trunk. One of the porters shouted for us to hurry: “Grab the kids and go!” [...] Most of the migrants I met in the processing line told me they’d been robbed by bandits at a checkpoint within a day’s walk of the community. The women said they’d been groped; some said they’d been digitally penetrated under the guise of a search for hidden cash. Panamanian border officers standing nearby showed no interest in investigating. Indigenous leaders say they have asked the government for help addressing crime against migrants, but the situation seems to be getting worse. In February, Doctors Without Borders published a report on sexual violence against migrants in the Darién Gap, showing a frequency more typical of war zones. Soon after, the government kicked the organization out of the area.

[godisarepublican]

ANOTHER UNDOCUMENTED MIGRANT MERCILESSLY SUBJECTED TO RACIST HATE SPEECH!!!

Nilson Granados-Trejo was rudely and cruelly branded an "Illegal Immigrant" by the press after killing a toddler and injuring his teenage mom. <link>

"He's UNDOCUMENTED," shouted an angry Joe Biden. "He's not illegal, he's not an alien or an immigrant, he's an undocumented migrant. And he built this country and everything in it. Show some respect for my voters, you VILE WHITE PERSON!"

"And so what if he murdered a toddler and wouldn't have if I had only enforced our immigration laws? Lots of people kill toddlers, and I don't care about them either. Why should I care now?"

Don't let Biden's words fool you through. He's just pandering to his base of crackpots, bed wetters & communists. Behind the scenes Biden is working hard to resolve the illegal alien crime wave.

"The problem is housing," a Biden spokesperson explained. "These noble migrants can't afford housing and only turn to crime out of desperation. So the President's new plan to house illegal aliens inside of college dormitories, at taxpayer expense, should alleviate the crime problem, allowing the administration to concentrate on the real threat to society: Trump voters.

[joy-haver]

I will vote. But, I want you to know.

Those of you who are the most fervent advocates for it are often the ones who make me most doubt its effectiveness. You make me want to stay home from the poll.

You who so strongly advocate voting so often do very little else to improve the world. Many of the loudest shouting “vote! Vote!” Will do almost nothing once their candidate is in power. You tell us “vote for the lesser of two evils” and then, you forget that they are evil.

I do not want trump to be in power. I will probably vote for Biden. But part of me says “at least when trump was president, these liberals acknowledged something was wrong. At least then, they hated border patrol. They listened when I said something was deeply, truly wrong.”

I would like to be allies with you. I would like to be building the same future. But so many are convinced that as soon as they put a democrat in office, they are done with the work until next election. There is so little interest in actually protecting trans kids, or fighting for abortion, or helping migrants, or stopping genocide; So long as you can feel comfortable, feel at peace, because you think your soul is cleansed by having voted for the “lesser” option.

If I thought you were voting to be strategic, to ward off fascism while you build a survivable alternative, I would have little qualms about it. But so often, you do not want an alternative. You only want a more comfortable slide into fascistic domination. And that always gives me pause.