#(that sounds like a drug you would see on an infomercial)

[espithewarlock]

Fun Facts with Espi!

So I'm writing this as I have officially loaded the last chapter of my Charles/Max/Pierre Soulmark AU into AO3 and I feel like doing a fic debrief?

I'm weird about a lot of things and long author's notes are one of those things so I'm here rambling on Tumblr instead. For those who may or may not be interested.

Anyways, writing this fic was a process. I had the idea a long time ago, stopped it to write the entirety of my Piarles Mermaid AU, picked it up again, paused to write 90% of the Carlando Coffeeshop AU that's a companion fic to the Mermaid AU, picked it up again, paused to write 'A Gift for a Gift' in a fever dream, picked it up again, paused to write some of an A/B/O fic, and then finally had the motivation to finish it.

(So, if anything feels disconnected, I'm sorry. I tried my best.)

Fun Fact #1 - The Brain Cells Discord chat was the first part of this fic I wrote and is honestly one of my favorite scenes. I just love the idea of all of them being chaotic horny gremlins in a private online space. (Also, my Google Doc is just called 'The Brain Cells')

Fun Fact #2 - I planned for this fic to be rated T, which is why all of the early Piarles scenes are all 'fade to black' kind of sex. Then Chapter 16 happened and all three got horny for each other. So fuck it, it's an Explicit fic now. I don't make the rules.

Overall I'm really happy with how this fic turned out. It's the longest thing I've posted and I did enjoy writing it. Write what you want to read and all that.

Fun Fact #3 - Speaking of, I don't post WIPs because I don't read WIPs. That's a personal preference and I have a ton of admiration for the authors with the confidence to post works in progress. That's awesome and I can't wait to read your fic when it hits Complete status.

I've just been burned one too many times by fantastic stories where the author stopped updating for any number of reasons, so I never want to be that sort of author.

If I start posting a chaptered fic that's not a snippet/side-story collection, know that the full story is written and will be posted pending editing and/or nuclear apocalypse.

So, for anyone who likes my stuff (???) and wants to know what's coming up, here's what I've got in progress, in no particular order:

The previously-mentioned Carlando Coffeeshop AU (with background Piarles). It's a companion fic (not a sequel) to my Mermaid AU, takes place at roughly the same time but covers a lot of the on-land activities and Lando being a disaster over Carlos. It's almost finished, pending literally half an epilogue, so if that sounds fun then come yell at me to finish it.

The previously-mentioned A/B/O fic. I honestly thought I would never be the sort of author to dip my toes into A/B/O but I was bit by an inspiration bug. It's a Maxiel fic (AU-Non-F1 drivers) with Max POV for the whole thing. There is also plenty of established Piarles and Carlando, with Lewis, Alex, George, and other familiar faces rounding out the pack. That's a much longer way off, sitting at maybe 50% right now, but the broad plot is outlined and I have scenes occupying real estate in my head.

A Max/Pierre kinda-soulmark oneshot. It's an AU in an interesting world that I want to keep exploring in prompt/snippet format. This one is actually finished, but I want to wait to post it until I have the time to respond and write the companion snippets & prompts I might receive from you lovely people. Or from my own head.

Companion oneshots to ~this~ Soulmark AU. I already have one completed that's Danny Ric POV that takes place between chapter 16 & 17. Basically, Daniel wants to be a good friend and comfort Max after the Saudi GP, busts into his hotel room, finds a mostly-naked Pierre, assumes that Pierre is cheating on Charles, then very rapidly has the truth paraded in front of him. (I mean, come on Daniel. Really? Pierre is so horny for Charles that it's not funny.) This one is also finished and will likely be posted in a couple of days.

The other companion oneshot I have floating around my head is Charles POV and is just PWP, filthy explicit sexy times between the three of them. If you liked Chapter 16, yell at me to work on this one next.

Another PWP explicit sexy times threesome oneshot, but this time it's Carlos/Charles/Pierre. Inspired by a comment I saw on that one pic of Pierre grabbing Carlos' chin during a press conference. You know the one. It's half-finished and I'd kinda like to have it done to post in time for kinktober. (There's bondage. It's fun.) I don't really have the inclination to ~participate~ in kinktober, but I figure there's no harm in increasing the general smut that's available.

Another chaptered threesome soulmark-AU, but this time featuring Lefrere incest! It starts off Pierre/Charles with a very platonic, brotherly Arthur being jealous (envious?) of their relationship/soulmarks. He pushes those inappropriate feelings down (or tries to) until he gets a soulmark that matches theirs. They all panic and have to navigate ~whatever this is~ together. This is also finished, but I know people are weird about incest and doubly weird about RPF incest. Honestly, I felt weird writing it but it was stuck in my brain and demanded to be written. If this sounds like something you'd read, let me know and I'll consider posting it.

Anyways, that's what I've got going on right now. If you've made it this far, congrats! (Also, why???)

Like, I'm still reeling over the fact that people not only read my fics? but leave kudos?? and comment??? It's so nice what the heck????

Again, I write what I want to read and it's mind-boggling that other people want to read it too.

If you made a comment on AO3 that you actually want me to reply/respond to, ask me here on Tumblr! I mostly lurk, but you might be able to drag me out from under my rock.

Fun Fact #4 - I'm very awkward about replying to comments on AO3. I do see them and am deeply appreciative for everyone who takes the time to comment. I just don't like increasing the comment count by replying. Something about that makes my brain itch. I love authors who interact with their fans directly in comments, I'm just never going to be one of them.

So, if you like, let me know your thoughts! Anything you want me to respond to about this Soulmark-AU? Who do you think Lewis' soulmate is? Is Max actually a full-time problem? (Yes.) Is there a particular fic in the list above that you're more interested in than others? Want to know what else I'm weird about? Ask away!

Do I need to write shorter posts? (Also yes.)

[indecentpause]

WIP Wednesday

heyyyy here's an excerpt of an upcoming chapter of White Rabbit! I haven't had the time to do any actual new writing so I will share this instead XD

cw: emergency room, drug mention, self harm mention, hallucinations due to psychosis

The room is dim. Only the light from the TV and the hallway outside illuminate the bed sheets and the machinery. I can hear the heart monitor in the room next door. Beep, beep, beep. My eyes are heavy and covered in a fine layer of sand. Everything hurts. I haven’t slept in days and I haven’t eaten in longer, running on drugs and caffeine and nervous energy instead. It’s amazing how long a steady diet of coffee, Adderall, and Oxy can keep you going. But insomnia is a monster, like the one that hid under my bed when I was small. It sits, quietly, waiting for my eyes to flicker before it subtly runs a clawed finger along my leg, my arm, my cheek, to wake me up again. If I’m lucky, it gets distracted and I get minutes of sleep at a time. Usually I’m not and my eyes flutter for moments, barely having time to close before it crawls up beside me and whispers in my ear, Wake up, I want to play. When I open my eyes, it’s gone, slunk back down beneath the bed as I burrow deeper into the scratchy hospital blankets, the dull murmuring of the infomercials on TV my only company. My eyes slip closed. My head relaxes. My shoulders jerk, and I’m awake again. I lick my lips, dry, chapped, scabbed over from all the nervous biting in an attempt to give my fingernails a break. When I open my eyes again, something is moving in the corner. I sit up and lean closer. I squint, trying to see in the dim light. It’s behind the TV. The darkest point in the room. The TV crackles with static and I’m not sure if the skittering claws just underneath the sound are in my head or outside it. It lunges. I jerk back with a sharp inhale and knock against the table. The Styrofoam cup of water falls to the floor. The crack of ice is like a gunshot. Jimmy pushes the curtain open a little further and peers in. “You okay in there?” he asks. His voice is wary, nervous, like he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if the answer is ‘no.’ He must be new. A seasoned ER worker would be annoyed, at best. “I just thought I saw --” I start. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine,” I say.

General taglist:  @ohsugarfoot @abalonetea @only-book-lovers-left-alive @poore-choice-of-words @leadhelmetcosmonaut @jasperygrace @drippingmoon @viskafrer @thelaughingstag @athenswrites @kaiusvnoir @magic-is-something-we-create ​ @fictionalbullshitter @idreamonpaper

let me know if you want to be added or removed to the White Rabbit list, OR if you want to stay on the general list but not be tagged in this one. I understand there is some pretty potentially triggering content.

[the-lone-writer94]

We'll Meet Again (Part 2)

Rex Brown x Female Reader

Note: This fic is a little shorter than... but I'm excited to continue this story.

Summary: After the kiss you had shared with Rex, you find yourself falling deeper for him. Torn between following your desires or by logic, you find yourself backed into a corner. Things with Rex would always be complicated, and it doesn't help that a mystery man has entered the scene.

Age rating: 13+ (Slightly sensual scene *not graphic* and mention of drugs)

Word count: 2,378

The kiss replayed in my mind like a broken VHS, the images flashed before me as I tried to recollect the way Rex held me in his arms. His fingers caressing my skin, and the way his lips had tasted against mine. 

Since the night of Pantera’s show at the Basement which had happened three days ago, I had holed myself up in my bedroom like a hermit. Too afraid to step outside and face my reality, which was, either stop seeing Rex and keep my position in the band, or give into my desires and risk getting kicked out of the band because of the longstanding feud. 

I knew that sooner or later, my fate would catch up with me and I’d have to make a decision. 

I flung aside my duvet, and rolled my body off from the bed. My gaze hovered over towards the alarm clock which rested on my bedside table. I managed to sleep till one in the afternoon. After I had cleaned myself up and taken a shower, I stalked towards the kitchen where I proceeded to make myself a toast and coffee, which was already brewing in the coffee pot. No doubt, my mom had left it there since this morning. 

Time slipped away from me, as my gaze softened on the infomercial that was broadcasted on the television unit before me. I heard the rattle of the doorknob in the distance, followed by the thudding sounds of footsteps. 

My head cocked to the side, as I watched my mom stalking in through the front door. She chucked her purse aside, and sighed. 

“You’re still laying on the couch?” 

“Yeah,” I responded, not quite knowing what to say. 

“Look, I know your father was fine with you not going to college and sitting around all day, back in California, but that’s not gonna fly with me.”

I hissed. “I’m not going through this again. You and dad agreed that you’d let me have this year to do as I wish.” 

“Well, could you at least drop off some film at the Fotomat,” my mom ordered, “your aunt’s been bugging me for it.”

My heart skipped a beat. “The… Fotomat?” I asked, my voice trembled. 

“Yeah, what’s wrong with the Fotomat?” My mom asked, her brows furrowed, then she added, “and tell them to clean those roll bags. I found some weird powder in one of them and it went all over my hands.” 

I averted my gaze, as I could only imagine what had been in those roll bags. 

—-----

Later on, I found myself parked several paces before the Fotomat kiosk. It was hard to imagine that only recently this was where it had all begun. 

I swallowed the lump in my throat, as I contemplated going up there. I certainly didn’t want to get into it with my mom.

Just be strong. I pondered to myself. 

I exhaled, and shifted into gear, slowly edging towards the kiosk. My heartbeat pounded against my chest, and my palms were clammy. 

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the kiosk window, and both a wave of disappointment and relief washed over me as I realized the face before me wasn’t Rex. 

A middle aged man with a plump face, and a receding hairline came into view. “What can I do for you?” He asked, in a monotone voice. 

“Just dropping off this.” I responded as I placed the roll of film onto the counter. 

“Two dollars,” he responded, as he took the film roll into his hands and proceeded to write me a ticket for it. 

Just then, I heard the sound of the door open and another figure stalked inside the kiosk. 

“Hey man, thanks for covering me.” Rex said.

Shit.

My gaze locked with Rex’s, just when I was about to speed off, Rex extended his hand. “Woah, woah, wait,” he protested. 

“Rex, I can’t-”

“I want to talk to you.” He asked. 

I sighed. “I really can’t, Rex.” 

Rex turned to the middle aged man and said. “Could you give us some privacy Roger?” 

Roger shrugged, as he stepped out of the kiosk and faded away into the distance. Rex returned his attention towards me. 

“Rex… I really shouldn’t be here.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“To drop off film.” I protested. 

“There’s other kiosks around… but you chose this one,” he provoked, then the expression on his face shifted, softening, “come on. I just want to talk.” 

I chewed on my lower lip, knowing full well that I could never resist him. “Fine,” I said sternly, then added, “but only to talk.” 

Once I had pulled up into a parking spot, I stalked over towards the kiosk. I had never been inside one of these things, and was surprised how Rex had managed to be in such a compact and confined space for several hours a day on end.

I stepped inside the kiosk, just like the phone booth we had been in that night of the club, both our bodies were mere inches away from each other, and I shifted backwards trying to keep a distance between us. 

“So, what did you want to talk about?” I asked, as I crossed my arms over my chest. 

“That kiss-” 

I sighed. “That was a mistake,”

“Was it though?” 

I shook my head, and pressed down onto my temples. “Yes, it was- I don’t want to jeopardize my position in the band.” 

“And I get it… but what’s the worst that could happen?” 

“I could be kicked out,” I scoffed. 

“Look at me and tell me you don’t want to be with me.” He challenged. 

I gazed into his eyes, and exhaled, unable to mutter those words. Abruptly, I spun around, not being able to bear looking at Rex. “It won’t work… us.” 

He stepped towards me, and I felt his body pressed against my back. My breathing quickened, and I felt the walls closing in on me. He raised and placed one hand against the door, then with his other, I felt his fingers trace up against my arm, just like he had once done in the phone booth.

“Rex,” I moaned.

He brushed away a strand of my hair and lowered his lips onto my neck, leaving a trail of kisses. A tingling sensation rushed through me, and my hands curled into fists. With his fingertips he grazed the side of my face, as he continued kissing my neck. I rolled my head back, exposing more of my body for Rex to devour me hungrily. His lips tickled my neck, as his fingers fiddled with the straps of my top. Slowly, he pulled one of the straps down away from my shoulder, as his fingers grazed across my skin.

He pressed his body into my back, as his other hand slowly brushed against my thigh. His hand went in several up and down motions, as he hiked up my denim shorts. 

It wasn’t until then, that I was suddenly aware of my surroundings. That we were both exposed in the kiosk. But at that moment, I had once again found myself lost in Rex. 

My hand raised upwards as I draped it around Rex’s neck, pulling him closer towards me, as his mouth continued to leave a trail of love bites on my neck. 

I moaned again, as his hand now stroked along my hips and pelvis area. His thumb hooked into the waistband of my shorts, before his fingers crept inside. 

Suddenly, the sound of the horn roared, followed by a familiar voice that erupted from the distance. 

“Hey come on, man!” A voice bellowed. 

It was enough to send a jolt through me, as I pulled away from Rex. “Fuck! That’s Billy.” 

Rex was taken aback, his hair ruffled after I had dug my fingers through it. “So, he probably can’t see us.” 

I shook my head. “I can’t risk that… I gotta go.” 

“Wait-” He called out, but I didn’t stop to turn around as I ran out of the kiosk. 

—------

I groaned as my hands touched another dirty record. It seemed that the crate was endless.

Scarlet had gotten me a job at the record store, at first I had accepted without hesitation, after all who wouldn’t want to not be around records all day. But the reality of it hadn’t quite panned out to be what I had expected. Jeff, my boss, had me stuck in the back room cleaning crates of old records he had gotten from thrift stores. The fan had also broken and I felt myself drenched in sweat like it was a second skin. 

Finally, I had had enough, casting the record aside. I stood onto my feet and stomped towards the front of the store. Immediately, the cool air had wrapped around my body and I felt as if I could breathe again. 

Scarlet had just finished up with a customer, as she handed him a record wrapped in brown parchment paper. 

“Have a great day!” She said in a cheerful voice and flashed a smile. 

The man returned the smile, and drew out a five dollar bill as he dumped it into the tip jar. I rolled my eyes. 

“Thank you, sir. See ya again soon.” She said as she twirled the ends of her fiery red hair. 

“Seriously.” I commented in a monotone voice. 

“Don’t pout because you never get tips.” 

I scoffed. “Like I want tips from creepy ass men.”

“You’re just jealous.” 

“Whatever,” I said and waved my hand nonchalantly. I slumped down onto the bar stool beside Scarlet and folded my arms over my chest. “God, I’m fucking bored.” 

“Let’s go out tonight.” 

“Nah, I’m not in the mood.” 

Scarlet raised her hands in the air. “Alright, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been moody all day.” 

“Nothing.” I groaned. 

“Don’t lie to me.” She ordered. 

“Seriously, I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Suddenly, Scarlet shot up in the air and gasped. “I know! You need to go on a date!” 

“What?” I said, and pulled a face. 

“I’ve got friends from Jersey coming to town. I’ll set ya up.” 

I raised my hand and protested. “No way.” 

“Why not?”

“Because, I don’t want to be set up on some blind date.” 

“Oh come on, it’s not like you’re seeing anyone-” she said and then paused. Her head cocked to the side, as she drew in closer towards me. Her eyes narrowed. It was then that I realized she was staring at my neck. “Are those hickeys?” 

I clutched the side of my neck, as I remembered the day at the Fotomat when Rex had left a trail of kisses. 

“No.” 

Scarlet’s eyes widened. “Oh my god! They are! Are you seeing someone? Who is it?” 

“Oh my god, it’s not a hickey.” 

Scarlet stared at me in disbelief. “I know a hickey when I see one.” 

“It was just an allergic reaction to some cream.” I lied, not wanting to tell a single soul about Rex and me. “If it means that much to you, I’ll go on a blind date.” I announced, hoping that it was enough to convince Scarlet to stop asking questions. 

“Yes!” She screamed in excitement.

—-----

The night of the blind date approached and I felt the urge to back out. I couldn’t imagine what sort of guys Scarlet was about to set me up with. 

Although I was reluctant to go, this seemed to be the only exit that didn’t entail Scarlet interrogating me about my personal life. 

Once I had gotten dressed, which was my usual attire of tight black pants, paired with a beat up band shirt, platform boots and a leather jacket, I was ready to head out.

I stalked out of the house and into my car, where I would meet Scarlet and the boys at a diner in town. During the course of the ride, my mind had wandered, which I found myself thinking of Rex. I shook my head, trying to drag away the images from my mind. 

I pulled up into the parking lot of the diner, where a row of cars had already formed, and swerved in a spot just a couple of paces before the diner. As I exhaled, I removed myself from the car and dragged my feet across the concrete ground towards the entrance. 

The moment I reached the threshold of the diner, the aroma of grease entered my nostrils, which somehow filled me with both hunger and disgust at the same time. I could just about hear the faint beats of the music, which was drowned out by the voices which carried through the diner. Aside from the Pit, the diner was the second hangout location in town. 

My gaze drifted as I tried to locate any sign of Scarlet, as my eyes narrowed and scanned the room before me. The baby pink and mint green ambience which decorated the place. From a distance, I managed to catch a glimpse of a familiar figure, as I stalked through, past the row of booths on one side, with the counter and high barstools on the either side.

Finally, I reached the booth right at the end of the diner, as I recognized Scarlet’s fiery curly red hair, her petite body frame and the way her eyelids were always painted in the brightest color eyeshadow ever made. 

Before her were two guys, who both had long dark brown hair. The guy who sat in the corner wore a Hard Rock Cafe black T-shirt and was fiddling with a pack of smokes.

“Hey, you made it!” Scarlet announced. “This is Scotti, my date,” she said as she gestured to the guy in the Hard Rock Cafe shirt. 

 Meanwhile, the other guy who sat beside him really caught my attention. He was incredibly handsome, with long wavy dark brown hair, thick bushy eyebrows that framed his face. As I leaned closer towards him, I caught a whiff of the cigarette smoke which hung on his leather jacket. But what immediately drew my curiosity was the silver chain that was hooked from his left nostril that connected to his ear lobe. 

The other guy with the chain then added, “I’m Rachel Bolan.”

[sunflowerheartsandstarryskies]

My Golden Curse - Maxwell Lord x Fem!Reader

Author’s Note: Hello again, I may have stumbled upon the Pedro Pascal fandom and I can’t get out, and I saw someone posted that they wanted an imagine with Maxwell Lord and the reader in which one of them gets kidnapped and the other just goes ballistic, and I basically kept getting that idea stuck in my head, this was only supposed to be a drabble but oh well. This depiction of Maxwell Lord is closer to the DC Comics version of him and not the movie but it has Pascal’s Lord’s likeness, so it’s like a combination of the two.

Also, I have survived my finals and had taken a break from writing for a while but I’m back and I have some ideas for my Lucifer multi-chapter fic as well. I also have an idea for a John Wick fic but I have no idea if anyone wants to read that.

Warnings: Typical comic-book violence, cursing (like two curse words), blood mentioned, kidnapping, bruises and injuries (like ribs breaking, a concussion, and a few lacerations

______________________________________________________________

Maxwell Lord IV prided himself on presentation. Everything had to be pristine and everything, even the garbage can by his desk had to be impeccable, because his business and himself in general, are put out on display for the public. He is a figurehead and a showman, so when you came along to be his assistant and secretary he was at first apprehensive because you didn’t dress as provocatively as he may have like and you didn’t look as model-esque as his other secretaries in the past. You didn’t apply to Chimtech to be fucked by your boss, you were good at your job and you aspire to show off your skills.

However, time went on when you first started to work for Maxwell Lord and you did a phenomenal job, whenever he was in a meeting you would always make sure to listen and take notes of what he needed while he was in the meeting. Whenever he requested for you to fax an item you would’ve made sure to have done it five minutes prior. Maxwell had no idea how you could be so efficient at your job, but he damn well appreciates it even if he rarely ever mentions it to you.

It’s an odd relationship that you guys have worked yourself in, a friendly relationship it seems, but both of you are teetering on the edge of wanting more. There have been teasing nicknames, mostly from you, you had a plethora of nicknames that you would give him, ranging from “Sandy” to “Ken”, but “Golden boy” was your favorite.

You would never admit this to him or even to yourself but you actually liked his blonde locks. In certain lightings, when you look at him you swear he was Midas, covered in his own golden curse. It was breathtaking to watch him at some points, but you always try to cover up your flustered state.

You knew Maxwell well, some may say too well for a secretary, but you rarely saw the side of him that most of his competitors and fellow businessmen saw, and that was the merciless and ruthless side to his tactics on getting what he wanted. Everyone in the public eye saw him as just the “King of Infomercials” but there was a reason why and how he got that title in the first place. Who knew the infomercial world could be so cruel and hectic?

You were able to catch glimpses of Maxwell’s amazing abilities of persuasion and showmanship, he was able to get people to admit to what they want and get them to go out and seize, whether that was good or bad. There was a particular talent that you find out he has and it was his ability to drag out people’s hidden desires, there were times when the people he used this talent were a shock as the people around them when they admitted to what they really wanted.

He was a golden idol of his own creation; he had to be especially to the people around him. However, that golden facade can only keep him held up for so long when the people he handed gold to realize that it’s fool’s gold.

______________________________________________________________

It was earlier in the day, you just woke up and got dressed in your office attire with a cup of coffee in hand as you try to will yourself to get going. You looked up at your apartment’s clock and it was 7:00 am, you needed to get going if you were to make it to Chimtech in time.

As you stepped out of your apartment building you felt a gloved hand over your mouth and panic flooding your whole body, but before your body could even fully process a flight or fight response you felt a sharp pain in your neck and you passed out.

When you come to, your vision is blurred and you can’t understand where you are and your brain just has confusion filling your senses. Why can’t you process what is around you? What happened to you? After a couple of more seconds went by you felt a rope tightly woven around your wrists, and you comprehended that you were sitting on a floor. What happened to you?

“Ah, there’s the little doll’s eyes! I was wondering if you were beginning to ever wake up,” a voice filled your ears. You blinked furiously trying to get your eyes to focus and you found yourself face to face with a man, who was grinning at you like a shark finding the prey they smelled a mile away.

“I’m sure you understand why you’re here? I don’t need to monologue it to you, do I?” the man asks.

“Mr. Vince, right? You were in a meeting with my boss Maxwell Lord, a month ago, right?” you questioned him as the drug and weariness started to seep out of you, and you gained more awareness of your surroundings. The man, Mr. Vince was a part-owner of a tech company that Chimtech was interested in making an investment in, however from what you were aware of was that the true goal of the meetings with Vince and his company was to absorb it into Chimtech, forcing Vince and the other owners to give up their powers over to Maxwell Lord and the other board members of Chimtech.

“I see the drugs didn’t impair your memory, I assume you are aware that I am no longer a CEO? That I was tricked by your goddamned boss?! That he put me in a corner to give up my company over to him!” he screamed. He was half an inch from your face and you were terrified of this man, he was unhinged.

“What does this have to do with me, Mr.Vince?” you asked, forcing yourself to not push him over the edge.

“Ooooh this has everything to do with your boss, I remembered that you are his secretary, so you must know some secret of his, something I can leverage against him to make him give me my company back,” he said.

“Even if I have any sort of information to give you, the damage is already done, your company is done in, it’s already been processed into Chimtech, there is none of your company left.”

That was the wrong thing to say as you felt a kick to your stomach. You groaned and rolled onto your side, and before you could recover from that there was another swift kick that you felt go directly to your ribs.

______________________________________________________________

Minutes blended into hours of constant yelling from Vince to him pulling you off the ground to throwing you back down like you were a piece of litter to being his personal punching bag. It was all you could do to just protect yourself and persevere through the pain because you were just a secretary, you were never trained in self-defense, hell you never even did track in high school.

Through the pain, you felt complete distortion and a high pitch whining going through your head, and you finally realized it was a telephone- a landline. Where the hell did this guy get a landline in this beat-up place?

Then, you hear Vince say, “Oh you want to hear how (Y/N) is?” you hear footsteps coming towards you then cold plastic was pressed to your cheek then Vince continued loudly, “Well here she is, talk.”

“(Y/N)?” You heard Maxwell, your golden boy, say your name and all you can do was say his name back in a raspy voice.

“What did he do to you?” Maxwell asked.

Before you could say any more the phone was taken away from you and Vince’s voice filled your ears.

“Tick tock Maxwell, I want my money and you can get your fuck toy back.”

Then silence, a sickening silence filled the room which made you feel every ache and pain that has been put on your body has made itself known by increasing levels of agony. You didn’t even feel it in you to even try to correct Vince’s words about you. You just wanted to sleep and not wake up for a whole day, maybe if you laid perfectly still and just not move a muscle the pain would go away.

As you lay there you tearily open your eyes back up and you can hear the tinny sounds of the echoing footsteps of your captor pacing back and forth in the room you were held in. It was nauseating, and you were confused as you thought, When did you close your eyes? How long were you out?

Then you fell back into your head, and you felt like you were spiraling in your own mind mixed with dizziness and nausea. You just wanted this to end.

A male voice was shouting so close to you and you can feel the panic coming out of his voice, and you can tell it wasn’t Vince because why would he do that?

You felt yourself being lifted from the ground and all you could do was cough sporadically from the new movements on your injuries. It hurt, it hurt so bad.

“I know (Y/N), but you just need to keep going a little bit longer,” the same voice told you.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint where you heard that voice before but you thought it was your boss, Maxwell Lord, but it couldn’t be. That would be the last thought that went through your mind before you lost it to the void.

All you can see at first was just bright and it hurt so bad. When you turned your head you saw a flash of gold and your first thought was, ‘Maxwell’. When your eyes adjusted to the room around you it really was your boss, Maxwell Lord in the hospital with you. He was slumped down in a chair beside your bed and you saw there were roses in a vase on the table next to you.

“Gold-golden boy, hey,” you rasped out trying to wake him. You coughed and then groaned as you felt the lacerations and bandages around your torso.

You saw him stir in the chair and his eyes opened and landed on yours. “Hey boss,” you whispered cringing at your voice. Your hands clenched at the sheets around you as you saw him blink furiously and stood up fast. You flinched at the fast movement but he didn’t seem to notice, as he moved closer to you.

“I am sorry about what happened to you, I didn’t think that our clients would go so far as to do this to you. I can’t believe that bastard did all of this to you-”

“It’s okay, I mean it hurts like a bitch but you ended up finding me didn’t you? What happened to him anyway?” you cut him off.

“Ah well, I may have gotten violent with him before the law enforcement could get him,” he said twisting his hands around and that’s when you saw the scrapes on his knuckles.

“I don’t know if you were a white knight to me but you certainly are a golden devil for doing that,” you replied.

He huffed out a laugh at your reply and he opened his mouth to say something but got interrupted when a nurse arrived.

______________________________________________________________

After the nurse left, you found out you still have a concussion lingering still, three bruised ribs and lacerations across your whole torso and arms.

When he listened to the whole list of injuries that you had gotten in the three days that you were with Mr. Vince, he felt rage boil over him but he tried to keep calm as he remembered the battered state he left Vince in. At least he made him feel some of the pain that he made you go through, Maxwell was a very prideful man in how he acts so for him to act like that was completely out of character for him.

He must be looking worried because he noticed your furrowed brows and you glancing at him every so often.

“Did you want to say something?” he asked

“Well, I was gonna ask you a similar question because I think you were interrupted by the nurse. Also are you okay?”

Your question startled him and the mention of the interruption made him clear his throat and fidget with his suit to try to hide the blush that was threatening to come up to his face. Your inquisitive expression on your face was watching him.

“I’ve been thinking that if you would like to leave the company, I won’t force you to stay, especially with what happened this week,” he said.

Listening to him say this made you panic and as you tried to sit up, Maxwell came up to you quickly as he says, “What do you think you’re doing? You got to take it easy.”

As you are situated in your bed you went to reach for Maxwell’s hand as you say, “Why would I want to quit? I love my job and I love working with you even if at times I don’t seem like it. None of what happened to me was your fault, how could you have known that Vince would react to the merger the way that he did.”

Maxwell was startled by this, he never had anyone in his family nor his company is so willing to stay with him especially when they are given an out.

He bowed his head toward you and said, “If you keep saying things like that I might want to keep you by my side for a long time.”

You laughed as you replied, “If you let me I will, you are a weird but kind man-” you stopped yourself as a thought came to your head.

“How long have you been here? What about Chimtech?”

“Ah well if my secretary didn’t get kidnapped and injured I wouldn’t be here right now, but you made me worried and how can I do my best work without my best assistant around me?”

“Now you’re just flattering me”

“But it’s true”

“Hmmm if you say so, Sandy”

______________________________________________________________

Four days have gone by and you were finally released from the hospital to go back to your apartment. You tried to go back to work at Chimtech, but Maxwell found you were released and gave you the rest of the week off to recover. You would become the envy of the company at this rate with how well the boss has been treating you.

Now that you have been just lounging in your apartment watching TV movies, and eating takeout for meals it has given you time to properly understand what happened to you for the past two weeks.

The way your boss, Maxwell, has been treating you made you see a whole new side of him. At first, you thought of working for him as both a blessing and a curse. At first, it was hell on earth, you ran yourself ragged making sure everything was up to par with Maxwell’s standards but after the next three years working with the man you considered him a friend of sorts. Even though you always tried to make sure to never consider employers and colleagues be separate from your personal life but it’s hard to do that when all you have is your work life.

Ever since the kidnapping incident, Maxwell had visited you every day in the hospital he even gave you flowers on the last day of your hospital visit, it was a beautiful vase of sunflowers.

You didn’t realize how long you were sitting on your couch thinking about your boss when you heard a knock on your door. You looked at the clock near your tv and realized it was nearly midnight.

‘Who could come by to my apartment at this hour?’ you thought.

You got up carefully minding the bruises still littering your body, and you opened the door surprised to see Maxwell.

His hair was a bit disheveled and he didn’t have a suit jacket on showing off the suspenders he likes to wear. He looked quite cute seeing him like this.

“Come in, Mr. Lord. What brings you to my place this late at night?” you inquired.

He ran his hand through his hair as he entered your apartment and he turns to look at you as you closed the door.

He sighed as he said, “I don’t know how quite to put this without sounding terrible, but after what happened to you, I can’t stop thinking about you. You are the best woman-the best person I’ve known and for you to still want to work with me after everything that has happened.”

He looked like he was getting frustrated with himself, you were shocked because how could you have gotten the king of infomercials to be so frustrated with his own words?

You took a tentative step forward to him as you placed a hand on his arm.

“Sandy, what’s going on?”

He was silent for a moment before he looked into your eyes with a strong determination as he says, “You know more about me than my own mother does, and after all this time together I’ve grown to respect you more and more. When I saw you in that hospital I wanted to kill the bastard and send him to hell when I found you like that in the warehouse.”

“I-I don’t know what to say, Mr. Lord-”

“Call me Maxwell, none of your silly names, not boss, not my last name, just Maxwell”

You could tell he was earnest with this and sincere it took your breath away to see him like this. He was beautiful and it made your heart flutter when you realize what he might be trying to confess to you.

“Maxwell” you breathed out testing his name out. You said his name once before and that was when you had gotten kidnapped but now this is completely different, almost like a prayer. A prayer to this golden devil of yours.

He smiled when he heard you say his name and he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“I wish I could kiss all the scars away from your body so you never have to live with them again. I wish that I could be yours, fully and I want to be clear that I would never use you like I may have done to my secretaries in the past. I want to be yours, in any way you may want me.”

“Oh Maxwell, I think I might have to grant your wish this time,” you say blinking away tears that were threatening to spill as you were listening to his confession.

“(Y/N)” he whispered reverently.

He cradled your face with both hands as he studied your face to see any resistance than he gently placed his lips on yours.

You made a small gasp as you finally felt his lips on yours, you clutched onto his shirt as you pulled him closer to you. He tilted his head and pushed your chin up to meet in for a deeper kiss. It felt amazing and you felt loved.

When you parted you were chasing each other’s lips to crash back into each other as you kissed each other until you both need a break. Both of your lips were swollen and you looked at him with such love that when Maxwell saw, he almost wanted to take you then and there but he was mindful of how fragile this love could be.

Author’s Note: I might do a second part if people want it but whew this took a lot out of me, I hope you guys like it!

[buckyreaderrecs]

Gloxinia

Summary: You’re a witch that helps The Avengers a couple of times. Bucky Barnes finds some sort of happiness and healing in you, and the flowers you surround yourself with. He’s a boy in lalalove. 

 Words: 5,808 Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader Characters: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Tony Stark, James 'Rhodey' Rhodes, Clint Barton, Thor Odinson Additional tags: mostly canon compliant (Infinity War and Endgame never happened), witch!Reader, enhanced!Reader, she/her pronouns for Reader, other characters mentioned but not in scenes, recovering!Bucky, witchy vibes, evil werewolf clones, sassy Sam Wilson, LOTS of flower symbolism, Avengers compound, fluff Warnings: reference to having nightmares but nothing serious My masterlist.

Note: This was written for @the--sad--hatter and her Flowers For My Followers writing challenge. Kara, I love you, and I hope you love this. Also shout out to @vibraniumwitch for being my witchy inspiration always. Also, sorry for probably wrong geography stuff; I'm Australian and don't know shit about New York/Upstate New York loooool.

 Gloxinia

For any of The Avengers to be sceptical of witchcraft seemed, to be perfectly frank, really fucking stupid. Each of their lives had been wrapped up in magic and mystery, so to have them hold back smirks and send mocking glances across the table at each other was not exactly what you had expected.

To be fair, it wasn't all The Avengers making fun. At the head of the table, Steve Rogers watched with curiosity, although he was sure his expression read as neutral. Sam Wilson took the seat closest to you, asking the same question phrased multiple ways.

"So, a witch witch?" "Is it more Sabrina or Charmed?" "Really just making a potion, huh? Like a real life witch…"

He broke the tension, which would have been otherwise unbearable.

Tony Stark, Clint Wilson, and James 'Rhodey' Rhodes had been reduced to acting like teenagers at the mere suggestion of brewing a potion. You'd been hoping for a different audience. Specifically, Wanda Maximoff. She would have believed you. Alas, you had not been gifted your choice in company.

"Alright, Broom-hilda, show us what 'cha got," Tony said, growing impatient.

"Do we really have to drink that?" Clint added, peering into the bowl you'd been mixing things in. "Won't turn our skin purple? Grow an extra limb?"

Rolling your eyes, you held up a plant. "Magnolia, for perseverance. Or, add the petals to a salad for a bit of extra colour," you explained in your best infomercial voice.

Sam snorted, then began to poke around the rest of the ingredients. "What’re the orange ones for?"

"That's nasturtium. For conquest."

When you'd finished the mix, you let it cook over a small, portable heat pad. Modern witch, and all that. Hot off the stove, you poured the liquid into a collection of small, glass bottles.

"Let it cool, cork them, then drink it when you need it," you announced, matter-of-factly.

When Natasha Romanoff had exhausted all of her routes of gathering information, returning with only your name, everyone was close to admitting defeat. The battle was lost, surely, if a witch's potion was the only hope… But Steve wasn't in the business of giving up. He sent Sam to bring you to the compound.

Steve explained that they had located a source of power. Ancient, unstable, highly sought-after power. And even with all their superhuman strength and superhuman speed and superhuman everything, they couldn't get to it. Maybe, though, with what was best described as a performance-enhancing-witchy-substance, they had a fighting chance.

The room looked over the bottles.

"How do we know if it'll work?" Sam asked, picking one up and inspecting it.

"We don't," Tony answered. It was less an attack than a statement of unfortunate fact.

"You'll just have to trust me."

Sam nodded, and watched as you pulled a sprig of yarrow and put it into his bottle.

"Yarrow, for healing," you told him.

"Yeah, ah… Can I grab some of that too?" Rhodey asked. "Falc ain't the only brother without super healing."

 …

"No," 

"But-"

"No. I'm not gonna be a magical drug dealer to-" but Sam cut you off before you could finish your sentence.

"Y/N, Y/N, you got it all wrong! I don't want that nasty nasturtium stuff. Nah, I'm thinking… truth serum?"

"Truth serum," you repeated deadpan.

"Yeah, nightshade," he says nodded and wriggling his eyebrows. He was doing his best 'good kid does extra credit' impression.

"You googling 'truth plant' isn't impressive," you said. That elicited a snort from Sam's companion.

Standing next to him, silent and appearing impatient, Bucky Barnes crossed his arms over his chest. But the snort had dragged him into the conversation.

"And what do you want?" you asked him.

"What?"

"Love spell. Vampire tracker. Or just an easy bottle of truth serum too?"

Bucky blinked at you, then slowly shook his head. "I've had enough serums to last me a lifetime… I'm just here 'cause Steve said you'd kick his ass before you gave him any…magic or whatever," he answered, motioning to Sam.

"So Rogers got all the trio's brains, huh?"

Sam and Bucky frowned in unison.

"Look, we normally just use Nat for this kind of thing. But our guy ain't talking, and we need the information," Sam tried again. "She's out of town, and Wanda's taking a break from getting in people's heads."

Being called in to brew superhero steroids as a once off was one thing… Having the Falcon and the Winter Soldier show up on your doorstep at 11:00 pm was another. However, the men looked desperate.

Sighing, you looked at them. "Fine. Come in. I might be able to help." 

You lead the men through your living room, overlooked by a small kitchen. Their faces told you a lot. "You were expecting a magic cave? Portal to a hut in the middle of a forest?"

"Yeah, kinda," Sam replied, casually shrugging.

"Do you live in a nest?" you asked him.

Bucky chuckled.

"Alright, I get it. The witch thing isn't always literal."

But that's when you pulled a dark purple velvet curtain back, revealing a room you referred to as your office.

"Woah," Bucky whispered to himself.

"Now, see, this is what I'm talking 'bout!" Sam exclaimed, looking around the room in awe.

The small, windowless room was framed by floor to ceiling bookshelves on three of the walls. Stuck between books were trinkets and oddities. Against the fourth wall was a table covered in dried herbs, potted plants, and other things neither Sam nor Bucky could identify.

"Sit," you instructed, pointing to the round table in the centre of the room. There were scorch marks and deep gashed in the wood grain. Bucky traced them with his right hand.

As they pulled out chairs and sat, Sam pointed, "Is that a microwave?"

"For heating potions… and hot pockets," you explained. "So, how much can you tell me?"

"Officially - nothing. Unofficially - your magic juice helped save the world a month ago, so, whatever you need to know," Sam answered.

"Okay. And, none of those C.I.A. psychotropic L.S.D. drugs are real? No secret truth serums invented by Bruce Banner?" you asked, more out of interest than need-to-know.

"If they do, they ain't telling us," Sam said. 

He explained that they had a man in custody. The man knew a date and a location, but he wasn’t cracking in interrogation and time was running out.

"Sounds very spy T.V. dramatic," you mused.

"But it's real life," Bucky said.

"Yeah," you replied, looking at him and his serious expression. "Okay, so what's meant to happen? On the date or whatever?"

"You'll sleep better not knowing that," from Bucky, his expression remaining the same.

You trusted him to gauge what you should and should not know. Nodding, you turned around and began to look for the things you needed. The men watched, leaning over the table when you put things on it.

"I don't do magic on other people. It's a line we don't cross. So, no truth serum. What I can do is try to pull the information you need from somewhere else. Bring it here," you told him.

When you joined them at the table you smiled at their matching faces; furrowed brows and darkened eyes.

"You're sure he knows what you need to know?" you asked. They nodded. "Do you have anything of his?" Sam frowned, shook his head.

Bucky thought for a second, then pulled a knife out of somewhere. "Haven't cleaned this yet. Might still have some of his blood on it,"

"Disturbing, but okay," you said, taking the knife and putting it in the wooden bowl in front of you.

The room went silent as you picked white chrysanthemum petals off a fresh stem and dropped them into the bowl. Begonias followed, then basil. Truth. Knowledge. Success.

"One of you has to be the vessel,"

"The vessel?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. The information needs to go to someone. It can't be me,"

"I'll do it," Bucky offered.

For a second you hesitated, wondering how white magic would work through someone with so much darkness in their past. But that was just it - it was the past.

"You need to wear this," you said, handing him a crown made of blackthorn plant. "It's like, a filter. Brings in good luck, and lets the universe know you're working for good."

Bucky looked at the thing in his hands, slowly putting it on his head.

"Suits you, man," Sam said, smirking. Bucky just shot him a look.

They fell silent again, watching you carefully place a few more things in the bowl before filling it with a liquid poured from a glass jar that looked like it once held pasta sauce. Everything sat swimming but still until you placed a hand either side of the bowl, then it started to simmer. It bubbled and popped and seemed to quickly reduce down, evaporating faster than it scientifically should have. Soon, all that was left was about shot glass worth of black, thick syrupy liquid.

"Where's my knife?" Bucky asked.

"Gone," you replied as you poured the potion into a cup. You handed it to Bucky and he looked at you apprehensively. "Drink it and focus on what you want to know… Think about the guy. And, think about what happens if you don't find out what he knows. Think about it so hard that it hurts."

Bucky nodded slowly but shot the liquid quickly. At first, he just sat there, almost like he was stunned.

"How long-" Sam went to ask, but you shushed him.

Suddenly, Bucky pushed back from the table, standing up and sending his chair flying. Sam followed, holding his arms out like he expected Bucky to fall.

"It's okay," you told Sam. "He's okay."

Bucky's eyes were shut tight, and he held his head, fingers curling around his blackthorn crown. He began to breathe heavily, mouth open.

"Is he gonna spew?!" Sam shrieked in a high-pitched voice.

Taking the empty wooden bowl with you, you stood and moved to Bucky. He went still and mimicked your exact movements of slowly lowering yourself to the ground and kneeling. Sam didn't understand how Bucky knew what to do; you'd not uttered a command.

You placed the bowl between you and Bucky. He leaned over it, and began to cough and pull something from his mouth. It was impossibly long, coming from somewhere deep inside him. He pulled and pulled, letting it slop into the bowl. When it was all out, he spat, then seemingly woke up, falling on his butt and backing away from the bowl.

"What the fuck," he said between heavy breaths.

Sam and Bucky watched you look through the muck and gunk in the bowl, no hesitation to your movement.

"What is that?" Sam asked, truly disgusted. 

You looked over to Bucky, who was looking at the thing intently. He scrambled back over and took it from you. "I know…" he started, looking up at Sam. "I know… everything.”

 …

 You had dropped cutlery three times, but when it was almost midnight and no company had come, you were getting restless. In your office, sat at the table, you shuffled a deck and laid out cards.

The Hanged Man. The Hermit. The Hierophant, reversed. The Lovers.

Then, 11.11 and a soft knock on the door.

Bucky Barnes looked sleep deprived but somehow hopeful.

"I thought I might see you tonight," you told him, opening the door and letting him through. "Were you right? About the date and place?"

"Yes," he said, coming to stand in your living room.

"Good. What do Earth's Mightiest Heroes need now then?"

Bucky looked around. "Do you have any pets?" he asked.

"No. Do you?"

"A cat. Alpine... Thought you'd have one… black cat or something." He wasn't teasing, like Sam had.

"Black cat? Thought you guys were the ones with a black cat?"

Bucky grinned. "Funny. You're funny,"

"Thanks… You're not here for them then,"

"No," he said, walking over to the window where plants were everywhere. "Do you use all of these? For your magic?"

"Most of them, yeah. Like, these ones…" You moved to stand next to him. "They give strength,"

"Snapdragons," Bucky identified.

"Yep. And… Vervain are protective in nature, especially from enchantment." You picked a sprig of the purple plant, threaded it through Bucky's hair, behind his ear.

"What about nightmares? What helps with those?" he asked earnestly.

The room was illuminated by candlelight. A soft orangy glow lit up half his fast, casting the other half into shadow. You turned to him and cupped his face in your hands.

"A tired soldier… Sing him to sleep… A tired soldier… The devil's to keep," you sung gently, running your thumbs along his cheeks. "Sit. I'll brew you tea,"

"Tea?" Bucky asked, a little hesitant to be out of your hands.

"Magic tea," you clarified, rolling your eyes.

Elderflower for compassion and sweet-brier petals for healing. A little poppy and chamomile, and other secrets kept in your family for generations. A dash of Indian jasmine to finish. It glimmered as you swirled it in the teacup.

Bucky was on the couch, sitting up too straight.

"Take your boots off. Lay down," you instructed. He went to protest, probably say you didn't need to put that much effort in. "Please," you said, stopping the protest. "Let me do this."

Bucky followed your commands and took the teacup when offered. He skulled it like a frat boy in a bar trying to impress his mates.

"Now close your eyes. Sleep," you said, taking the empty cup from him.

Kneeling next to the couch, you softly ran your fingers through Bucky's hair and waited until he fell asleep before you moved to your own bed.

He was gone when you woke up.

 …

 "What? No broomstick?" called the unmistakable voice of Sam Wilson.

Standing at the open boot of your car, you looked up and watched him approach, Bucky trailing behind, hands shoved in his pockets.

"You stalking me now?" you asked, clocking the bunch of flowers in Sam's hands.

"Nope. Just waiting for you. Weren't home and we wanted to drop off a thank you, for the helping last week," he said, holding out the bouquet to you.

"So, the information was good?" you asked, pretending Bucky hadn't already confirmed it to you. His late night visit to you a few nights before was obviously not something he'd shared with his friends.

"It was good. You do good work,"

"Thanks," you said dubiously, but taking the flowers.

"We picked those out especially. This one is a gerball-"

"Gerbera," Bucky correct.

"Means 'you are the sunshine of my life' and this one is an orchid, for beauty," Sam rattled off.

"What about this one?" you asked, pointing to the yellow agrimony.

"Buck picked that one. What's it mean?" Sam asked, looking over to Bucky. Bucky was leaning against your car casually. He shrugged, pretended to not know agrimony was the gratitude plant.

"They're beautiful. You didn't have to," you told them, putting the flowers in one of the boxes in the boot of your car.

"You need a hand?" Sam asked, not waiting for a response. He swooped in and collected one of the heavy boxes. Bucky followed, picking up the other.

"Ah… sure…"

You let them carry your things inside, put them on the kitchen bench.

"More witch stuff? Eye of newt? That kind of thing?" Sam asked.

"If microwave popcorn and frozen lasagna is witchy, then ya got me," you laughed. "You're gonna be disappointed if you keep thinking like that, Sam,"

"You say that but I've seen behind the curtain. You're definitely witchy enough,"

"Yeah, yeah… So what do you want? You didn't just come to give me flowers," you asked, launching yourself backwards and up to sit on the bench.

You glanced over at Bucky, who was back over at the window and the plants. Sam clocked you looking, but filed that away.

"We've got an offer for you,"

"When you say 'we,' who exactly do you mean?"

"Us! The Avengers! Superheros!" Sam said, chest puffed out.

Rolling your eyes, you shook your head. "Nope,"

"You haven't even heard-"

"No. I'm happy doing what I do," you told him.

"I told you," Bucky chimed in, stopping at a gloxinia, something about its prettiness resonating with him. "What's this one mean?"

"Love at first sight," you said, biting your lip to hide a smile.

"Whatever you do doesn't come with the perks we have," Sam persisted.

"Also doesn't come with anonymity I kinda like,"

"Alright. I tried. Can't promise we won't be back for more help though. Like I said, you do good work... So, this lasagna. Fresh?"

…

 "Well, if it isn't Broom-hilda," Tony said, arms open.

"I hope you're not expecting a hug," you replied, holding your own arms around yourself. Bucky snorted from next to you.

"Brumhilda?! A name derived from Brunnhilde, no doubt. I have a friend named-"

"Yeah, now's not the time for Asgardian tales," Tony interrupted a seemingly very excited Thor.

"Her name's Y/N," Bucky said to Thor.

Thor looked back and forth between Tony and you. "He thinks it's funny," you explained.

"It is. And I am," Tony argued.

You sighed, sat down in one of the conference room's chairs and began to slowly spin on it. "So, what am I doing here?"

When Sam and Bucky knocked on your door before the sun had a chance to rise and shine that morning, you knew it was going to be hard to say no to them. They both looked upset, and Sam was even free from his usual quips. As soon as you saw their faces, you began to nod. "Let me get dressed. I'll come," you whispered, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Bucky pulled up a seat next to you, the rest of the room taking the cue and finding their spots around the large table. You recognised everyone, having met most of them. Clint and Rhodey nodded politely in your direction.

"Y/N," Steve greeted, sitting next to Bucky. "Good to see you. Heard these punks have been harassing ya?"

"Nothing she can't handle," Sam cut in, sitting on your other side.

"Truly sorry for them," Steve said, grinning.

You shrugged, looking at Bucky. "They're alright."

Tony cleared his throat. "Whole team isn't here yet, but they're coming… We're going to need all the help we can get."

 ...

 "There's too many of them!” 

"At least they're not evil flying robots!"

"Hey! I said I was sorry!"

"Cap, we've got to try somethin' else. Bullets ain't doin' shit."

"Wanda? Can you-"

"On it."

"Do you need me to go big? 'Cause I'll go big."

"Yes! Mr. Stark, can he go big?!"

From your hidden vantage point higher up the mountain, you watched the battle play out in front of you. Through the earpiece you listened to The Avengers et. al. try to work out what to do. It was true - they were severely outnumbered. The situation was going from bad to worse.

"Jesus!" you yelped as someone almost body-slammed themselves next to you.

"Sorry. Checkin' you're still here,"

"Where else would I be?"

Bucky shrugged, reloaded.

"What are they, Buck? I know a lot about a lot, but I've never seen anything like them."

You took another look through the M22 field binoculars you'd been issued. The monsters didn't look entirely… natural. Maybe, like many creatures of the world, they were made in a lab. They were men pulled apart, stitched back together with pieces of dog and wolf. Their claws ripped through protective gear and flesh like it was nothing, and they could communicate by wordless sound. It was almost howling, but more guttural and less fluid.

"They all look the same," you said.

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, noticed that too. Exactly the same,"

"Exactly? Up close? Even the human parts?"

He stopped what he was doing and looked at you. "Yep. Clones. What're you thinkin'?"

"Clones..? Um, I don't know… I just… If I can figure out what they are then I can figure out how to help."

Sam dropped down on the other side of you, his wings damaged. He ripped the pack off his back and began to try to repair them. "If I knew we were gonna be out here fightin' fucking werewolves I would've packed the silverware instead of the vibranium."

"Werewolves?" you asked, pulling a small silk pouch from your bag. "Here. Use this to stick them back together,"

"Stick it back together? Y/N. Can't just glue an EXO back together-"

"It's not glue, Sam. It's bumblebee orchid, oak leaf, protea, and a bunch of other things you don't wanna know about," you explained.

"You really questioning her magic? Use her glue,” Bucky ordered. 

Sam huffed but complied. And abracadabra, your witchy sticky goop held his wings together stronger than they were before.

Bucky and Sam stood up, reloaded and ready to rejoin the fight.

"Wait!" you called, suddenly having a thought. "What if they really are werewolves?"

"What?" Sam said.

"Weirder things have happened, right? Werewolves are real. So maybe…" Your voice trailed off as you tipped the entire contents of your bag onto the forest floor.

"Y/N, we don't have time-"

"Gimme a second. I know I have it here,"

"Have what?" Bucky asked, kneeling down and studying the contents of your bag too.

"Aconitum extract… in a bottle… Here!"

"Aconitum?" Sam asked confused and growing impatient.

"Monkshood. Um, wolfsbane. Bucky, are we too far up for you to get one?"

Bucky took your M22s and assessed. "No. Nah, I can get one,"

"Gimme a bullet."

Sam and Bucky watched you dip the bullet in aconitum while uttering any and every luck enchantment you could think of. Bucky loaded his M249 SAW, steadied himself and fired.

The monster went down.

All three of you held your breath and waited. Through the M22s you watched Steve approach the body, check it.

"It's… dead…" came through the comms.

 …

 It had been two weeks since the army of hybrid werewolf clones, so two weeks since you'd last seen Bucky. It had taken days to kill them all. You had to be flown out to find more aconitum extract. From the lab at the compound you were able to work with Bruce Banner to find better ways of delivering the wolfsbane to the clones. Once you had it, it was all over for those motherfuckers.

When everyone else arrived back at the compound, they were exhausted, covered in the thick ash generated by the massive fires it took to burn all the bodies. Bucky was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open, but he mustered the energy to offer to drive you back home to New York City himself. You just sent him off to shower and bed, taking Tony's offer of a ride with one of his minions.

It had been two weeks, then a dream, a vivid and hazy dream. A white cat brought you orange blossoms, carrying a branch in his mouth. "Do you want me to plant this?" you asked the cat, and you knew he would say yes if it could speak. He watched you tend to the blossom, then he disappeared through an open window. You could feel the cool breeze against your skin, felt your hair move.

When you woke, it didn't surprise you to find Bucky sitting next to your bed, back to it and legs stretched out in front of him. The window was open, letting in an unseasonably warm morning zephyr.

"I just had a dream about you," you whispered, ruffling his hair.

Bucky looked up at you. He seemed sad. "Good dream or bad dream?"

"Good. Always good."

He nodded, trying for a small smile. "The fern… It meant I could come in, right?"

"Glad you got the message," you answered. Out on the sills of all your windows, you left ferns. They meant a lot of things - fascination, magic, enchantment, sincerity, and shelter - and you'd told Bucky they were his plant, back when he and Sam came to offer you a job with The Avengers. At the entry points to your home, they were an open invitation for him, a coded welcome mat.

"Didn't want to wake you," Bucky said.

"I'm awake now. What do you need?"

He thought for a moment. He needed a lot of things, many of which you could definitely provide. "Tea? Thought maybe you could mix some for me to take home. Maybe give to the others,"

"I can do one better than that. I can make everyone their own blend. It will be fun. Come on. I'll teach you how," you said, pulling the blankets away and getting out of bed.

Bucky stood, looking a little alarmed. "You don't have to-"

"I know, Buck. But I want to. Come on."

It took all day, but eventually you had packaged up individual tea blends for everyone. Bucky got a stash of his special sleepy tea, and he already looked more rested with it in his possession. You walked him to the door sometime just before 5:00 pm.

"Thank you," he said, quiet and reflective.

"Easy. You're always welcome here. Sam - not so much. But you - always," you told him, leaning against the frame of your front door.

"Might take you up on that,"

"Please do," you said nodding.

Bucky smiled, went to leave, but turned back like he was going to say something. You stood straight, patient. His brain was ticking, thinking something over. Deciding. Then, he moved. Quickly, he stepped back and pressed a fast but soft kiss to your lips. He was gone, literally nowhere to be seen, before you had time to say or do anything.

 …

 The Hudson River sparkled under the sunset. Bucky watched the colours reflect the scene, like one of Steve's paintings. He was lost in a daydream when Sam nudged him.

"Where you at, man?" he asked.

Bucky looked over at Sam and Steve, who were both eyeing him off suspiciously. They'd carried a couple of couches to the roof. Stolen Clint's beer and set up shop for the night. Pizza was on its way.

"What?" Bucky asked.

"You were thinking about her again, huh?" Steve guessed.

Bucky looked back at the river, ignored his friends. They laughed, returned to their conversation.

Later, when Sam had retired to his room, not able to superhuman heat himself, Steve moved over to lounge next to Bucky. He rested his head on Bucky's shoulder and closed his eyes.

"You really like her, don't you?"

"I think I love her," Bucky replied.

Steve laughed at the speed of the response. "I think you might too. All those girls before, and you never really loved any of them... Guess you stuck around to meet her,"

"Seems that way,"

"You gonna do anything about it?" Steve asked.

"Yeah… It's gotta be good though," Bucky said, only then realising the depth of his feelings.

"Wouldn't wait too long, pal."

 ….

 Bucky took you up on your invitation, coming and going from your place frequently. Sometimes, you'd find fresh croissants left on your kitchen bench. Sometimes, you'd find him asleep on your couch. 

How much he needed from you varied, but how much he was willing to give seemed infinite. You had to proactively stop him from becoming some sort of amazing housekeeper slash meal provider.

After about a month, he settled enough to be able to just exist around you. He'd help you pick the right leaves for the teas you made people. He'd disappear into your bedroom when you had clients over, reading their cards while Bucky listened in like it was a television series. It was easy being around him, and you were ready to be patient for a lot longer, but fuck were you itching for more.

The kissing was sweet, but very often brief. Bucky caught your lips in the moments between your magic and his profound awe. You did what you could to encourage him, but knew the ball was well and truly in his court. So, when he ushered you outside one sunny morning, you didn't really have much expectation.

"I thought you'd never ask," you said, face lighting up when you saw Bucky's bike out the front of your place. New York City was buzzing around you, but as soon as you watched him get on and hand you a helmet, you'd never craved the open road more.

All the other times you'd been to The Avengers compound, you'd traveled by air. It was quick. The ride took longer but it was so much better. Having your arms wrapped around Bucky, the feeling of the bike rumbling under you, it was something new, which was all sorts of remarkable. Being magic sapped a lot of the wonder from the world, ironically. Bucky was bringing it back.

At the compound, Bucky took your hand and lead you around the side, not going in. "I've, ah, got something for you," he said.

"You sound nervous,"

"Yeah. If you could just cast up a little spell to get rid of that, it would be great," he said deadpan.

You laughed while looking around for clues to Bucky's surprise for you.

Rounding a corner, it came into view. A garden. A proper garden, complete with white picket fencing surrounding it. It was like something out of Practical Magic, and all your childhood dreams.

"What is this?"

"It's for you. A place you can grow whatever you need. Or want," Bucky said.

In a state of genuine shock, you let go of Bucky's hand and covered your mouth with yours. You had never seen anything more spectacular.

At the single entrance to the garden was an arch. Ivy and honeysuckle covered it completely, like they'd had a lot of time to grow. You pulled a flower from the arch, reaching up to find a full bloom. "Honeysuckle petals are edible," you said, reaching out to Bucky. He let you feed him the flower. "Sweet, like the perfume. They symbolism devotion, or being 'united in love.' Kinda like the ivy on it. Ivy symbolises attraction."

Bucky smiled wide, his eyes sparkling as he watched you walk further in. "We tried to make sections, you know, for the different plants. Like, this part here has sandy soil for the desert plants," he explained.

"We?"

"Got a lot of help from the others,"

"I'll have to thank them," you said.

There were veggie patches and small fruit trees. Almost half the garden was designated to all the types of plants Bucky had seen you use in potions and teas. Dog rose, blackthorn, rosemary, euphorbia, snowdrop flowers, bells of Ireland, and welcoming wisteria. The raised beds were overflowing with plants, just about ready to bloom in an explosion of colour.

"This… This is incredible,"

"Figured your apartment doesn't really have the space. And you're welcome here anytime,"

"I’ll wanna be here all the time." The garden was what your magical ancestors could have only dreamed of. "I don’t even know what to look at first,"

"Well, maybe that," Bucky said, pointing to a birdbath, where butterflies were hovering over the water. The best part though, was a small sign sticking out the ground next to it that read For Sam.

You laughed. "Oh my god,"

"He was so grumpy about it,"

"Shouldn't have named himself after a bird then," you reasoned.

Bucky nodded, grinning. "And we put that bench opposite so you could sit and watch them."

Your eyes were beginning to tear up, overwhelmed with the sheer amount of love and effort surrounding you. "Buck… I just can't…"

"Oh! And, one more thing. This was Wanda's idea. Come on."

Bucky took your hand and lead you through the garden to the back to where a weeping mulberry tree stood in the corner. He pushed through the soft branches, revealing the manicured underside. A green, little cave under the canopy held secret another wooden bench. Bucky sat down, otherwise he'd have to bend. It was the perfect height for you though, but you sat next to him anyway.

From under the mulberry tree you could see the rest of the garden. All the plants swayed in the warm breeze, and the flowers popped bright and happy.

"How long have you been working on this? Some of those are grown well in,"

"You don't need to know any of that. Takes away the magic, don't it?"

"You mean, a magician doesn't reveal his secrets and all that?" you asked.

Bucky shrugged and nodded, leaning back into the bench a little more and putting an arm around you. Snuggling into his side, you breathed out and just soaked it all in. Your mind was caught between racing with ideas of all the things you could do with the garden and plants, and totally turning to blissful mush.

"I know ya never wanted to work with us, but I'm glad Nat found you. Glad I met you," Bucky said, his voice back to being a little bit shaky, nervous. "You've made my life better, you know? Not just with the, the nightmares, but just… everything. You make everything better…"

You knew he wasn't finished, so you stayed quiet while he gathered his thoughts. In the meantime, you threaded your fingers through his, rubbed your thumb along the back of his hand.

"I used to be so good at this," he said, huffing a little.

It made you giggle. "Used to be good at what?" you asked knowingly, sitting up and looking at him.

He rolled his eyes. "Y/N! I'm tryna' tell you I'm sweet on you and you're gonna give me shit,"

"Yeah, I am. I'm also gonna give you shit about the phrase 'sweet on you' too," you replied, laughing.

Bucky smiled, watching you laugh, just happy you were happy. When you stopped, he sat up and used both hands to fold the hair behind your ears. Holding your face in his hands, he tried to not grin like an idiot. He couldn’t hide the smirk.

"I love you. I'm in love with you," he said, voice finally dead certain.

"Yeah, the garden was a bit of a giveaway," you replied, quickly adding, "And that's good. 'Cause I'm in love with you too. Very completely."

Bucky made the kind of expression you'd pull at a basket of mewing kittens, or a puppy tumbling across fresh cut lawn. It was very, very kissable. So, you did want any self-respecting witch would do. You kissed Bucky Barnes like your life depended on it in the secret mulberry tree cave he had made just for you.

 ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

My taglist (open): @bubbabarnes @browngirlmagic @lookalivefrosty @aynaraxas @vibraniumwitch @the--sad--hatter​ @fairislesheets​ @vibraniumdaisies​ @cristie24​ 

[kemetic-dreams]

EXPLOITING VICTIMS THE NEW WAY TO MAKE MONEY!

1. WHAT EVER HAPPEN TO THE MONEY THAT WENT TO HAITI?

2. HAITI LEGIT HAD TRUE VICTIMS

3. THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA(AND SHE IS NOT ALONE). CREATES PROBLEMS BLAMES OTHERS (NATIVES) THEN SAY HEY WE NEED TO INVADE YOUR COUNTRY.

4. LOOK AT COUNTRIES FROM WESTERN ASIA. DESTROY A COUNTRY’S ECONOMY AND LAND. THEN TELL YOU “HEY I WILL FIX IT FOR A PRICE”. LOOK AT THE CONSTRUCTION COMPANIES IN IRAQ.

5. HOW DO YOU BAIT PEOPLE TO GIVE UP MONEY?

6. MAKE VICTIMS, SHOW HUNGRY KIDS, WOMEN IN DISTRESS. SOUNDS LIKE A INFOMERCIAL FOR IRAQ.

7. HAS ANY COMPENSATION BEEN GIVING TO THE CIVILIAN CASUALTIES(151,000-1,000,000) OF IRAQ.

8. WHO MADE MONEY OFF THEIR LIVES?

                                                   VICTIMS 

1. AFRICANS BROUGHT TO THE USA AND OTHER AMERICAS 

2.RAPED, BURNED ALIVE, CHILD MOLESTED, TAUGHT TO HATE THEIR IDENTITY( HATE YOUR AFRICAN RACE,LANGUAGE,NAME AND RELIGIONS), EXPLOITED 

3. THE USA MADE A GREAT POLITICAL MOVE BY FREEING THEIR VICTIMS TO MAKE THEMSELVES LOOK GREAT TO THE INTERNATIONAL WORLD.

4. WHO PROFITED FROM THE VICTIMS OF SLAVERY??

5. BUT NOW EUROPEANS IN SOME CAPACITY MAKE  MONEY OFF OF THEIR EXPLOITS OF AFRICANS. MAKE A MOVIE, BRAG ABOUT FREEING THEM, TV SHOWS, PBS SPECIALS, SET UP A MUSEUM TO DISPLAY THEIR FEATS. BUT DO THE PROFITS GO TO VICTIMS OF THIS HOLOCAUST.

6. HAS ANY VICTIMS OF THE SLAVE TRADE BEEN COMPENSATED?

7. CREATE VICTIMS AND MAKE MONEY OR POLITICALLY MONETIZING OFF OF THEM.

                 VICTIMS OF HUMAN TRAFFICKING

1. ONE OF THE MOST DISRESPECTFUL ACTS AS A HUMAN. TRAFFICKING

2. WITH ALL THE HIGH TECH GADGETS, YOUR PHONE KNOWS WHERE YOUR GOING BEFORE YOU DO. BUT NO REAL EFFORTS TO STOP TRAFFICKING.

3. WHAT ABOUT THE VICTIMS OF HUMAN TRAFFICKING.

4. “HEY YOU BEEN RAPED OR MOLESTED COME ON MY SHOW AND TALK ABOUT”. NOT FIX IT!!!!!!!

5. DO TV SHOWS MAKE MONEY OFF OF CELEBRITIES, KIDS, AND OTHERS TELLING THEIR STORIES ABOUT BEING MOLESTED OR RAPED.

6. CLICK BAIT, STIRS UP EMOTIONS, WATCH MY NEWS PROGRAM,( AND MOST OF THE PEOPLE WHO COMMIT THESE ACTS ARE PEOPLE IN THESE HIGH PLACES) DAMN NEAR EVERYONE IN HOLLYWOOD.

7. THE SAME PEOPLE(POLITICIANS, CONGRESSMEN, PRIEST, HOLLYWOOD INSIDERS,COPS) WHO COMMIT THESES CRIMES IN SOME WAY PROFIT OFF OF VICTIMS.

8. JUST THINK EVERY DOLLAR YOU GIVE TO THE CHURCH EITHER PAYS FOR A TRAFFICKED CHILD OR THE MONEY TO PAY THE FAMILY AND LAWYERS OFF.

                                        VICTIMS OF RACISM

1. RACISM ONE OF THE MOST OVER USED TERMS IN MODERN HISTORY

2. HAS THE ISSUE BEEN FIX YET?

3. WOULD YOU WANT THE ISSUE FIXED OR  WOULD YOU TAKE A CHECK

4. DO YOU POLITICIZE RACISM FOR YOUR OWN PROFIT JUST LIKE SOME POLITICAL FIGURES.

5. EVERY TIME SOMETHING RACIST HAPPENS, NEWS SHOWS RATINGS GO UP, MONEY IS BEING MADE. DO THESE SITUATIONS GET RESOLVED.

6. ARE THEIR ANY REAL INSTITUTIONS THAT REAL TACKLE THESE ISSUES.

7. RACISM IS A BUSINESS NOW. FOR POLITICAL POWER OR CASH MONEY( LIKE HOW COMPANIES PAY AL SHARPTON OFF)

8. POLICE BRUTALITY!!!!??????  “HEY LETS MAKE SOME CLOTHES DO A RAP VIDEO AND SELL SOME MERCHANDISE”

9. THE PEOPLE WHO’S FAMILY MEMBER GOT THEIR HEADS BLOWN OFF OR BEAT TO DEATH DO THEY MAKE MONEY OR DO TV SHOWS OR FAKE ADVOCATES GET A CHECK.

10. AND WILL THIS SOLVE POLICE BRUTALITY 

                                             NEW VICTIMS

1. THE INFAMOUS LETTER PEOPLE.

2. I AM NOT FOR OR EVEN SUPPORT THE CULTURE.

3. BUT, WISE ENOUGH TO TELL FAKERS. NOW EVERYONE IS AN ADVOCATE

4. 15 YEARS AGO SOMEONE WOULD HAVE SPIT ON YOU. NOW THEY ADVOCATES.

5. ALL THE POLITICIANS HAVE OPEN A NEW EYE TO THIS RIGHT!????

6. THIS IS A MONEY GRAB, PEOPLE LIKE MAKING MONEY, IF I HAVE A HAMBURGER SPOT, I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU, I AM TRYING TO SELL YOU SOMETHING. SO I WILL GIVE YOU A MILK SHAKE AND HAMBURGERS WITH RAINBOW COLORS.

7. FAKE SUPPORTERS OF THIS MOVEMENT ARE LIKE MOST EUROPEAN AMERICANS. I CAN’T STAND TRUMP!!! THE TRULY DO LOVE TRUMP BUT CANT AFFORD TO SAY WHAT HE SAYS. SO THEY FAKE IT.

8. JUST LIKE MOST RACIST DO. “ I CAN’T BE RACIST SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE AFRICAN AMERICANS”. NOW! HEY ONE OF MY BEST FRIENDS IS GAY

9. PEOPLE ARE USING YOU FOR POLITICAL PROFIT. AND NOW PEOPLE HAVE A NEW WAY OF SELLING YOU SOMETHING.

10. THESE PEOPLE ARE NOT TRUE FRIENDS OF YOUR CAUSE, BAND WAGON RIDERS FOR NOW. IF THE PERSON TO YOUR NORTH,SOUTH, EAST OR WEST DON’T LIVE YOUR LIFESTYLE, THEIR FAKE.

11. NOW TV SEES MONEY TO BE MADE, NOW!, NOW!THEY WANNA MAKE MOVIES AND THEY DOWN FOR THE CAUSE. BUT ABOUT 16 YEARS  AGO IT WAS HELL NO. THEY ARE JUST LOOKING TO EXPLOIT YOUR CULTURE.

12. JUST LIKE A POP SINGER EVERY ONE LOVES YOU LIKE A GOD, THEN NEXT YEAR NEW VICTIMS COME IN AND WILL STEAL YOUR SHOW. AND YOU WILL BE BROKE AND BY YOUR SELF.

1. TAKE YOUR PROBLEMS AND MAKE MONEY OFF IT OR MAKE IT A POLITICAL POWER. 2. HEY HOMOSEXUALITY IS JUST LIKE VICTIMS OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

3. SELL PEOPLE OF STORY SO GRUESOME IT WILL MAKE THEM CRY.

4. HUMANS SEEM TO BE HAVING SOME OF THE SAME PROBLEMS, BUT NOW YOUR CRISIS OR PROBLEMS BECOMES SOME ONE ELSE INCOME.

5. NEXT, Rates of suicide among Native Americans are the highest compared to other groups, and they keep increasing over the years. This is especially true among Native American youth, who are three and a half times more likely to commit suicide compared to other groups, according to a Indian Health Service study in 2012. This crisis is long overdue for some serious aid. SERIOUS AID WILL COME IN THE FORM OF ADDERALL OR SOME DRUG THEY CAN SELL THEM 

6. CRAZY HUNGRY KIDS EVERY. SEND MONEY FAST. KIDS STAY HUNGRY AND PRIVATE COMPANIES WILL TAKE THE MONEY.

7. PEOPLE POUR OUR HEARTS OUT TO CAUSES ONLY TO FIND OUT NO ONE WANTS TO CURE IT JUST MAKE MONEY OFF OF IT.

8. LIKE HOW WESTERN MEDICINE DOESN’T CURE YOUR ILLNESS JUST SUPPRESSES IT FOR YOU TO COME BACK AND PAY MORE.

9. EVERY TIME WE CREATE VICTIMS, WE ARE CREATING NEW AVENUES OF MONEY AND EXPLOITATION.

10. EVERYBODY IS A VICTIM. EVERYBODY NEEDS EMPATHY. EVERYTHING IS JUST LIKE THE VICTIMS OF THE SLAVE TRADE.MY FATHER SCREAMED AT ME THAT TERRORISM. LITTLE EUROPEAN KID SHOOTS UP A SCHOOL NOW HE IS THE VICTIM OF MENTAL ILLNESS. SELL HIM A DRUG.

11. VICTIMIZATION EQUALS MONETIZATION . SO CREATE MORE OF THEM.

[ramblinganthropologist]

N7 challenge 18 and 19 - Blue and Substance

Yep, doubling up prompts again... it’s Nano, I’m only human. 

Summary: Extra, extra... Commander Shepard’s gotta engage in some mild censhorship after a tabloid leaks a photo of him imbibing a mysterious substance. Just what is it... and why does it smell like blue raspberry? The hell is the Alliance up to these days? 

---

…

Why did he get the feeling he was being watched by more than just hamsters?

It was probably just a feeling, but Alistair couldn't shake it as he entered Citadel Critters that afternoon.  Normally this was his favorite place on the station, but... well, the walk over from the docks had been unnerving to say the least. If anyone caught sight of him, they stared. A few even whispered, but it was all too low for him to pick up.

Great, who was he fucking now according to the media?

“Good to see you, Al.���

At least Mike looked normal and happy to see him. Alistair was glad for that as he raised his hand in a friendly greeting. That was of course a mistake – from the wrist almost to his elbow he was still bandaged up like a mummy. At least the bandages had stopped bleeding.

Normally medigel would be the thing for this, but the wound type needed healing the old fashioned way. As a medic he understood it... but as a twitchy biotic, it was itchy as hell and he hated every moment of it.

The shopkeeper winced at the sight of him. “Am I allowed to ask what happened there, or is it secret Spectre shit?”

“I got too close to a krogan on Tuchanka and we traded paint. Their bacteria is pretty toxic, so I can't seal it up with medigel.” He shrugged. “Least I didn't break anything. Then that would have to heal the old fashioned way too.”

He was kind of glad that krogan was dead, all things considered. Not just because he tried to kill him, but he tried to kill his nephew during his Proving. Nobody messed with Grunt and got away with it; didn't matter what it was. Shit, he'd taken on a thresher maw for the kid and he still had to go to therapy considering them. If that wasn't proof he liked the guy, nothing was.

But anyway, he was glad that fucker was dead. Asshole.

“Now you're fighting krogan hand to hand? Maybe there's something to that tabloid story after all.” Mike winced as he seemed to bite his tongue. “Shit, I said I wasn't going to ask you about that, it's clearly bullshit...”

…

What was clearly bullshit?

Alistair frowned as he checked his omni-tool, going to a site he knew fairly well. It had been a while since he had checked in with Citadel Daily, but it looked like for the most part they were still behaving. Sure, he wound up there – but they weren't mentioning who he was fucking or anything.

The answer was nobody, by the way, because the universe hated him.

“Well... it's not from Citadel Daily, so I think you're going to have to fill me in.”

The shopkeeper looked uncomfortable as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It's from some smaller paper, but it's kind of gone viral. They ran it in last week's Spec-Check.”

Ah, he'd heard of that. Hell, he'd been in it once or twice. Half the time it was getting censored by the Council for accidentally falling ass first into the truth, and the rest of their stories were so obviously fake that they provided excellent cover. The ones about him had all been fake... but maybe it would explain the stares.

Mike grabbed his datapad from a nearby table and tabbed over to an article he had clearly read a couple times. He wasn't looking Alistair in the eye as he handed it over, and his hand trembled a bit. Clearly, someone was feeling a little guilty...

“What the hell?”

There, in bright font, screamed out “Commander Shepard: Under the Influence of Biotic Boosting Substances?” with a picture of him in armor. His eyebrow zoomed to his hairline as he realized it was taken on Tuchanka. How had he missed a krogan taking a picture of him?

More importantly, who had sold him out and why did he need to tan their hide?

“So this story...” he flicked through. “Implies that I'm on some illicit substance to boost my biotics. They know red sand is a thing, right?”

The shopkeep shrugged. “Keep reading, they imply it's some purified Alliance version they're testing on you. The paper called it blue moon...”

Alistair's vein throbbed as he flipped to the picture. Clear as day, there was a picture of him opening a tube of a obnoxiously colored, bright blue powdery substance and swallowing it down. Judging by the scenery... he had gone after a thresher maw not long after it was taken.

Ok... he could kind of see the hook there, but come the fuck on.

“I told people it was bullshit, the Alliance isn't going to risk its first Spectre on shit like that...” Mike's voice wavered. “But then more pictures showed up.”

Now he really had to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Mind telling me where I can find these guys? I think I need to give them the Citadel Daily special.”

“Is that the part where you toss them out a window?”

No, it was the part where he let Bo threaten someone with defenestration. Problem was that his XO was still back on the Normandy with her adoptive son. They were having a bonding moment after what had gone down on Tuchanka. He was eventually supposed to bring them back snacks, but... well it looked like he had to make a pit stop first.

“We'll see. Now, I gotta get to tracking them down...”

---

Unlike Citadel Daily, the office of Eye on the Citadel was much smaller and in a more run down part of the Wards. Some might have called it seedy, but Alistair didn't care as he got out of the cab and checked his omni-tool. On it flashed the details he needed and had acquired from EDI when he had informed the Normandy where he was going.

“You packing your blue moon, Commander?”

Alistair rolled his eyes as he touched the piece in his ear. “Joker...”

“Sorry, Commander. I know you're touchy about it and all. Just don't throw anyone out a window with your mind.”

Yes, yes he was. Regardless, the Spectre sighed as he approached the front door. The sign said to knock, which he did. He even stepped back, waiting. For a long while, he wasn't sure if anyone was home.

Then he heard the skittering in the background.

“Shit, it's Shepard!”

Someone wasn't very subtle. They were also looking through the peep hole directly at him. Despite himself, he gave a little wave as he waited for the door to open. Whoever was there squeaked, and it sounded like they fell down.

Hopefully they hadn't broken anything before he got the chance to try.

“Hello, are you alright in there? It sounded like you took a nasty fall. I'm a medic if you need some first aid.”

Someone was sniffling behind the door. It was so damn pathetic that Alistair sighed and reached for the doorknob. In a few seconds, his picking program had made short work of the lock. That allowed him to gently twist the handle and open the door.

Just like he thought, there was a person on the floor, holding their ankle with big tears in their eyes. From where he was standing, it just looked like a bad sprain. It was nothing a little medigel and some rest couldn't handle, and luckily he had the first ingredient on hand.

Problem was, the person who had just entered the hallway looked as though he had murdered someone.

“So Commander Shepard breaks and enters on top of consuming illicit drugs.” Their camera was out. “Eli, did he hurt you?”

Alistair's tone was as dry as Tuchanka as he motion to the prone human. “I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure they sprained their ankle falling.”

The man with the camera looked from his partner to his subject a few times. He still took a few pictures before he put it away – note to self, blast that late. A few seconds later, he was helping Eli to his feet – somewhat unsuccessfully. He was way off balance.

“If you do it that way...” He winced as both men went tumbling. “... that's going to happen. Did you break something too?”

Camera man wasn't amused as he tried to free himself from underneath his prone friend. “I'm fucking fine, what the hell are you doing here? You broke in!”

Alistair gestured to the fact he was still on the other side of the door. “I haven't even entered the house yet, good luck proving that.”

Clearly, he was dealing with a real genius. He doubted this was the man who had written the article about him – not enough imagination. Maybe it was his photos, but definitely not his words. That he attributed to Mr. Sprained Ankle, who was still trying to get up on his own power. With his luck, he probably sprained the other one...

Just what he needed, a rescue mission when he was trying to be intimidating.

He sighed and let his anger trickle out. “May I enter so I can administer first aid? You've followed me enough to know I'm a medic.”

“Yeah, a medic tripping balls on blue moon!” Camera man pointed at him. “I saw you take it twice on the Citadel, once with your fucking niece! You have a problem, and I'm going to expose you so people know not to-”

The beeping from Alistair's wrist drew the Spectre's attention. He frowned and flipped it over. A familiar program was warning him that his sugar was currently in the low 60's. If this kept up, he was going to risk really becoming a space cadet.

Talk about appropriate though.

“You're about to see another dose, actually.” He pulled the paper tube from his jacket pocket and ripped off the top. A few seconds later, down his throat it went. All he tasted was sour blue raspberry as it traveled down his throat.

He really hated blue flavors... green apple was where it was at.

On the floor, Eli sniffed. “Is... that candy?”

“Homemade pixie stick mix. It's cheaper than buying the individual tubes.” He tossed Camera Man a packet. “Test it if you don't believe me. Mine's a little more sour than the commercial mix, but it's still basically sugar, citric acid, a little bit of flavor with the color.”

Somewhere, he was pretty sure a thousand 'don't do drugs, kids' infomercials went through both men's heads as they examined the packet. The vein continued to throb as he waited for his sugar to creep back to normal levels. At least it wouldn't take long – he had caught the low fairly early.

It was Eli who took the packet, giving a little bit of the powder a cautionary lick despite his coworker's protests. When his face contorted in the classic sign of sour, the Spectre sighed in relief. Still, it was hard to resist pinching the bridge of his nose.

“He's telling the truth, Sam. It's like a high powered pixie stick.” And then the man wasn't looking at him. “Shit... you've been eating these the whole time, haven't you?”

Alistair held up his wrist, showing the blood meter reading. “Have to or I go into hypoglycemia. It's part of being a biotic for me. So I guess we can say you were kind of right about it being a biotic booster. However, I don't think anyone outside an elementary school classroom is going to call it illicit.”

He at least allowed a smile. “So, you going to let me in now to help with that ankle, or are you just going to live on the floor from now on?”

---

“So, did you throw him out a window?”

“No, and did you want the Cheetos too?”

Alistair could hear Bo groaning on the other end of the line as he picked out snacks for his trip back. He had quite a few – enough to fill the basket. That was understandable, given he was helping to feed a krogan and a high powered biotic. Between the two of them, he wasn't sure who could eat more. Some days it was a toss up.

So he added the Cheetos anyway. If she didn't want them, he'd eat them later.

“You're such a fucking boy scout sometimes, Al. You could've at least fucked with him a little bit.”

The Spectre shrugged his shoulders as he added a few more things to his basket before heading for the self check out. Given the time of day, the store was pretty packed. He still felt eyes on the back of his neck, but not as many as before.

The blog post had gone out while he was checking Eli's ankle. He had been right on the credits about who wrote for that duo...

“I got my retraction, and he learned not to stand on things while you're spying on a Spectre. Everyone walks away happy.”

“Yeah, except the people who bet you'd throw them out the window.”

Well, that was their mistake. After all, he WAS known for being the boy scout. She had said it herself. Though, he knew she hadn't bet on him, though not because she knew him well. Bo wasn't allowed to bet on anything involving him, due to the fact she was usually involved. This was a rare technicality that had kept her out of the pool.

Too bad, she could've cleaned up.

“Who managed to take the pot home?”

“Garrus. He better be taking you on some kind of date with that money when this is over.”

The thought of it made Alistair's face heat as he started scanning things through the self checkout. “Come on... we're not...”

“Not with that attitude. Also, did you get the nuggets? We were going to watch Jurassic Park next, they'd be a good theme snack.”

He sent her a picture of the massive sized bag of dinosaur-shaped nuggets before finishing up. Soon, he was out the door and blending into the crowd as he put his hood up to avoid the lingering gazes. Hopefully with time, it would settle down.

As he headed back to the Normandy, Alistair was glad for one thing... that he hadn't told anyone the thought of throwing someone out a window had crossed his mind more than once as he healed Eli's ankle. That would've probably lost the pool for Garrus, and maybe he was hoping for that date sometime this century.

Well, that and being cleared of being on weird Alliance drugs like a guinea pig. That was good too. But seriously, how the hell had they come up with that? Anyone with a brain in their head knew as a Spectre he technically wasn't part of the Alliance anymore. If they had any neat substances to test out, it would be on people they actually held marching orders for.

Oh well... at least he'd been able to get the green color this time. No more blue moon for him. Maybe he'd keep the name for the blend, though... it was kind of catchy.

[tessatechaitea]

Justice Society of America #3

In this issue: old guys versus monkey monsters! I don't know how this issue didn't win a Harvey.

This comic book might have won a Harvey. What am I? Wikipedia? An adult capable of doing research? No, I'm a lazy, cynical, piece of shit who purports to be a comic book critic but who really just uses the medium as a confessional. And most of my confessions are lies to make me sound cooler than I really am! Which is still pretty cool, actually. This issue begins with an old guy stowing away on an Ultragen train car while suffering from sever cramps or possibly even a heart attack.

Is this a super hero comic book or an Alfred Hitchcock movie?

Now that I'm an older man (not old! Just older!), I don't fetishize old men like I did when I was five. But I'm guessing, at 21, I still had a bit of that zest for old man content. What else could drive me to purchase ten issues of this comic book about old men whose glory days are long past but they keep trying to relive them as their wives sit at home rolling their eyes? The stranger stumbles into Doctor Mid-Nite's offices. I guess he's named that because his medical practice stays open all night? The man has something wrong with his stomach. Judging by the strange colored splotches all over his clothing, I'd say he ate too much chili. Or he's bleeding out from a gut shot. Both are probably pretty painful but I can only speak for one. You'd be surprised which one. No you wouldn't. I was just trying to sound cool again. The mystery man from the end of the last issue was Johnny Quick and, judging by how much I'm now yawning and how my head keeps nodding forward, I'd like to apologize for claiming that revealing his identity would have been more exciting and sold more of the third issue. Len was right to conceal his identity. While the Justice Society were keeping Ragnarok from happening, Johnny Quick got a gig endorsing nutritional supplements on late night television infomercials. He was laughed at by scientists when he tried to figure out why his nonsense formula made him so fast. They were all, "You know that's idiotic, right? We can do actual science tests to find out why you're fast. It's probably the Meta(l)gene, you know?" But Johnny didn't want to hear their scientific mumbo-jumbo (which might make him an ignorant jerk in our world but he lives in the comic book world where science can't explain everything and I sometimes why it even bothers to try to explain anything. I mean, X-ray vision? The power of flight? Helmets that grant magic powers by possessing the wearer with an ancient Great Old One of Order? Batman visiting heaven and Constantine visiting Hell? It's like an Anti-Vaxxer's dream reality come true). Instead, Johnny decided to visit a bunch of religious kooks who deal in utter nonsense every day. Unlike the scientists who needed proof and evidence of how his power worked, they were happy to say things like, "Oh, yeah! Your formula is a magic mantra that focuses your chi!" and "It's a message from God to grant you magic speed powers for being such a morally upstanding human being!" and "What exactly do you want to hear and how much will you pay me to hear it?" So after realizing that his super power came from believing in himself, Johnny Quick decided to tell everybody else to believe in themselves too! Did he invent The Secret? Because, as a narcissist, I understand why The Secret is so compelling! Doesn't everybody want to believe that they themselves are the reason all the best things happen to them and also want to believe that everybody who is poor or sick or devastated by random tragedy did it to themselves like big dumb suckers who just weren't strong enough to believe in themselves?! Obviously the only reason I didn't fall out of a tree and die when I was twelve years old was because I believed so strongly in myself and not because I was just another lucky asshole who somehow survived childhood. That's enough about Johnny Quick for the entire ten issues of this comic book that I own. I'm never fucking mentioning that jerk again. I don't care if he becomes super important to the plot! I'm erasing him from history right now! Although I'll probably still discuss Jesse Quick when she turns back up because she's hot. Oh what the hell. One last parting shot at Johnny!

Maybe if you spent less time trying to find the secret to your nonsense formula and more time trying to find Libby's clitoris, you'd still be together! By the look on Ted's face, I bet he could have helped!

Doctor Mid-Nite arrives to let everybody know that their favorite jazz musician died in his arms last night because he was too blind to save him. Probably. But what he discovered was that the man, Reggie, had signed up to become a test subject for Ultragen! He was locked away with a bunch of half-man, half-animal creatures as Ultragen searched for a drug that could make people youthful again. Apparently what the writer is saying is that corporations are the new Nazis. Maybe that's why I bought ten issues of this comic book! Because I was all, "Yeah! This analogy is so apt! Fucking corporations think they can get away with whatever they want! Where's my current girlfriend so I can mansplain this shit to her?!" I don't want to get too cynical here but what else am I supposed to do when a comic book asks me to just buy into this whole Doctor Mid-nite thing. So he goes blind when a grenade goes off in his face. But he discovers he can still see in the dark because, you know, fuck you and comic books and all that shit. We've already established that science doesn't live here. But I don't have a problem with that! Okay, great! So he can see in the dark but not in the light. His reaction to this is, "I should use this new power to fight crime! I just have to wait until a bank robbery happens in the middle of the night with a new moon perpetrated by a bunch of robbers who forgot their flashlights and whiz bang! I'll have the advantage!" I know, I know! He invents dark glasses so he can see while pretending to be blind. I guess that helps him catch muggers who prey on blind people. And then he created smoke bombs which are conceivably his best idea, creating pockets of dark where he would have the advantage against the criminals. But it's not like his eye-sight based super powers gave him the ability to fight well or gave him invulnerability in case of a lucky shot in the dark or allowed him to protect other people at the scene of the crime from stray bullets fired wildly out of the area of effect of his smoke bomb! Doctor Mid-Nite's whole deal is so implausible that it breaks even my capacity for disbelief while reading super hero comic books. It simply makes me think, "This guy sounds like a bad idea from a desperate writer looking for another big super hero hit." Which is what it was! Which is why it breaks the entire comic book! I'd be okay if it simply made me think, "This guy's an idiot with a dumb idea! It's going to get him killed! Ha ha! That'll probably be funny!" While Doctor Mid-Nite is conferring with the Justice Society about what to do with Ultragen, Ultragen is raiding the his free clinic. Luckily Johnny Thunder just happened to be stopping by, probably to get a check-up on his genie. He gets shot and his genie appears to help when a young girl comes up and is all, "Oh hey! I recognize that genie! It's a Badnesian Hex Bolt!" And the genie is all, "Yes, I am! Do you want me to inhabit you for awhile so I can get rid of this old guy (who isn't that old for some reason? Probably a reason that has to do with me living inside of him?)" I just feel like, with Jesse Quick appearing earlier, this series is headed toward creating a younger JSA so the older members can simply fall into the role of mentors. The Atom, Wildcat, and Doctor Mid-nite head off to investigate Ultragen's experimental laboratory and they make a discovery that causes me to literally kill myself because I was too stupid to call it.

This is Grunion Guy's assistant Pickle Boy. I think I'm supposed to make a naughty joke caption here? Like, um, "What is that guy's pee-pee doing inside that kangaroo?!"

Justice Society of America #3 Rating: Does anybody know how to get blood out of shag carpeting? Also, if a person's will is found written on used tissues (hopefully for his nose), is it legally binding because I don't want to inherit this blog and all of its debt.

[i-believe-n-sherlock-holmes]

What is Reality?

So, I spent the morning typing out this long, detailed response to a post by @possiblyimbiassed​ concerning therapists in the show being representations of Sherlock - hit the post button - and found Tumblr ate it. Yep, it disappeared into the ether. That’s... fine. Probably didn’t belong on that post anyways since it went down a completely different track, but here is an abbreviated version of what I concluded:

We have always been in TAB/S4 hell and just didn’t realise it. 

It all began to break down when I tried to discern the point of view we are seeing the story from - or who the author is. This is a story about John - we begin with him, and he is ‘the blogger’ (and original author of the Sherlock Holmes stories) so we might naturally conclude he is the storyteller here, but then that conclusion quickly breaks down the first time we see Sherlock. We see Sherlock before John meets him. John has no way of knowing about Sherlock beating a corpse and rejecting Molly’s advances, so how are we seeing that if John is the author? Lest you think that John made this up from Sherlock’s comment about leaving the riding crop in the morgue and his interaction with Molly when she brings him coffee 1) that would be amazing because we have never seen anything to indicate this level of imagination from John 2) his stories on his blog are not anywhere near as detailed, fantastic and elaborate as this moment and the show on whole 3) that is a pretty twisted conclusion for John to draw about what a man he just met was doing with a riding crop in a morgue - not something one would just guess. Also consider that John would never have known (and is unlikely to have ever been able to get an accurate account from Sherlock given the way we see them interact) about what really happened between Sherlock and Jefferson Hope when they were alone. 

So maybe Sherlock was the narrator? Well, then there are several scenes that he didn’t witness and can’t have possibly known about (like the entire first part of the story where we are shown what John’s life is like beforehand) and what happened with Donovan and Mycroft. Likewise, it seems very unlikely that Sherlock would have been able to devise John’s very novel reaction to Sherlock being with the killer. I mean, one would not typically think that an experienced soldier with ‘nerves of steel’ (as Sherlock himself says) would panic and go running through the building screaming Sherlock’s name which would both alert the killer that he was coming and alert the cleaners that someone is in the building who shouldn’t be. Not a reaction otherwise in character thus far.

This doesn’t even go to mention that there are scenes that neither character could have seen or known about. We see Jennifer Wilson and several of the other victims right before their demise and we have to conclude that those scenes are either seen through the eyes of an omnipresent/omnipotent (all seeing/ all knowing) author or through the killer’s eyes.

OK, so maybe it is a story told from the omnipresent/omnipotent perspective? Well, then that doesn’t explain the shared consciousness between the characters. Again, I’ll point you to the first scene, if we only see what happens to John because we are “omini” then how does Sherlock know about what happened to John to play out a very close echo of that original telling of exactly what happened to John before they met in his TAB MindPalace drug dream. Another glaring instance of this is the whole “dragon slayer” term, which is first mentioned when Sherlock and Mycroft are alone together, then Mary calls Sherlock the same thing when she’s alone with him, then John uses the term - none of them should know what the other has said.

So reality is broken from the start. 

Why?

Well, this is where things really make your mind explode. 

So in the 2nd episode when John returns from his interview with Sarah, Sherlock says that he had asked John for a pen when John was gone and John concludes that Sherlock ‘didn’t notice’ he was gone. We might be tempted to take John’s assessment at face value and think that Sherlock was too distracted or self-absorbed to have noticed John left, but we have been given an evolving perspective on what that moment really means. Over time, we’ve learned that Sherlock actually sees a version of John in his alternate reality (MindPalace) where he talks to John and John helps him solve things. And sometimes (like when he tries to replace John with Molly as an assistant in solving crimes) that alternate reality spills over and he hears John’s disembodied voice taunting him in Reality. So, what we have from this little moment in episode 2 is the clear indication that, at times, Sherlock cannot discern Reality from his Alternate Reality. Yet, as things evolve, we (as a viewer) often move with Sherlock seamlessly between these two realities that, in their own right, seem equally real except that the location of one might be a bit extraordinary or Sherlock exhibits extraordinary qualities to manipulate the Alternate Reality - cluing us in that it is “not reality”. 

Two realities. Bleeding between them. Funkiness in both of them. What does this sound like? Well, it sounds a lot like TAB, doesn’t it? And what did we find out in the end of TAB. Neither reality was Real. 

So, what does this mean? What part of what we see is Sherlock’s hallucinations or alternate reality and what is Real?

Maybe this moment in episode 2 and Dr. Frankland’s and Culvertson’s drugs that make people hallucinate and lose memories are hints that Sherlock has been drugged from near the beginning and was seeing things and/or losing time since the 2nd episode. All reality is suspect because we are shown Sherlock’s internal world along with the rest - but some it Real.

Maybe, Sherlock really did take Jefferson Hope’s pill before John could reach him and, instead of dying, he slipped into a coma like-state and everything after that point was like TAB where he created two realities (a MindPalace and a Real World) and he keeps slipping between the two, but neither are Real.

Maybe nothing is real and from the beginning it is all in Sherlock’s head. From that first episode we see perspectives that don’t make sense from any one point of view and there is a collective consciousness that can’t be explained unless there is a narrator that has full control of all the characters and so every character has the potential to know what other characters have said or done (since they are all just fabrications). 

Perhaps, it will be explained with something akin to the movie Ghost Stories (which, interestingly enough, Martin Freeman plays the doctor) where Sherlock has been ‘locked-in’ his own mind (in a coma-like state) this whole time and has simply been “setting the stage” with the people from his hospital setting who seep into his imagined world (John is really his doctor, Sarah and Mary are nurses that Dr. Watson seems to flirt with, Lestrade is the kindly janitor, Billy is the anesthesiologist, etc., etc.). And, if you have ever had your mind play a trick on you by reinterpreting something you hear or feel from reality (like your alarm clock going off or your cat sitting on your chest) into something that can fit into your dream, then you can begin to imagine how Sherlock could be reinterpreting things from Reality into his coma-like state. John really has saved his life so many times and so many ways (as his doctor). The gunshot wound literally was surgery. They really did have to restart his heart. When he is walking around on walls and everything is falling apart, they’ve got him drugged up and are moving him between beds (which would give the strange sense of weightlessness), etc., etc. Maybe there is a telly on his room that is playing documentaries (about Chinese pottery and the Van Bueren Supernova) and news (about Chinese gangs, bombings, murders) and infomercials (featuring Connie and Kenny Price) and kids shows (featuring Richard Brooks) and the occasional Bond and horror movie. And, as his health deteriorates, so does his imagined reality, until he is torturing himself with his past and everyone is both a mirror of himself and an enemy. 

The last possibility is the saddest interpretation of all the facts because it is quite possible that if in a S5 Sherlock does manage to wake up, the relationship between him and John is not nearly as deep as he imagined it to be and is, in fact, (if Sherlock is just a patient) non-existent. It could even be that Sherlock put himself into that state when he was a young man, overdosing due to his attempt to escape some childhood trauma. If so, then he might not even be consulting detective. It is also possible that the image that Sherlock projects of himself isn’t at all close to reality but more who he wishes he was. Perhaps, he is more like Billy, extremely clever underneath it all (able to deduce John) but looks and speaks in a way where no one would listen to him or pay attention to him in Reality.

What is reality? 

It could be very, very different and jarring.

  @ebaeschnbliah, @sarahthecoat, @sagestreet, @raggedyblue, @possiblyimbiassed, @sherlockshadow,

[friedesgreatscythe]

Could you do a meta on what you think John thinks and feels about the deputy in canon? His character is kinda all over place and I'd like to see your thoughts about it. If you don't want to or don't have time you can just ignore this ask. ;) P.S. - I love all of your Far Cry metas! They are so in depth and spot on! Keep on being fantastic!

Thank you! I really like thinking about this game and its characters, and I love writing, so… combining the two just seems to work out lol.

Short answer: John loves you and he hates you. Like… hateloves you. Like “hate the sin, love the sinner” hatelove. It’s all Wuthering Heights, Catherine and Heathcliff-y hatelove. We gothic Americana romance up in this shit.

Long answer: … well, read on.

Note: I’m gonna be pulling from the meta I type up in tags on John posts, so this may seem a little scattered and odd–but to state my argument here: John hateloves you because you two are the most alike in Hope County, and the both of you help and harm each other in equal measure because of that similarity.

(Cosmic coincidence: CHVRCHES’ “My Enemy” started playing as I typed this. You could be my remedy / if you would show me love / if I could stop remembering / all the time that you used up.)

I always thought John showed a lot of painfully on-the-mark traits for someone with Borderline Personality Disorder. But to be fair, BPD traits are unpredictable, unstable, and dramatic–so I think you’re onto something by saying he’s a bit scattered behavior/character-wise. It’s all there–the splitting (someone is either good or bad, things are black or white, nothing in between); the rapid mood changes, the history of physical abuse (in that he’s a survivor of it); fragmented, unhealthy, unstable relationships; the reckless behavior (sadism), history of addiction; chronic emptiness, unstable sense of self. I’m not saying the writers nor Seamus Dever intentionally made him BPD-similar. I’m just saying there’s a lot in John’s behavior that lines up with BPD traits, which I recognized quickly, and so I applied that filter over how I interpret John’s behavior. Just bear the above in mind when I go into my analysis.

The game pushes you to go to John’s region first, which I didn’t know ‘til I played, and I thought that was rather interesting. I figured Faith would be the first one–y’know, the lady pumping drugs all over the fuckin’ place. Might wanna make sure people’s minds were clear before you tackle anything else. But nope, John’s your first target. And I think the game wanted this not just because as some have said, that John’s region is a tutorial of sorts, but because John and the Deputy are pretty tightly linked. For starters, you’re the rookie, the (arguably) youngest and the newest to the crew of the Marshal, the Sheriff, and the other Deputies. You’re the baby of that family–and John’s the baby of his (biological) family. And your position in the Resistance and the Project respectively line up pretty closely with each other, which I’ll elaborate on later.

The game urges you to go to Holland Valley by showing you the video John made that’s half an infomercial recruitment reel and a blatant taunt to the Deputy/Hope County. And you know that had to be John’s idea. You know that once the Deputies and the Marshal were split up among the Heralds, that John took stock of his current situation and said, “y’know, I’m gonna send a little message.” And he does this to you, personally, even though he never says your name or never directly calls you out in the video. And we can see in the video that the set for this is elaborate and over the top–flowers, a trellis; there’s a damn camera crew set up for this video because it cuts to different angles! Someone knows exactly how to frame John and how to keep him in the shot, which begs the question: how many times did they film this? This video is something John took his time on. It’s a message he gave a lot of time and thought into crafting–so let’s look at what he’s saying:

What if I told you you could be free from sin? What if I told you that everything you ever dreamed could come true?

This sounds more like the messages cults give out to their flocks than anything Joseph says, IMO. And it’s John saying it, so I think we should rightly assume that John’s the one who wrote this. He’s speaking about things he thinks sounds the most appealing, things he think will grab people, reel them in, make them amenable to the Project. And what’s he saying? You can be free from sin. Your dreams can come true. And not just a dream but every dream. Every hope, every wish, all of it can be yours. And yeah, I know he’s saying it all with a snake oil salesman’s smile, but the thing about John, the thing that gets me the most? He doesn’t lie to you. What he says is twisted. What he says is terrifying. What he says is ugly and painful, but it’s never a lie. If anything, he tells the unvarnished, cruel, bitter truth, truths he’s had to face all his life and try to make sense of.

Which brings me back to this message–if he’s saying this as a callout to you, the Deputy, then look at what he’s saying: You can be freed from the terrible urges and feelings that drive you. Everything you’ve dreamed about can be yours, as long as you just say yes. You give in. You let yourself be taken when they come for you:

You will be cleansed, you will confess your sins, and you will be offered atonement. Don’t worry! You don’t have to do anything–we’ll come for you.

I mention all this to point out that from word go, John’s been focused on getting your attention, holding it, and in the holding of it, putting fear into your heart. He wants to hold your attention and through it, hold you captive (figuratively or literally–considering in-game events, it seems like both). And I think the reason for this is pretty understandable, as far as villain motivations go. You’re the newcomer and the newest, biggest problem. You are the biggest threat to the Project and to the Seed family (mainly for the brothers–I’m not sure John cares much for Faith, considering what he says). You are dangerous, capable, clever, determined–and you have to be stopped. And on the way to stopping you, if he can scare you, humble you, bring you to his way of thinking, then all the better.

John knows you’re a problem because of how much he loves and trusts Joseph. Joseph saw you coming, he knew the threat you posed, and knew you had to be stopped. John was most likely trying to do his part in that process while keeping it within the scope of the cult’s premise.

If we take the Seed brothers’ pasts into consideration, any time they had threats and dangers dangling over their heads, they’ve destroyed it. Jacob with the arson that saved his brothers but got him sent to juvie; Joseph and John reuniting and taking down the Duncans, anyone who tried to sneak into the cult and expose its darker elements, and the previous Faiths (who were likely disposed of when they started to turn against the cult). Anything and anyone who was doing them harm was taken out in an act of righteous violence–so why should you, the Deputy, be an exception to this? John doesn’t want you to be–but to Joseph you are and should be, because you and John are quite alike. You both pose a threat to the cult through your actions, through your violence and viciousness–you both possess the potential to destroy everything Joseph is building.

And that’s why Joseph hinges John’s salvation to the Deputy’s. If John doesn’t change, and if the Deputy doesn’t change with him, then there’s no hope for either of you. Because both of you threaten to tear the Project apart from inside and outside–John with his sadism, his viciousness, his unrestrained use of both in the name of the cult; you with your work with the Resistance, how systematically and unrelentingly you tear down cult outposts, supplies, statues, etc.

John is just as much of a threat to the cult as you are, and I think a part of him knows that–knows that about himself, and obviously knows that about you–and he hates the both of you for it. This is another reason that makes him hyperfixated on you, because if anyone in Hope County knows what it means to be both a threat and a thing to be saved, it’s you. Thus, his radio call to you, saying he knows how you feel “intimately”–that he knows what drives you, how you feel. Thus, his repeated insistence that he will know exactly how empty you’ll feel once you indulge yourself in your sin. John knows exactly how that feels. John has lived that life for years. And there’s no one in Hope County who will know exactly how that kind of living will drag you out, wear you down, empty you, gut you, humiliate you, and leave you worse for wear besides John.

John doesn’t hide anything from the Deputy. Not in his words, not in his looks, not in his behavior. He’s open and honest and terrifying–and then there are moments where this honesty is vulnerable and therefore painful to behold.

Take for instance John’s expression when Joseph catches him trying to drown you. It’s one of almost boyish shame and fear. He knows he was caught doing something wrong, and he knows that punishment is the only proper response for this. And he does get punished for it–he gets punished with kindness: “You have to love them, John.” This, coupled with Joseph’s warning that the Deputy must reach Atonement, or John will be cast out, is probably like a living nightmare for John. He has to love you, as in, care about you? He has to want you to survive and endure and be taken into the fold? He has to look at you with some measure of regard and sympathy, instead of using the Cleansing, the Confessing, and the Atonement (re: carving the sin into you and cutting it free) as a way to channel his darker impulses? He has to hate the sin but love the sinner?

And to John’s credit, he does rein himself in after Joseph chastises him. He turns to you, still seething, but subdued, and he falls back into the Baptist role. But he can barely hold himself together, most likely because he’s still reeling from what Joseph said and from being caught, and from having to look at you and see too much of himself in how you are. Not only that, but you are a witness to his embarrassment. You stood there as a silent audience, watching as John was scolded and punished. You, of all fucking people–is it any wonder that he seems to struggle for breath as he stands there, swaying a little as he watches Joseph leave?

John knows he shouldn’t have done this to you–but he was doing it anyway. And his justification for it, besides the seething bitterness he clearly shows on his face, is one the cult can’t really argue against: “This one’s not clean.” And you aren’t, but neither is he.

A brief aside: I’ve said before in some other post that John and Joseph project their sins onto the Deputy. I’d like to briefly expand that to say that all the Seeds project onto you–with John it’s Wrath, with Joseph it’s Pride; with Jacob it’s his insistence that you need him, that you are not a hero (he’s projecting both what he wants [to be needed] and what he thinks about himself [not being a hero] onto the Deputy). Faith projects via manipulation, calling you selfish, saying she doesn’t want to hurt you, that you’re leaving her no choice. She’s blaming you for what she does to you–and John’s very similar.

“This one’s not clean” is a projection of John’s views of himself, as well as a way to blame you for what he does to you. And how fitting that John says this to you while standing in a river, where he has to look at the both of you, you under the water, and the faint image of his reflection in that water. The river is both a mirror and a window that forces John to look back at himself while looking at the Deputy. And he hates what he sees in himself and in you, just as much as he wants to be free of it and free you from it. Because you’re bound to him now. Your salvation hinges on his. Neither of you can hope to be saved if only one of you is. And for the first time in his life, John’s had to care for someone outside of himself and his family, but it’s not through his own choice. His regard for the Deputy is a choice made for him that is also a threat.

So, hatelove.

So. How does John process this? How can he make sense of this task, of loving you? He falls back on the easiest, most familiar, most basic frame of reference he has for any kind of intimacy, both the expressing of it and the feeling of it: pain.

John’s views of sin and weakness are pretty apparent. They were literally beaten into him by his biological father, and then again systematically drilled into his head by the Duncans through literal physical and psychological torture. He not only tells you this outright when he has you strapped to a chair (as quoted in this edit by @buttercup–bee), but when he’s straddling you in the church (which he decorated up all nice and macabre-like, as if for a wedding–which speaks for itself). Sin and weakness should not be hidden; they should be carved out of you (ubiquitous you) so you can be free of it. And not only so you can be free, but so you can be honest, open, vulnerable–the way he is. And that openness, that vulnerability, is a kind of intimacy in itself.

I’m honestly surprised I haven’t seen more people talking about this, but John’s role as the Baptist and Reaper/one who hears Confessions is wrapped up in the larger role of mortifying the flesh:

Mortification of the flesh is an act by which an individual or group seeks to mortify, or put to death, their sinful nature, as a part of the process of sanctification (Source)

And I’m gonna say this here because I doubt many people are reading this, and so I feel safe in going against a common fan headcanon, but my headcanon is that John doesn’t have a torture fetish. John is obsessed with mortifying the flesh as a means of destroying sin and finding freedom and relief in that pain.

Pain as a means of spiritual catharsis isn’t exactly odd or uncommon in the histories of major world religions, and not just Christian-based ones. Self-flagellation is perhaps the most extreme version of it, but there’s also things like fasting, abstinence, pious kneeling in meditation, etc. Any form of physical discomfort done in the service of your faith is a form of mortification.

John’s first experience with this was abuse by his father, and then even worse abuse by his adopted parents. It’s not the infliction of pain that John likes, it’s the release, the relief, the promise of absolution and freedom. “Swim across an ocean of pain and emerge… free.” And he wants to give this freedom to you–he wants you to see it, to want it, to accept it.

He wants you to trust him with the absolution of your soul and the mortification, humiliation, and pain inflicted on your body–he wants you to know that it will have a higher purpose. Because how else can he express any sort of concern for you, a fellow sinner? How else can he make you worthy of atonement, you who is far too close to his own dark nature? How can he not put you through what he experienced? If he doesn’t, then all that pain, all that horror, all of it was for nothing–and he can’t accept that.

Which brings me to my last point, to a single word: Yes.

Yes is a powerful little word. It gives permission, it accepts, it allows, it confirms. John’s fixation on the word is a clever bit of complexity, in that he urges you (and others) to say it (thereby sort of removing the whole point of someone wanting to say it themselves), and he sees a power and freedom in it because of his past experience (laughing and saying yes as the Duncans beat him). The power of “yes” is that you accept, you permit, you allow–you open yourself up to what’s being offered. You accept. You give in. You embrace.

John’s almost bizarre fixation on getting the Deputy to say Yes to him is really intriguing to me, because he has you within his power more than once. He shouldn’t care about verbal consent in any of these situations, especially since he doesn’t seem to care about it with others–but he does. For you.

You’re strapped to a chair, threatened with a knife sharpener; you’re Marked and gunned down; he can call you up and hassle you on the radio whenever he pleases. He can do all these things to you–and does–but all of them mean nothing if you don’t want it. None of this has value if you don’t say Yes to it.

But he wants you to say Yes, so he wears you down bit by bit; he tells you about his past, he says that this act (the confession and the absolution) is a gift for the both of you. If you choose to confess first (in the scene where you and Hudson are sitting across from each other), John’s reaction is one of absolute delight. He’s thrilled, ecstatic–but it’s a sort of… tender kind of joy. You said yes. You showed courage. You made a choice. And he promises that you won’t regret it.

If you don’t say yes, however, he keeps trying to goad you into it. “Someone’s got to choose!” he says, staring at you specifically, clearly making it obvious that there’s no choice in this at all, since if you sit in silence he’ll make it for you. “Someone’s got to choose!” he says, knowing full well that he’s in this situation because someone else (Joseph) made a choice for him. “Someone’s got to choose!” he says, wanting you to realize this–that your salvation is tied to his, that he wants you to want this–wanting you to cooperate and care.

When you confront John again in the church (which, again, is ALL MADE UP LIKE A WEDDING), we again return to the issue of opening yourself up/letting all your secrets and sins pour free; we again return to the issue of John wanting you to trust your body’s mortification to him so that he can free you; we again return to the issue of John wanting you to want this, because he has to love you and this is the only way he knows how to process such a command or express it himself. Which is why when you say yes there, his face lights up with the most… loving, sweet expression. You said Yes. You said it. Finally, you said it! And for just a few seconds, he can’t help but love you for it–and then you try to shoot him in the face.

I know I’m kind of rambling at the end here, so I guess I just want to wrap it up.

John spent most of his life, by his own admission, looking for things to say yes to. And then you come along, a danger and a threat and a thorn in his side–someone whose salvation is wrapped up in his own–and for the first time it doesn’t matter what he says or wants. He has no power over himself anymore. It’s your voice that rules (much like the Voice is to Joseph–and what a bitter bit of irony that the Deputy is a voiceless protagonist). Your word is law–your acceptance, your permission, your consent, and all the other ways you can say Yes matter more than what John says or does, and he wants so badly for you to say it.

John knows that he has to love you (in whatever way you choose to interpret that word). He knows he has to put you through the process of Atonement, and he has to do so in such a way that you aren’t harmed. He has to get through to you, to show you all the potential and promise and hope that the Project can offer you. So he resorts to pain, to mortification, to all his old habits–but that’s what led him to this punishment in the first place.

Joseph’s already reached out to John, expressing his concern and disapproval with how John behaves. He knows that if John continues on his path, that he will not only jeopardize the Project but will die because of it.So John can try to reach out to you, reason with you, get you to trust him and listen to him and want to be a part of it all. He wants you to care–which is why that’s the word he yells the loudest as he lies dying at your feet: “You don’t understand, you don’t believe, you don’t care!”

John wanted you to care because he had to care about you, and it was a care that was all wrapped up in a lot of violence and fuckery and being at cross purposes. And I think there at the very end, as he’s dying at your feet, John finally understands what Joseph meant when he said “you have to love them.” John finally understands what it means to hate the sin and love the sinner–that’s why his final words to you are a blessing: “May God have mercy on your soul.” He absolves you with his final breath, which is unlike Jacob and Faith’s final words (taunts and threats respectively). He absolves you, just as Joseph absolves you (”Forgive them, Father–they know not what they do”). He absolves you, and in those final moments he looks at you with an expression that’s almost terrifyingly tender. It’s a vicious sort of softness, but that’s John all over, isn’t it?

[kl-writes]

65. Spotting Propaganda (Rebecca Beacom, Fall 1996)

Our media-centered society continually bombards us with explosions of facts, figures, opinions, and ideas. Whether they appear in a newspaper, on the Internet, or on a television "infomercial," many presentations are specifically designed to manipulate an audience to take a certain action and to discourage them from making a reasoned choice. It is important to become aware of the different techniques people use to manipulate their audiences, so that you will be able to spot propaganda and recognize how it can manipulate you.

What is Propaganda?

Propaganda is a form of argument meant to further a special-interest cause through manipulation. Propaganda is based on false claims and highly emotional appeals. Propaganda tries to exaggerate an issue by making it seem better or worse than it actually is. Propaganda often introduces inappropriate appeals to needs and emotions, for example, selling drugs by appealing to a teenager's need to feel accepted. Propaganda strives to thwart logical, analytical discussion, rather than to promote reasoned choice. It makes one viewpoint seem the only reasonable point of view.

Propaganda is especially easy to find in television commercials. For example, the recent commercials for hospitals and managed health care come close to being defined as propaganda. Almost everyone in the commercials is shown as being excited to be visiting the hospital. The patient being wheeled from an ambulance on a stretcher is shown smiling, even though she has just been in a serious accident. The little boy with a broken arm is happy to be getting a balloon. This commercial relies on emotional appeal. The advertisers are hoping that their audience will associate happiness and comfort with their hospitals. Most people do not like going to the hospital, but these advertisers try to convince people that the only way patients feel at their hospital is happy.

How Do I Spot Propaganda?

Spotting propaganda isn't always easy; however, there are some tactics that you can use to determine whether something is propaganda. First, you should always examine the motives of the speaker or the writer of the information. If the person has a great deal to gain from changing your opinion or convincing you to take action. chances are that he or she may be making the argument sound better than it really is. Also, if you become familiar with some common devices that propaganda employs, you will be able to protect yourself from deceitful tactics.

The following examples show tactics that are often used to manipulate and divert audiences from logical analysis of issues. As you look at the examples, remember that many of the appeals may actually rely on more than one kind of logical fallacy.

1. Relying on Emotion Instead of Logical Evidence: During the 1964 presidential race, Lyndon Johnson's campaign aired what became known as the "daisy commercial." This sixty-second spot opened with some footage of a little girl randomly counting out-loud as she plucked the petals off of a daisy; in the background was the sound of a ten-second countdown, When the countdown got to "zero," the camera zoomed in on the little girl's eye, and in her pupil one could see the image of a nuclear explosion's mushroom cloud. The announcer voiced over, "Vote for Lyndon Johnson--it's too important." By painting his opponent, Barry Goldwater, as a warmonger, Johnson hoped to evoke fear instead of reason, and thus win the election. He won, (and became involved in the Vietnam war)! His portrayal of himself as the antithesis of a warring chief wasn't entirely accurate, but it was persuasive.

2. Introducing Irrelevant or Unproved Evidence: Irrelevant or unproved evidence can often be found in advertising. Recently, when a group of scientists announced that they had found more evidence to link smoking with cancer, the tobacco firms were invited to respond on the editorial pages of USA Today. Their response never mentioned the health issue of smoking or the new alleged cancerous effects. Instead, the editorials claimed that "anti-smoking fanatics" were trying to deny Americans their right to smoke. The editorials tried to divert focus from the health issue and implied that the scientific announcement was made to destroy consumers' rights.

3. Attacking a Person Instead of a Principle: Rush Limbaugh often attacks people instead of their ideas, An example of this is Limbaugh's (in)famous statement that "feminism was established to allow unattractive women easier access to the mainstream of society" (Limbaugh Letter 3/94). This statement diverts the discussion from the issues of feminism to a personal attack on feminists.

4. Suppressing Evidence: Suppressing evidence means trying to get rid of any evidence that doesn't favor your opinion or further your cause. Politicians do this. Examples of suppressing evidence are in the recent commercials on illegal immigrations put out by Republicans and Democrats. Both commercials use different statistics to claim that the opposing party is wasting money on illegal aliens and is soft on crime. Neither commercial mentions the specific evidence of the other side's argument, but suppresses it.

5. Oversimplifying and Distorting: Commercials often distort and oversimplify evidence. For example, a toothpaste commercial claiming that four out of five dentists recommended such and such a toothpaste, may leave out the total number of dentists actually surveyed in the study. The truth may be that one hundred dentists were surveyed and only four of them responded that they actually would recommend the toothpaste!

Oversimplification and distortion are also used in politics. The statement. "Dole compromises with the Democrats," made in a derogatory fashion, implies that Dole commits a crime of sorts by agreeing with members outside of his Republican party. However, compromise is vital in politics. In order to pass legislation, Democrats and Republicans must compromise with each other. When we take the statement about Dole at face value, we fail to ask the most important questions: Why is Dole compromising? What is he compromising? How is he compromising?

6. Internal Inconsistency: Finding internal inconsistency takes some examination after the fact. For example. do products remove wrinkles as promoters say they do; do laundry soaps really bleach; do politicians actually back the causes they claim to support; do cigarettes really create the lifestyles their ads imply? Do the results of the issue or the product support what is being claimed or are the results and claims inconsistent? Inconsistency also characterizes the presentation itself. Are the appeals to needs and emotions relevant and appropriate to the subject? Are the claims about causes, effects, or identities logical? Are the speaker's stated motives consistent with the way he or she actually treats the audience?

How do I Become an Expert?

Remember, it isn't always easy to identify propaganda. Sometimes it takes a lot of work and evaluation on your part! However, by looking at the motives behind a claim, by identifying the methods being used to create an argument, and by examining the argument's consistency, it is possible to avoid being deceived by manipulative techniques.

Rebecca Beacom / Lisa Nielsen BYU Reading Center Fall 1996

[redditnosleep]

I Work That Late Night Shift At 7/11

by Jack_Conway

I’ve only been working a month at this job, and it’s already been the worst experience I’ve ever had in a working environment. My manager is a complete prick, my pay is minuscule, and dealing with customers is obnoxious. I should have tried in school. The saying,”Reap what you sow” has never been more apparent than it is now.

Thing about highschool that I always took for granted, at least you got to see people and talk to them everyday, and you never got that true feeling of loneliness. It’s only when you go out into the real world and live on your own that you begin to realize how alone you truly are.

My life consists of living in an apartment, smoking and selling bud, and playing pubg until I finally have to get off my ass and work at 7/11. I recently got moved to the night shift, and at night usually there are very few people who show up. It’s always the same characters, the guy working late and getting a coffee, the high school kids attempting to buy vapes and cigarettes underage, and the stoned guy buying chips. Usually I just put on a podcast on my phone and drown it all out.

This guy came in a couple days ago while I was sitting down with my headphones in. I was listening to the No Sleep podcast, and I look outside the glass door to see this guy in a business suit, staring inside the 7/11 in the middle of street. I looked at him for a little bit, just me and him making eye contact, and then I sat down and passed him off as some idiot high out of his mind, or some teenager doing a stupid prank.

Guy came in, and after a minute of looking around the place just started talking to himself. The guy sounded like he was doing some infomercial or something, he would say things like,

”Have you ever felt nauseous? Anxious? Scared? It’s 3 in the morning and you're scared to run. But don’t be afraid! There’s an easy solution. There’s never been a better time to try this new amazing product. It gives you the quick and easy way to not feel scared! Hello! My name is Jack Conway, and I’ve been with this company for years. Let me tell you, this product is one of the best I’ve ever had. If you are listening please call now! At 1-800-****. If you call now you can get an extra 12 percent off. Please call now, At 1-800-*****. If you call in the next 15 minutes, we’ll send you a free-

He just kept going on like this until finally I interrupted him and said,”Excuse me are you ok?” He just stared at me and kept saying the phone number. I finally had enough and called it. What happened fucked me up for life.

As soon as I called that number. I felt this rush of electricity enter my body and my entire reality shifted. I was no longer in, whatever realm we call our world. Everything was hazy, black and white, and distorted. The man who was standing there, had become a black figure, and took my phone and ran out the door. I was still in the 7/11, and I could see a shining bright light. It was like a fever dream as I left and walked around outside.

The sky was grey, with black clouds. I could see it was day time, and I ran around town trying to find someone to talk to. The streets were empty, no cars, no people, and it was absolute silence. I was panicking, and I had no idea where I was.

I saw the black figure in the distance. It was the outline of a person and I screamed out to him. The guy shifted his body slightly and remained motionless. I began to run towards him, but with every step closer he seemed farther away.

I’ve never done shrooms, LSD, or any type of psychedelic drug, but if I ever had a,”Bad Trip” this is what I imagine it would be like.

After what seemed like forever, the man finally moved and ran into a house. The door was wide open, and I went into it. It seemed like somebody’s home, and as I ran up the stairs, I could see doors start to open. I could feel something pulling at my arm and trying to drag me down.

Finally I got into the room of the figure. It turned around, and we just stared at each other for a second. The figure walked up to me, and out of nowhere it started strangling me to the floor. It knocked over a lamp next to me, and with all my power I took the lamp and jabbed the figure on the side of the head. I kept beating it until it was finally unconscious.

I could hear distorted voices screaming, and suddenly I found my phone on the floor out of battery. I ran back to the 7/11 to charge it. I dialed in the number I had called before. When I dialed the number, I was back in our reality, with the man gone. One thing was off, for some reason, I had blood on my hands. I sprinted over to the security footage to see what had happened.

When I saw what happened, I shit myself. I was put in a dream like state, and the man had taken my phone, and sprinted out, and I shortly followed.

I left the 7/11 at 4 am. And as I was driving home, I noticed one of the houses had police and ambulances….the same one I had entered before.

I’m fucked.

I went home and got all my necessities and skipped town. I’m currently a fugitive. I don’t know what the fuck happened, or who I did that to. But I’m not going back.

I received a text from that number days later, with a video of me entering the house, with a text reading,”We saw what you did. We need a new host. Send this number to another person, or we will release the video.”

So, I thought, where would be the best place to post a number, that people would most certainly call, as long as it had some context behind it. To whoever is next, I’m sorry, but this was your doing, and I feel no guilt if this is what you choose to do.

625-221-6237

[moonsdancer]

headcanons...

Okay, fam, I’m going to need about 40K fic of platonic soulmates (who occasionally make-out in non-serious and V. PLATONIC ways) roommates Toni and Jughead fic, STAT!

She gets locked out of her uncle’s house regularly and needs a couch to surf on, Jughead has that couch. So give me this...

housemates (trailermates?) jopaz

In which:

The two of them spend long nights lounging on Jughead’s lumpy couch, exchanging sarcastic one-liners and watching bad reality shows, late night infomercials interspersed with classic Agatha Christie and Twilight Zone reruns on a surprisingly quality flat-screen TV they technically stole.

They take turns on who does the cooking. When Jughead does it, it’s really slap-dash beans out of a can on toast with a hot dog (and a few hot dogs for the real Hot Dog) or an overcooked burger... basically, he ends up going to Pop’s and getting them the Duo Double Cheese Special (two double cheeseburgers, fries and some sodas). When Toni does it, she introduces Jughead to novel and revolutionary things like the concept of tasty vegetables and the importance of dietary fibre. Except, when Toni cooks everything tastes amazing - LIKE, restaurant level amazing. And Jughead’s not been to many fancy restaurants but he’s sure of this. Where did she get her skills? Right after her dad split, and her mom died, and she got stuck living with her uncle, her uncle’s girlfriend at the time was a chef at a local diner and she showed Toni everything she knew about a skillet. Jughead didn’t even know hot sauce and peas out of a can could do the things Toni makes it do. And jerk chicken? Toni makes the best jerk in Riverdale, he believes it. He wants to enter her chicken in contests but he’s too scared that other people will discover this treasure and STEAL IT FROM HIM! She also, weirdly, somehow, makes a gourmet grilled cheese that’s Jughead’s favourite. The two of them eat A LOT, it’s probably one of the cornerstones of their friendship.

NOTE: Jughead is ALWAYS on dish duty because Toni hates that shit, and it’s only fair.

Sometimes on nights when the both of them can’t sleep (more often than not for these two), they sit in the dark on Jughead’s trailer’s makeshift porch. Toni occasionally produces a blunt, or Jughead offers a root beer (or a real beer), that they share, while they ruminate on life, love and Riverdale’s latest lurid crime.

On days, mostly weekends, where they’ve got to do a drug/petty theft/whatever run for the Serpents, they spend the mornings oiling  and tinkering on their bikes. Toni’s better at it than Jughead is, and she shows him how to fix his busted oil gauge, where to source mostly decent old tires for when the rubber on his wears thin, and all that good shit. 

Toni’s also a faster and more skilled rider than he is, by far. She goes so fast sometimes, that she disappears on the long stretches of road in front of Jughead, and by the time he catches up, she’s idling by some tree, filing her nails, quirking her eyebrow to ask “What took you so long, Juggie?”

Jughead shows Toni all his favourite places on the Northside. She didn’t have any reason to explore it before, and now she gets to see it through his eyes, and see that maybe it’s not all bad asshole territory. The old drive-in’s totally gutted, and it’s mostly covered in a half-completed paved car-park and dusty construction crap, but they spend some nights out there anyway, throwing rocks at signs, and racing their bikes in circles.

Toni shows Jughead some of her photos, even the ones she’s never shown anyone, that she’s gathered in dusty albums as part of her portfolio.  She’s always dreamed of being one of those awesome travel photographers or maybe fashion or a hard-hitting journalista... anything that would allow her to get out and see the world. “It’s a dumb dream,” she says, with a wry twist of her mouth. “It’ll never happen, or whatever.” Jughead puts a hand on hers and says with confidence, like he’s never been more sure of anything in his life, “It will - I believe in you.”

In turn, Jughead shares some of his stories with her. Short stories that he started writing when he was twelve, remnants of novels that he’s never finished, the Riverdale story he’s constantly writing now. The first time, he just shoved a sheaf of papers at her and ran away to his room, too scared to wait and see what her reaction to reading it would be. But then she gave it back to him, with a few notes in the margins, some really great feedback that helped Jug see where he could improve a couple of things, and a big smiley-crying face (:’DDDDD) with a few hilarious doodles at the end along with the words, You have a gift, don’t ever let anyone make you think different. Now he doesn’t get so shy.

They work on articles for the RED AND BLACK together. The newspaper’s held together with nothing but sticky tape and a wad of gum, and the school doesn’t bother to give them any funds to produce it - but they both believe in it so much that they turn it into an online blog (which is much better for Toni who takes care of all the photography). Riverdale needs to hear the voices of the Southside, to know that the town might step all over them but they’re not worthless or dead. They can still speak out about the shitty reality of their town. It starts with only a few clicks, but when they break a Ghoulie trafficking ring story - there’s no going back. Their “little blog” starts giving the official town paper a run for its money.

They share their war stories. Jughead tells Toni about the day his mother left with Jelly Bean. He tells her about what it was like growing up with his dad, and how he decided to run away and live homeless because he couldn’t take it anymore. About being the weird loner kid in high school whose only friends were good people but that he never could quite shake the feeling of being their charity case or something. The horrible feeling that he was a walking reminder that they might have terrible lives, but at least they weren’t having it as bad as Jughead and his shitty father and his absentee mother. Toni tells Jughead about the day her dad split - she can’t really remember it perfectly, she was five or whatever. She just remembers the sound of the door swinging on its hinges, the voices of her parents yelling at each other, and then her mom locking herself up in her room, crying. After her mom passed, she tried to find her dad. She even got an phone number, somewhere out in Tennessee or something. She hasn’t called it. She tells him about her uncle, who took her in with great reluctance. He wasn’t all bad, at least for the first few years. But then he lost a bunch of money (gambling addiction), and Toni got mixed up with the Serpents. She managed to keep him from getting his ass killed for not paying his debt, and he ends up locking her out of the house whenever the whim takes him because he blames her for all his shitty life choices. It’s whatever. She has a bed, and a roof over her head 1-2 days out of the week. Sweet Pea puts her up some nights, Fangs too, a couple of her on-offs as well. “That’s more than a lot of people can say, right?”

Toni’s the first person Jughead tells that he thinks he might be demisexual and demiromantic or something. That he feels like maybe something’s wrong with him because he loves Betty but sometimes he’s not sure it’s in the way she wants him or needs him to love her. Toni never laughs at him or tells him he’s weird, she just listens and accepts, and he appreciates that.

Jughead reluctantly co-hosts a party with Betty and Archie for the sole purpose of creating an opportunity for Toni to maybe, possibly, probably hit on Cheryl. And you know he must care for Toni a lot because Jughead + Parties is just NO. Anyway, Toni and Cheryl date for a while, and they’re really into each other even though they fight quite a bit. Jughead doesn’t think the weird curdling, burning feeling in the pit of his stomach is jealousy per se because him and Toni aren’t like that. But a tiny ugly part of him is relieved when Toni and Cheryl call it quits in the summer after senior year. “We’re just on different paths, y’know,” Toni says, her eyes are a little red, and Jughead cuddles with her for long hours and makes his infamous beans on toast. 

She’s right though: Cheryl’s off to Paris for something or other. Toni and he are taking a roadtrip on their motorbikes all the way across the country, then down the West Coast and maybe even as far as they can get through Central America (hopefully). It’s not the “responsible” thing to do, but neither of them is sure they want to apply to college like Betty and Veronica, hell, Archie did. And they definitely couldn’t afford it, so an adventure seems like a good idea. Sweet Pea’s coming along for most of the US-leg but he has to come back to help with his family’s shop. Either way, it’ll be awesome, Toni taking photographs, Jughead writing -- maybe they’ll both get their dreams after all!

I could go on. I really could.

But. Someone, please, make it happen. I might make it happen. I make no promises.

[skinchbbbwc2019]

The Television Project Sketches

The Television project

·        Parody sketch show of modern life/everyday life .

·        Somewhat random humour.

·        Limmy’s show/Loiter squad/Twilight zone

·        Probably all acted like me, I would be the “presenter” as it were.

The Television Project

Starts by man on screen tying up his laces , he looks up and says “ welcome to the television project” then holds a remote to the camera and turns the screen black.

Hikou (extended cutaway)

Presenter comes on screen , makes a series of ums and ahs as he looks around sheepishly then ends by simply saying “ that was my hikou, thank you”. Walks off screen.

Attention span (cutaway)

Man calmly says “Peoples attention spans are short these days” then walks off screen.

Camrelationsip

Series of scenes in which presenter begins a relationship with the camera (and therefore audience), almost porn like but done very earnestly.

Checkout

Normal checkout experience but interaction is like self checkout experience. Worker asks stone faced “ please check bagging area” ,etc.

Jasmine Tea

Man talks to camera and holds up 2 mugs, one looks colourful and “calming”, the other is a normal modern white mug. He asks “which mug would you pour this lovely pot of jasmine tea into ?”.He takes a beat , reacts to the audiences answer and then asks “what mug would you pour this tasty pot of coffee into?”. He takes another beat and just nods knowingly at the camera to scene ends.

What’s so funny?

Man laughing at something on a computer. Cut. Presenter comes on screen and says “You wondering what he’s laughing at?” . Escaltes.

Consciousness(cutaway)

Presenter walks on screen and asks “today’s question is… What IS Consciousness?”

Old Water

Man wakes up enormously thirsty. He begins to contemplate drinking the glass of water at the end of his bed. Evil voices in his head try and get him to drink it, it builds up dramatically to him taking a sip and just not enjoying it.

 Flexing on my feet

Trap song about designer socks.

Race neutral

A dystopian series of bits following a drug that makes the taker “race neutral” which is just white.

It changes the way they look, act , tastes, etc.

No one refers to it as being white, just “race neutral” or “RN”.

Initial segment can be an over the top infomercial .

Perhaps a small louis Theroux style parody on addicts of “RN” , they act like generic addicts (talking fast, scratching themselves, grinding teeth) with boring white twists, rambling about good school districts, coffee,etc.

A “lite” version comes out and there are riots in stores.

First Cigarette (possible cutaway)

Man smoking a cigarette directly addresses the camera and talks inspirationally about how good the first one of the day is, how it gives you that rush to get through the day and then finishes the cigarette and just gives a sad glance to the camera (being all you need to see that that speech wasn’t true)

Phone stories (cutaway)

Transition from previous segment to be zooming out from man watching the last segment on phone on Instagram, then clicks next story/post and it is just blurry footage someone filmed in a club and as he clicks on just lets out an annoyed sigh.

“Something’s wrong with my legs and they don’t know what”

Reoccurring Odd TLC style real life documentary about a guy who doesn’t know whats wrong with his legs , follows him going to multiple places to find out it isn’t THIS oddly specific thing. E.g. goes to a doctor and finds out its not cancer, maybe he has a catchphrase like “whats wrong with em”. Man should have accent  ( scouse, northern). Conclusion : “We have your results back… its not good… your legs don’t work”

Buzz (cutaway)

Man working at a computer hears a bee for a few seconds giving the illusion of tension, he kills the bee immediately.

Microwave (possible cutaway)

Man puts something in the microwave for 30 seconds, stands by the microwave as he “slowly” begins to have dramatic flashbacks to the beeping of the microwave (shot/acted like ptsd flashback). Man abruptly takes food out before the beeping starts with 2 seconds to go.

Sound swap

A reoccurring series of mundane/everyday scenes play out (e.g. going to the toilet, eating dinner,etc.) but individual sounds are replaced for comedic effect (e.g. flush, coughing, sink,etc.)

Train friends

Possibly series of scenes of a man on public transport noticing that nobody sits next to him, subtly looks disappointed. VO saying “why does no one sit next to me”.

In another scene perhaps he notices someone with people either side of him looking at him smugly (beginning some sort of personal rivalry).

Stairs

Sketch about how you know whos walking up stairs at home.

Cliffhanger

Man walks on raised sidewalk like a kid but escalates quickly into dramatic cliffhanger(music changes, fast cuts etc.). Suited men all of a sudden begin chasing him on raised sidewalk.-

Intellectual beard

Man’s beard gets itchy any time he does anything remotely intellectual , eventually starts bleeding.

Lipsync

A man lipsyncs a song into a mirror without breaking eye contact with himself.

Something in my throat

Man starts talking in a south African accent after he begins chocking on something. He pulls something nonsensical out of his throat like a length of rope.

Camera perspective

Scene begins with POV shot from man holding camera pointing at something far away , the camera falls and as it does we see the man is in the far away position casually eating a large sandwich. Someone comes and picks up the camera looking very surprised as they have just seen him disappear. They point it at the man and he waves.

Finishing sentences

Man in conversation begins to be cut off(in edit) right before he finishes his sentence, it appears to hurt him. He tries to keep his sentence going as long as he can.

Eye contact counter

Man has a conversation with someone (perhaps with camera) awkwardly and subtly looks away a lot, breaking eye contact. Each time he breaks eye contact a bell rings with a counter going up in the corner, maybe it’s a physical counter in the frame of the film.

Ad break

Man breaks structure of film and appears in the POV’s house as he is about to watch another screen. Man says “now time for a quick break”, pulls out a box of Bisto and simply says “ahhhhhhhhhhh” (like the ad) very rigidly while looking around smugly then walks away.

Tell it to Collin

Man is in the midst of a heated argument about whether it is “your” or “you’re”. The camera changes from him to a one shot of a dictionary.

Shouting match

Man on one screen has a loud conversation with the same man on another screen across the room .

[theinsanecrayonbox]

first lines

(saw this meme and went “yeah gotta do this!”)

List the first lines of your last 20 stories (or however many you have altogether). See if there’s any patterns.

CoK: Prologue 1 (July 2016) *i’m not doing each Prologue separately since they’re all written to go together*

The sounds of fists beating into all sorts of metal accompanied by the occasional laser blast and a guttural yell echoed quite well down the hallway. Scarlet was coming out of the barracks, scrolling on a tablet as he walked, when he heard it. As he looked up from the device, he couldn’t help but raise a brow at the display in the hallway; several Academy recruits and a few S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel were grouped outside of the door to the training room, apparently watching in awe. This intrigued the red spider enough to warrant investigating, so he went up to join the group. 

CoK: Holiday Special (Dec 2016)

The holiday season was on in full swing at the Parker house. May had always been fond of the season; all that good will was like catnip to her. And having the house full of teenagers again (not that it wasn't these days it seemed) just made it all the better.

CoK: The New Normal (Apr 2017)

Nothing felt right. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Nothing felt like anything. No right, no wrong, there was just no feeling whatsoever.

Power Pals: Children of Tomorrow -prologue- (Sept 2015)

The city of New Chincinnati, named such after the city was destroyed nearly a decade before in a great super battle, and rebuilt from the ground up. Since then, the city itself had become well known for attracting what one would call “super villains”, leading to S.T.A.G.E. Labs setting up their base complex of operations just outside the city’s limits; debates often ensued over whether their presence was protecting the city from attacks, or actually encouraging them more. NC-ers were well known for their ever lasting memories; never forget, never forgive, especially when it came to the “Supers”.

The Bully and the Geek (Apr 2010) Ao3 link

It'd been a few years since he'd been back in this city, let alone the state of country. And yet, the moment he set foot on the asphalt he knew this was home. When he was younger this was the only place his family had stayed for more than three months; it was where all of his best childhood memories were made.

FOP: Why Sonic Left the STT (Jan 2011)

The florescent light thrummed loudly over head, mocking him with their rhythmatic crackling. Four walls, no windows, one door. It was a box, a cage if you would. He hated being locked up, like he couldn't breathe. But that feeling just pushed him harder, made him hit harder, strike harder, move faster.

MH: The Confession (Feb 2014)

He really couldn’t believe he was even considering this. He sat on his bed, in his dorm room, just staring at the small corked bottle in his hands. The plan his “fairy godmother” had suggested was that he, go to Cupid’s secret dance, and basically drug her, using the Love in Idleness just like his father had…in his story.

MH: Different Things (July 2014)

The night sky was clear tonight, so clear it was almost too hard to tell apart the stars from the fire flies (hint: stars aren’t yellow or blinking). The air was thick with humidity; that was something he would not miss in the least bit. 

Sabertooth Mpreg Fic (Aug 2009) Ao3 link

This couldn't be happening. It was impossible. There was no way this could've happened again. Not unless...He growled as the memories stung sharp and fresh in his mind, as if it was merely days, and not decades ago that the "incident"...even calling it that made it sound dirty, which it was! Just thinking about what they made him do, with that "thing"...it just set his blood boiling.

Creed Family Drabble (July 2014)

She stood at the top of the stairs, on her very tippiest of toes so she could peek down over the railing. He was down stairs, stretched out on the worn leather couch, the TV on with some infomercial on as background; he was probably asleep.

XM: DoFP: Don’t Stop Running (Jun 2014) Ao3 link

My first memories aren’t all that special. I grew up in what may have been the last piece of modern suburbia for all I know. The war outside my doorstep didn’t seem like a big deal; my parents never brought it up around me, there wasn’t any need.

RvB: Secret Agent Man (Apr 2014)

Uhg, you know, I’m getting really tired of waking up on Doc’s table. Like seriously, the least the guy could do is, you know, put down a sheet and a pillow, or something. I’m not talking about Ritz turn down service or anything special like that-although those little mints would be nice, or ooo, chocolates. Yeah, chocolates would be nice.

RvB: Store Run (May 2014)

“Wash wake up.”

He tried to cling to the darkness of sleep. He tried to ignore the pestering voice, the touch on his shoulder that was shaking him.

“Waaaaaash!!!”

Hadn’t he fallen asleep alone? So there shouldn’t have been anyone in bed with him, no one to pester him, no one to disturb him. It had to be a dream, all in his head. Maybe if he just ignored it, it would go away and he could just go back to sleeping peacefully…

DnD Stuffs: The Tale of Lokianna (Mar 2014)

There was screaming; terrible, terrible sounds and just fire all around. They ran as fast as their little feet would let them, trying to navigate through the throngs of people and…other things. They had been separated from their parents when an explosion had rocked the courtyard where they had been standing; the rift the explosion had caused tore the visiting royal family apart as chaos reigned down upon them all. Now it was all they could do to avoid being trampled by the fleeing people, and the advancing demonic hoards.

My Padclock Fic (Feb 2014)

June 19th had always been the worst day of the year for her. Her dog had been hit by a car when she was 6 on June 19th. Her parents had told her they were getting divorced when she 12 on June 19th. She got her rejection letter from art school when she was 18 on June 19th. And she’s caught her fiancé cheating with her best friend when she was 24 on June 19th. She’d been dumped, fired, or had some sort of wardrobe accident more times than she could count, and it always seemed to happen on June 19th.

TFP: Wrecking Ball (Jan 2014) Ao3 link

There was fire. Fire as far as an optic could see. Whatever the structure had been at one point couldn’t be distinguished from the raging blaze that consumed it now. The roar of the flames droned out any orders the C.O. was dishing out, but it didn’t matter, they could most likely figure it out on their own.

TFCC: Seeker Sweater Card (Dec 2013) Ao3 link

The holiday season had fully fallen upon the offices of Kaon Enterprises. In years past festivities had been few and far between because of most of the management’s opposition to it. But this year was different.

TFCC: Heartattack (Oct 2013) Ao3 link

“I’ve seen the way you look at her.” “What the hell are you talking about?”

Diner Wager (Sept 2014)

The 24 Hour Diner neon sign outside blinked, beckoning those weary travelers off the dusty trek outside in for a moment’s respite. The place smelled of grease and stale coffee, even more so at this late of an hour.

Black Butler in America (Feb 2011)

The old wooden floor creaked as two sets of bare little feet tried to sneak across them without their parents hearing them from down within the parlor. White cotton gowns swirled around their ankles as they stopped; was that an abnormal creak? Had they heard them? The older girl pushed her younger sister forward a bit; the younger nearly loosing grip on the candle she was holding. They continued forward, still as careful with their steps, right up until they reached the bathroom.  The two scooted into it and closed the door slowly, carefully.

[3ezentrum3-blog]

Alternative Healing - The Answer to the Health Care Crisis?

Is it accurate to say that you are well? Have you made a guarantee to your self, to your wellbeing and prosperity? Do you know how to start to turn your wellbeing around, or to improve the endowment of wellbeing you as of now have?

Why not?

Have you made due with not as much as ideal wellbeing? Do you live with uneasiness that conventional western drug can't recuperate? It is safe to say that you are surrendered to declining as the years progress?

Why?

Perhaps this is on the grounds that you don't have the foggiest idea about that there is an alternative. Or on the other hand perhaps you believe that lone a fortunate few get the opportunity to encounter dynamic wellbeing. Possibly you stress all that elective stuff is for wackos and tree huggers. Or on the other hand possibly you're only somewhat reluctant to venture out explore your alternatives.

The greater part of this is justifiable. The contemporary western therapeutic framework has a stranglehold on data. Western solution depends on a couple of fundamental presumptions that limited its potential. Furthermore, the cash that is included loses the focal point of human services off of the prosperity of the patient (where it ought to be) and onto the opposition for dollars - from examine subsidizing to sedate organization benefits to medical coverage organization main concerns.

Our human services framework is more than broken. It is mixed up at its center presumptions. How about we take, for instance, the suspicion that all ailment isn't right or awful. Indeed, dis-ease in our bodies more often than not pushes us to look at our needs, compels us to rest, as well as enables us to get mind from others. Pretty much everybody would concur that these three exercises can tremendously enhance our personal satisfaction - and that individuals infrequently do them without the catalyst of an ailment.

We have to address different suppositions as well. Is it genuine that our bodies are simply unsurprising compound machines? Or then again is there something to the antiquated lessons about existence constrain vitality that vitalizes our bodies? Is it best to consistently mitigate side effects? Or then again may it be advantageous to search for basic reasons for conditions? Is it best for therapeutic work force to endorse and arrange jargoned medications? Or then again may a more viable mending happen when a patient strides into duty regarding his or her own particular care?

These inquiries are not notwithstanding being talked about in the present "human services banter." Luckily, we don't need to sit tight for our legislature to choose how to swathe a broken social insurance framework. We can bring our own particular health into our own hands at the present time!

The National Center for Complementary and Alternative Medicine (NCCAM) reports that no less than 38% of Americans have searched out an option or correlative mending treatment. You most likely know a few people who have had effective and tasteful collaborations with homeopathic, hypnotherapeutic or vibrational therapeutic specialists and medicines.

The scope of option and integral restorative systems is enormous and can incorporate back rub, homeopathy, needle therapy, vitamin/mineral supplementation, home grown cures, Energy Medicine, Reiki, JoRei, QiGong, spellbinding, guided symbolism, fragrance based treatment, Ayurvedic medication, magnet treatment, spinal control, contemplation, sound mending, Naturopathy, conventional Chinese prescription, petition and otherworldly recuperating, Tai Chi, Yoga and that's just the beginning.

On the off chance that you don't realize what a portion of these modalities are, you are not the only one. Some are current; others have been around for a considerable length of time. They speak to a tremendous store of information and experience that is totally undiscovered - and regularly disparaged - inside the western therapeutic worldview.

Elective medication is characterized as medicines that supplant customary restorative medications. A case may get a back rub to ease a cerebral pain instead of popping a couple of ibuprofen. Integral medications are those that individuals use notwithstanding customary medicinal medications, for instance, utilizing herbs to neutralize the sickness that regularly goes with chemotherapy.

The NCCAM site additionally incorporates tips for conversing with your specialist about option and integral pharmaceutical. As far as I can tell, specialists are typically inspired by data about choices and welcome the talk. Truth be told, numerous doctors utilize option or reciprocal cures themselves!

The vast majority have no clue how energetically sound they can be. We have become used to feeling OK more often than not, enduring a cornucopia of little a throbbing painfulness, tolerating the "reality" of declining with age, and being content in the event that we remain out of the healing center. We see a few people living long sound lives; the specialists disclose to us it must be their qualities. We know other people who never become ill; the therapeutic foundation discloses to us they should have solid invulnerable frameworks, yet can't reveal to us how we can accomplish that as well. We've all known about or know somebody who made an exceptional recuperation from a genuine condition; we are informed this is a "restorative wonder" or "unconstrained reduction." Maybe they're off-base.

Perhaps we would all be able to seek to long, solid lives. Possibly we can each hop out of bed each morning, energized and empowered. Perhaps we can discover approaches to treat the medical problems that come our way in a way that expands our essentialness and improves our experience of life. Possibly we can assume greater liability for investigating and picking medicines that will work for us. Possibly at least one of these option and correlative modalities hold the appropriate responses we are searching for. Possibly these are the subjects we should discuss, considering, exploring and subsidizing.

Obviously we must be cautious, astute shoppers and look somewhat more profound than the hard offer infomercials on TV. In any case, the more premium we appear, the more exchanges we have with our therapeutic experts about choices, the more personalities will open and the more consideration - and dollars - will stream towards the investigation of modalities that can possibly enable us to accomplish unfathomable levels of health and imperativeness. I'm prepared for that. It is safe to say that you are?

Sue Bryan attempts to help cognizance arousing around the world. She has been a parent mentor and teacher for more than 25 years, working with several families to bring up cognizant, effective kids. She presently has a private instructing work on helping her customers in recuperating and changing their lives through vitality based training. Visit her at [http://www.inward-journey.com]. Also, look at the NCCAM site for more assets at http://www.nccam.nih.gov.

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