#Speaking of bushman

[gin-stan]

If the TV show varient of marc went through the same thing with bushman as comic book marc, then TV marc is an accomplice to war crimes 💀💀.

[backstabbing-spook]

I disapeared for abit and youre going out with the PISSER OF JARS??

You scare me

@eagle-head-charge

@the-red-sniper

Merde. They don't know about how I have two hands...

[backstabbing-spook]

@the-red-sniper Do you think Ms. Pauling will let us take a holiday?

just two totally best buds on vacation

[csuitebitches]

Fearless Social Confidence: Strategies to Live Without Fear, Speak Without Insecurity, Beat Social Anxiety, and Stop Caring What Others Think - Patrick King book notes

Socially confident people:

expect to be accepted. When they meet strangers, they expect to make a good impression. They never approach situations thinking, “What if they don’t like me?” Instead they think, “I hope I like them.”

evaluate themselves positively. Socially confident people are encouraging, positive, and accepting of themselves. They give themselves leeway not to be perfect and don’t beat themselves up too harshly when they are not.

feel comfortable around superiors. Socially confident people feel comfortable because they don’t feel threatened, or that their flaws and vulnerabilities will be highlighted by the other person’s qualities.

With a lack of social confidence, you are usually choosing the thought that is cruelest to yourself.

when navy SEALs recognize that they are feeling overwhelmed, they regain control by focusing on their breath—breathing in for four seconds, holding for four seconds, and then out for four seconds, and repeating until you can feel your heart rate slow down and normalize.

Core beliefs: 

Steps in a thought diary entry can be arranged in the easy-to-remember A-C-B format—

Activating Event. Note down the event/ situation. This is simply the origin point of your emotional change. It’s whatever caused your emotional status to change from calm to agitation (a memory, a song, etc).

Consequences. In this step you identify the specific emotions and sensations that arose. These could be simple feeling words— “anxious,” “unhappy,” “sickened,” “panicky,” “melancholy,” “confused,” and so forth.

Beliefs. This is where the action begins. How do you link the activating event with the consequences? What unconscious narrative or story about yourself was told to achieve the consequence? (“What was I thinking?”  “What was going through my head when this happened?”  “What’s wrong with that?”“What does this all mean?”  “What does it reveal about me?”)

Now you’ve gotten to the bottom of your situation and figured out what your core beliefs are.

The first step is writing down one of the core beliefs you’ve just uncovered. Ask yourself what experiences you’ve had that prove your core belief wasn’t always true. Generate as many experiences as you can and be very specific about what happened.

Write down the core belief you’re examining.  Think of ways that you can put that belief to the test. These are actual tasks that you can perform.  Then, write down what you expect or predict will happen after conducting these tasks if your core belief was true.  Perform the tasks.  Write down what really happened after you completed your task.  Compare and contrast your predictions with what actually happened. Finally, document what you learned from the task and come up with a new, more reasonable core belief that goes in line with your discoveries.

Bushman’s results imply that sometimes the best course of action after being provoked to anger is to just sit quietly and let it pass.

There’s a direct link between social anxiety and negativity. A 2016 Australian research study showed that “elevated social anxiety vulnerability is characterized only by facilitated attentional engagement with socially negative information.” Obsessing over negative details—including by constantly talking about one’s problems—only reinforces one’s social fears and does nothing to inspire real confidence in a social setting.

Personalization is the mother of guilt. In the cognitive distortion of personalizing, you feel responsible for events that cannot conceivably be your fault. While it is admirable to take responsibility for your actions, there are things completely out of your control: the subway schedule, other people’s actions, and a million day-to-day factors.

Common cues of overgeneralization are “always” and “never.” When starting a sentence or a thought with “always” or “never,” consider whether you have the experience or evidence to back up the statement.

Other people aren't only what they are showing to the world. Most people put on a good show. But do you really know what might be going on in their private life? Take comfort from the fact that while there will be many people who are better at certain things than you are, there are also most certainly things that you will be better at.

If you are self-conscious and worried that people will judge you if you say something stupid or “off,” there's an easy workaround to that. The best approach is simple preparation. Create answers to predictable questions and conversations. Run that mental videotape in your mind about your past 10, 20, or 30 social conversations. I guarantee they are not all that different from each other.

Figure out the general questions that people will ask and the topics that will come up in normal conversation and be prepared with story-answers. For example, How was your weekend? What are you doing this weekend? How was your day? What do you do for work?

How can we ease ourselves into social confidence little by little? 

List the social situations you avoid. Ask yourself what kinds of gatherings or circumstances you steer clear of and write them all down in a list. Your list should include both physical situations—parties, family gatherings, work presentations, and so forth—and personal experiences that you don’t want to face.

Give each situation a SUDS level from 0 to 100.

Plan your goals.

Build your goal stepladder. You’ve planned a goal and have decided to start work. Remember, situational exposure is a bit-by-bit process.

[backstabbing-spook]

Knocks on your door.

"Spook? You ready, darl'?"

- @the-red-sniper

The door slowly opens and there's the delicate scent of an expensive cologne. Spy is standing there in a perfectly pressed and perfectly tailored suit. The suit is made out of a soft looking material, maybe velvet? It's in burgundy, with a satin collar.

Spy has no mask on, showing his somewhat pale and stubbled face. He's combed and styled his hair back, and not one hair is out of place. Though, Spy kept the gloves on.

"Yes." He simply says.

[theonemeathead]

Sniper x Reader, "Quick Trip"

a sniper x reader smutfic! tw for afab anatomy, the implications of the word 'sheila'. enjoy!

August. One of the hottest months of the year, not to mention it was the hottest day in New Mexico yet. A ceasefire had been called until further notice, the temperature being down right deadly. There was no shade for miles, within the border of the Badlands.

Which just so happened to be where you lived. Your residence, currently, was Teufort's RED base. You had been on base for a couple of years now, you got along with everyone well enough; Some more than others.

Which leads you to the current situation.

You see, Sniper was about to leave on a joint-contract with Scout; Somewhere not nearly as blazing hot. And he was going to be gone for almost two weeks. Clearly, this didn't bode well with you as you stood, with crossed arms, in front of him. You had been begging him all day to let you tag along, but he refused, insistently.

"Mundy, this isn't fair! The AC in the base is broken, you gotta—!"

"I said no, sheila," he cut you off, his tone stern. Of course, you didn't take well to being talked over, especially by your boyfriend. You furrowed your brow, opening your mouth to speak, when you were interrupted, yet again.

"Sick! Ya coming with us?" Ah, Scout. His Boston accent never failed to amuse you, especially with the mischievous glint in his eyes whenever he spoke. He smiled wide, hopeful that you could maybe make the car ride a little less dull. Sniper usually wasn't one for small talk, you were lucky if you could even get a head nod out of him.

"No." "Yes!"

You and Sniper said in unison, he shot you a nasty side eye from behind his aviators. You never understood how Sniper was able to take the heat so easily. He was still wearing his full uniform, boots and all. You had half a mind not to strip naked with how unbearable the temperature was. However, still somewhat sane, decided against that and listened to your better judgement for once.

"Aw, c'mon, Snipes, let 'em tag along! At least they talk," Scout tried to reason, taking your side. Sniper sighed dramatically, grumbling something you couldn't quite understand. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at you.

"You're both insufferable. Get in." Your eyes lit up immediately. You had gotten your way, per usual. You clambered into the vehicle, sitting directly in the middle between the other two mercenaries. The black leather seats had definitely seen their fair share of wear and tear, various holes burned from dropped cigarettes, some exposed, yellow foam from the peeling material... But Sniper loved his van. In between your legs was the comically long stick-shift. The handle was slightly chipped away and the design faded from being used so often. Sniper refused to drive anything but manual, because it's 'the right way' he said. With a loud sigh, Sniper had pulled himself in on the driver's side, buckling his seat belt in one swift motion. He clicked the key forward in the ignition, the camper sputtering to life. It was definitely old and in desperate need of repair. The bushman reached forward for the gearshift, his rough hands accidentally brushing the top of your knee as he put the car into 1st gear. Normally, gestures such as this didn't get to you. But, something felt off about it this time.

The first 10 minutes of the car ride turned out to be a bust. Sniper was too focused on the road and Scout was knocked out, cold. The only sound was the distant crackling of the radio and the soft snores from your teammate. You had one exciting moment when Sniper went to shift to 3rd, his hand grazing your leg yet again. You shot him a quick glance, unsure if it was on purpose on not. Sniper wasn't one to tease. You leaned forward with a sigh, slightly turning the dial on the radio to the right. It was set on a classic rock station currently playing a song by Men At Work. You didn't know much about the band, besides the fact Sniper really liked them.

"I love this song." Sniper's gruff voice had come out slightly whispery. You squirmed a little in your seat. Did he always have this affect on you? His Aussie accent had rang through you ears. It was such a simple string of words, but coupled with the fleeting touches, it was... different. About an hour and a half into the car ride, Sniper made the executive decision to stop at a gas station a couple miles up the road. With Scout still asleep, Sniper pulled up to the pump, slamming the breaks to scare the sleeping Bostonion awake. With an abrupt 'oof', Scout was up and ready to fight immediately.

"What—! What is it?! What happened, are we dead??" He yelped, looking around frantically. Scout paused, huffing when he saw that you were all just in park. "You guys are freakin' assholes, I'm gonna go take a leak."

With the 3 of you filing out of Sniper's front seat, you watched as Scout stretched and walked towards the gas station itself. Behind you, Sniper had already unscrewed the gas cap, removing the nozzle and forcing it into the tank. With a simple 'click', diesel fluid immediately began pouring out. Sniper stared at it for a second before abruptly pulling on the handle of the side door of the van, exposing the inside to you. Confused, you looked up at him.

"I told ya I didn't want you coming on this trip, roo." His tone was dark, almost sadistic. Your brows pinned up, a bit of fear beginning to creep through your system. Sniper never took a tone with you. He turned to you, his eyes hidden behind his yellow-tinted aviators. You swallowed thickly, afraid of what was next. "Come here."

You obeyed, stepping closer to him timidly. Immediately, you were manhandled, almost thrown into the back of his camper van. You stared in surprise, yelping as he slammed the door closed behind the both of you. You didn't have time to react before he was on you, his mouth meeting yours. The kiss wasn't pretty or experienced as his teeth clacked against yours, his lips bruising and hungry. He must've been pent up, watching you flaunt yourself around in that low-cut tanktop and those too-short shorts. Just as fast as he had started, he had pulled away. The marksman looked you up and down, as if you were nothing but prey.

"This is the entire reason I didnt want'cha to come, darl'. Just can't keep my bloody hands off ya."

A flash of red was all you saw before you were flipped onto your stomach, Sniper using his long limbs to entangle your arms behind your back. He had you like a wrangled animal, trapped and helpless. He grunted quietly, cursing under his breath as he kept you pinned with one arm. He used his one free hand and made quick work of your bottoms, sliding them, along with your underwear, down to rest just below your ass. You jolted at the feeling of his caloused hand immediately delving into your folds, as if to relax you. A low whimper left your throat, the feeling of his long, thick fingers tracing themselves inside of you, curling to hit the right spot.

You didn't have much time, however, and Sniper knew this. He retracted his fingers, sucking whatever juices was on them off. The clinking of a belt, along with shuffling fabric excited you further. Although you couldn't look back, you could feel him start to guide his long length towards your aching hole. He slid into you, slowly. Sniper wasn't thick per se, but he was definitely long. The head of his cock practically kissed your insides in all the right places. With how wet you were, you didn't need much time to accommodate his size. Snapping his hips into your ass, you could feel every drag of his cock, every pulse and vein. His pace started off bruising, the hand keeping you pinned down began leaving crescent-shaped indents from his fingernails.

There was something primal about this. The heat had burned extra hot that day, and so did your lover, it seemed. He reached his free hand under you, beginning to rub sloppy circles on your clit. Shortly after, you eyes had screwed shut, a line of drool beginning to leak from your mouth. The campervan had rocked slightly with each thrust, your pants and pleas falling upon deaf ears as Sniper used your body. It wasn't long until you tried to warn him, maybe a little too late.

"Mick, I—!" Before you could continue, you had came, your own moan cutting you off. Sniper had a sick, twisted smile, letting go of your arms to focus fully on grabbing your hips. He had started slamming your overstimulated, quivering cunt back into him. It sent shocks through your body, the pleasure quickly turning to pain as it became too much

"Fuck, I love ya, roo. I'm gonna fill ya right up, make ya mine." His thrusts grew erratic, almost sloppy, as a string of curses and praise left his lips as he hilted himself fully inside of you. You heard a small groan, followed by some deep breaths as Sniper came inside of you. With a groan, he pulled out, his cock growing softer by the second. He yanked his pants up, buckling his belt back with extreme ease and skill. There was no time for aftercare. He helped you slide your clothes back up, your trembling thighs sending delight through him. He picked his slouch hat up from off the ground, dusting it off. He held a crooked smile as he placed it atop your head, the hat much too big for you. He had finished pumping gas, screwing the cap back on before leaning against the front of his Chevy.

"Where's Scout?"

"I paid him $20 to piss off somewhere for like half an hour. He'll be back soon, love."

[backstabbing-spook]

@the-red-sniper I like this.

i think theyre alright.

[edelfan]

“I hate you! I don't ever wanna see your face again!”

Over 1 year later…

“Pete, I know you just got back, but that's no excuse to leave your mess all over the house.”

Having just come home from work, Ice had to bypass Mav’s jacket and horrendous cowboy boots in the middle of the hallway, an empty beer bottle and crumbs of chips leading him to the other man lounging on the couch.

“But you still love me.”

Mav was tiredly smiling up at him, making Ice shake his head fondly.

“Sometimes I wonder why. Even Bradley wasn't-”

Groaning frustratingly, Ice pulled his ringing cell phone out of his pocket, frowning at the unknown number on the display.

“Ignore it…”

“You know I can't… Kazansky, hello?”

“Hello, my name is Gracie Bushman. I’m a nurse at St. Joseph’s Rehabilitation and Care Center in Maryland. Am I speaking to Rear Admiral Thomas Kazansky?”

“Speaking. How may I help you, ma’am?”

“I was referred to you because I’m looking for someone called ‘Mav’ or ‘Maverick��? Also someone possibly nicknamed ‘Ice’?”

“Maverick, Commander Pete Mitchell, is my… wingman from my active days as a naval aviator. That's his callsign, mine was Iceman. But why-?”

“I think you need to come to Maryland as soon as possible.”

~~~

“Thank you for coming so fast.”

Mav and Ice had taken the first flight to Washington, their minds still reeling with what they had heard, now following Gracie through the hallways of the rehab center.

“No problem at all. So, this patient…”

“He had been admitted to hospital as a John Doe after being involved in a car accident. There had been nothing on him to identify him. He had suffered severed head injuries, leaving him in a coma and a vegetative state for several weeks before he was transferred here. He’s been with us for over three months when he slowly started showing signs of awareness. A few weeks ago he started to mumble words, but they didn't make any sense to us at first. But he seemed persistent, so I started researching…”

“And that's how you found us.”

Pete’s voice was barely audible when they finally stopped in front of a door.

“Yeah. Now, before going in, you need to know that he sustained severe scarring in the accident as well. It might take him a while to focus on you. Whatever happens, try not to stress him too much.”

Mav and Ice could only nod as Gracie knocked on the door.

“Hey, honey, you got some visitors today…”

The young man in the bed didn't look up at first. He was pale and thin, red scars all over his face, but there was no doubt…

“Oh my God, Bradley…”

They couldn't hold themselves back anymore. Soon enough Mav was almost crawling onto the bed, wrapping Bradley into his arms as Ice grabbed his boney hands and didn't let go.

“Oh baby goose…”

Very slowly Bradley’s eyes started to take them in and suddenly a loud sob ripped through him. Floods of tears were running down his cheeks.

“Da… Pop…”

There was no single dry eye in the room at this moment.

“Yeah, baby, we’re here… we’re here.”

[ptseti]

”The traitor of other races is generally confined to the mediocre or irresponsible individual, but, unfortunately, the traitors among the Negro race are generally to be found among the men with the highest place in education and society, the fellows who call themselves leaders.” - Hon Marcus Garvey

The African is dying out . . . There is only one thing to save the African, and that is an immediate realization of his own responsibilities. Unfortunately, we are the most careless and indifferent people in the world! We are shiftless and irresponsible . . . It is strange to hear an African leader speak in this strain, as the usual course is flattery, but I would not flatter you to save my own life and that of my own family. There is no value in flattery. . . . Must I flatter you when I find all other peoples preparing themselves for the struggle to survive, and you still smiling, eating, dancing, drinking and sleeping away your time, as if yesterday were the beginning of the age of pleasure? I would rather be dead than be a member of your race without thought of the morrow, for it portends evil to him that thinketh not. Because I cannot flatter you I am here to tell, emphatically, that if we do not seriously reorganize ourselves as a people and face the world with a program of African nationalism our days in civilization are numbered. It will be only a question of time when the African will be as completely and complacently dead as the North American Indian, or the Australian Bushman. [Philosophy & Opinions of Marcus Garvey, II:101-102] . . . This is the danger point. What will become of the Africans in America and around the world in another five hundred years if he does not organize now to develop and protect himself? The answer is that he will be exterminated to make room for the other races . . . - Hon Marcus Garvey P&O, I:66]

[meiliarotten]

Team Fortress 2 Kinktober Time

Day 19: Restraint (Bondage)

🔞MINORS DNI🔞

Pairings: Sniper x Fem!Reader x Spy

Summary: A bit of sensory deprivation with not one, but two hot support classes.

Tags: Threesome, praise, bondage, blindfolds, oral, dom/sub

Word Count: 2.8k

The Masterlist

The pitch black fabric that blocked your sight was almost enough to make you panic at first, but you got used to it soon enough. What wasn't so easy to get used to were the ropes wrapped around your wrists, pinning them to the headboard above you. At least your legs were left unbound, but even so, you felt extremely vulnerable. You jumped when you felt a gloved hand run over your torso.

“Comfortable?” Spy’s voice came from the right, and you instinctively turned your head to face him, even though you couldn’t see a thing.

“Yeah,” you responded, giving an experimental tug at your bonds. Not too tight, not too loose, just perfect.

“Good. Then I guess we can get started, eh?” Sniper’s voice came from the left, and again, you turned your head in his general direction. It occurred to you that you were effectively surrounded, exposed, and at the mercy of these two men.

“Just sit back and relax, doll. We’re going to take real good care of you,” Sniper said. You shuddered and nodded. Besides, it wasn't like you could do anything other than sit back.

The men were upon you before you could even register what was happening, running their hands over any part of your body within reach. A thumb ran over your lower lip while someone's mouth trailed kisses up your neck and chest. Two pairs of hands caressed you, one calloused and rough, the other smooth and now gloveless. They ventured over your breasts, wove through your hair, and occasionally teased at your inner thighs.

And thanks to that blindfold, every action was enhanced and intensified by your own anticipation. You pulled at the bonds again only to be reminded that you were completely helpless. The thrill that ran through you at the thought made your whole body shiver

A plethora of touches were felt all over your body for what felt like an eternity, your arousal steadily increasing all the while. You whimpered at the gentle caresses and jerked roughly against the restraints in response to incessant groping. Just when you thought you couldn’t stand it anymore, finally, finally, a hand dipped between your legs, stroking your slit. You heard a satisfied hum.

“So nice and wet,” Sniper said. You could practically hear the grin in his voice. The bed creaked, and you became aware of someone’s presence between your legs. “And you’re being so good for us too, letting us do whatever we want with you. I think you deserve a reward. What do you say, Spy?”

“En effet, Monsieur Sniper.” Spy’s voice came from somewhere more distant. You imagined that he had backed away from the scene, content to just watch for now.

“I’m just going to assume that means yes.” That was the last thing you heard Sniper say before his tongue was plunging into you. Your whole body shuddered at the unexpected intrusion and you whimpered at the feeling of that hot, wet muscle thrusting in and out. He was a bit clumsy in his technique, but you could tell he was eager to please.

“Focus on her clit too, bushman. And don’t be scared to touch her.” You jumped slightly at the sound of Spy’s voice, now seeming much closer than before. If you had to guess you would say he was standing near the headboard now. You hadn’t even heard him approach.

As for Sniper, you could feel him growl in annoyance at Spy’s instructions. However, he did listen. You let out a shuddering gasp as his tongue flicked up to your clit. His hands grasped your thighs, those calloused hands holding you still as he worked on you.

“Does it feel good, mon amour?” Spy whispered, now leaning down to speak right into your ear.

“God yes!” You said, struggling to respond between sighs.

“Oui, Sniper can be quite well behaved when he wants to be,” Spy said, laughing softly to himself. You couldn’t help but chuckle as you imagined the glare Sniper must be sporting after that little comment. However, you returned to being a moaning mess within a few moments, your sounds slowly growing in volume.

“Es-tu proche? You’re going to come soon, aren’t you chérie?” Spy asked.

“Fuck, yes,” you moaned, desperate for release. Sniper’s hands still held you still in a surprisingly strong grip, rendering you immobile, no matter how much you wanted to grind against his face as that tongue continued to dip into you.

“Sniper, stop.” Spy’s command was curt, and Sniper followed it immediately, much to your dismay. You whined and bucked at the loss of stimulation, feeling your orgasm escape from you. Muttering soft curses, you glared in the general direction of where you thought Spy was, even though you knew he couldn’t see it.

“Squirming and desperate, just the way we wanted to see you,” Sniper teased. He was still seated between your legs, and you felt his hands stroking your thighs again, so damn close to where you wanted to be touched.

“Please, please let me come!” You begged, trembling beneath his touch.

“Aw, don’t worry sheila. We will, eventually.” Sniper’s words did nothing to calm the burning arousal in your core. If anything, it just made it worse. Then came the return of both pairs of hands, caressing you all over again. All the while you continued to whine, beg and grow more and more desperate. Your pleas for mercy were like music to both of the men. Lucky for you, they soon began to lose their patience with teasing you.

“As lovely as it is to hear her beg for us, I do believe we should begin,” Spy said. He was trying to keep his voice steady, but you could hear a kind of shakiness in the way he delivered some of his words. His arousal was starting to get the best of him.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Sniper agreed, his tone similarly lust laden. “You want to fuck her first? You certainly look ready enough.”

Sniper chuckled and you felt a fresh pang of frustration at the fact that you couldn’t see what Sniper was seeing. The vision of a disheveled, desperate, and painfully hard Spy that you conjured up in your mind’s eye was probably a bit of an exaggeration of the truth. Still, the idea made your nerves burn with need.

“Please,” you whispered, barely loud enough to be heard. Sniper chuckled again at the sound.

“And I take it she’s ready enough too. Ain’t that right, sheila?” Sniper asked. You responded with a nod, and you would have added a pleading look if it weren’t for that damn blindfold.

“Very well,” Spy said. You shivered in anticipation when you heard a zipper descending and the sound of shifting fabric, which you hoped was a sign of clothing being discarded. The creaking of the bed let you know that Spy was now taking his place between your legs. Where Sniper had moved, you couldn’t tell.

You felt Spy’s cock at your entrance, pressing up against you cautiously. You gave a quick nod, and Spy made a noise of acknowledgment before slowly entering you, being met with a grateful moan. He began to thrust gently at first, gradually increasing his speed and force as he saw fit.

Every so often, you felt the silky fabric of his dress shirt brush against you, letting you know that Spy wasn't in a complete state of undress. It struck you as unfair. You wondered if he bothered to remove his tie. If your hands were free, you would consider grabbing it, gripping it like a leash and tugging at it to urge Spy on, making him thrust harder, deeper. But alas, your hands weren’t free, so you were reduced to begging to get what you wanted.

“Spy, please! Harder!” Your words were met with laughter from somewhere else in the room. You couldn’t quite pinpoint where, but you knew it was Sniper.

“Looks like she wants it a bit rougher. Think you can handle that, Spy?” He said, clearly poking fun at Spy’s tendency to be gentler with you. He responded with a small sound of annoyance, but other than that, he didn’t acknowledge Sniper’s little quip.

He did however, begin to thrust harder, much to your delight. He held onto your hips and you gasped at the coldness of his hands, although you were thankful that he had at least bothered to remove the gloves. A thrust to an especially sensitive spot nearly made you scream, and your reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by either man.

“Looks like you found a real good spot,” Sniper said, still playing the part of the passive, nonchalant observer.

“Indeed.” Even with Spy’s one word response, you could tell by his tone that he was probably sporting a wide grin.

He grabbed your ass in a surprisingly shameless move, pulling you to meet his thrusts as best as he could with your hands still being bound to the headboard. You moaned as he hit your sweet spot repeatedly, and before you knew what was happening, you found yourself tipping over the edge, arching off the mattress and straining against your bonds as your orgasm overtook you.

“That’s it mon ange, moan for me, let me know how good you’re feeling,” Spy crooned as you trembled beneath him. You did just as he asked, gasping and moaning his name as he continued to thrust into you until he finished with a low groan.

“Si belle. You make such beautiful sounds for me, my darling.” You smiled at Spy’s praise as he pulled out and shifted to the side to make room for Sniper. You heard footsteps approaching the bed, the slow, steady pace reminding you of a predator stalking prey.

“Guess it’s my turn,” Sniper said as he crawled onto the bed and between your legs, immediately running a finger over your dripping entrance. You flinched and squirmed slightly at the sensation.

Off to the side, you were vaguely aware of Spy making his way back up the bed alongside you. He ran his hand up your waist, making you shiver at his fingertips.

“Feeling a bit over-sensitive, doll?” Sniper asked with a low chuckle. He ran his thumb over your clit and the moan you let out was shaky, but quite loud. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You gasped when you felt Spy press a kiss to your throat, carefully sucking and marking you along your neck. Sniper, for his part, did not cease his actions either. You were bombarded with sensations from all sides, and then you felt Sniper straddle your waist. His erection prodded at your stomach, but he ignored it in favor of groping your chest, making you inhale sharply at how rough he was being.

“Merde, bushman. You’re being far too aggressive with her,” Spy said, pausing his attack on your neck. His criticism was met with a scoff.

“At least I’m not treating her like she’s made of glass. Besides, I reckon she likes it rough. Don’t you, doll?” Sniper moved away from your breasts, running his nails down your sides just to hear you moan.

“Fuck, yes!” You stammered, arching your back as Sniper turned his attention back to your chest again.

“See that, Spy? She likes it when I’m hard on her. She enjoys being at our mercy.” Sniper let out a low chuckle that sent shivers down your spine.

You squirmed and jerked against the mattress as both of the men continued to tease you. To your surprise, your squirming caused the blindfold to loosen and fall away. No longer in total darkness, you had to blink a few times to adjust to the light in the room, even though it was quite dim.

Neither of the men seemed willing to pause the action in order to put the blindfold back on, and honestly, you were thankful for that. It also just so happened that it fell off just in time for you to see Sniper, one hand on your hips and the other on his cock, ready to enter you. He looked up at you, and you made eye contact. He was smirking wide enough to reveal sharp canines.

“How badly do you want this, darling?” He asked, sliding himself against your slit, but not yet entering.

“I want it! I want it so badly, please!” You cried, realizing that he wanted you to beg. You laid it on thick and vulgar, not wanting to wait any longer. “I want your cock in me, please Sniper!”

You were thrust into with little warning. Sniper was far less gentle than Spy was, bottoming out inside you with a groan. Once he worked into a rhythm though, he seemed to show a surprising amount of restraint, that is until you began to beg him to go faster.

“You sure, doll?” He asked. With the blindfold now off, you weren’t able to hide your annoyance, aroused out of your mind and having been teased for what felt like ages.

“Haven’t you heard enough of my begging for one night? I know what I want!” You growled.

“Well, she certainly sounds sure enough!” Spy said, laughing as he spoke, clearly surprised at your boldness. You saw him out of the corner of your eye. He was watching Sniper now, eager to see if the gunman would give you what you wanted.

“Whatever you say,” Sniper said, any semblance of tenderness melting away from his expression, replaced by a lustful, wicked grin. You didn’t regret your decision for a second as he began to thrust faster, eventually holding onto the headboard for leverage. You watched him above you, panting and growling, fucking you in a near animalistic manner.

Again, you pulled against the rope. Usually you would be clutching onto the bed sheets, onto your partner, onto anything in order to feel even a sliver of control in situations this intense. Instead, you made use of your legs, immensely grateful that they had been left unbound. You wrapped them tightly around Sniper’s hips as he pounded into you. The pleasure was already so deliciously close to overwhelming you.

“Fuck, you feel so damn good,” Sniper huffed, breathing hard and still holding a white knuckled grip on the headboard.

“You’re going to come again, aren’t you, chérie?” Spy finally broke his voyeuristic silence, having simply been watching the two of you for some time now. He reached out to brush a hand against your cheek. You nodded in response to his question, unable to answer verbally through the cacophony of moans coming from both you and Sniper.

“Oh god, me too,” Sniper growled. “Go on, darling, come for me!”

His grip moved from the headboard to your hips, his thrusts growing uneven until finally, you felt the tension in your core snap. You convulsed as your orgasm hit you, truly putting those ropes to the test one last time. Sniper climaxed soon after, burying his face into your neck to muffle his sounds. After several moments of ecstasy, you both went limp, breathing hard and laying atop each other in a tangle of limbs.

Spy, being the only one of you three that was not currently too blissed out to move, began working on removing your bonds. The knots came undone easily in his skilled fingers, and your arms dropped, just as boneless as the rest of your body.

You tried to sit up after a few minutes, but found yourself still too tired to do much of anything, simply falling back onto the mattress in defeat. It wasn’t so bad though. It was a content, dizzy kind of exhaustion that made you feel like you should never get up from that bed, that you could be content to stay here, sandwiched between the bodies of your two lovers for hours.

However, as the afterglow began to fade, another part of you became aware of how your muscles were aching, how sweat was coating your body, and how sore the rope marks on your wrists were. Again, you tried to sit up, but this time you were stopped by a hand on your shoulder.

“Easy now, sheila. Just relax. You look real tired,” Sniper said as he gently pushed you back down. His fingers wove through your hair, and you couldn’t help but relax into his touch.

“I could prepare a bath for us,” Spy said, getting up from the bed. “Would you like that, mes amours?”

Both you and Sniper nodded. The thought of soaking your aching muscles in warm water seemed like pure bliss right about now.

“I wasn’t too rough on you, was I?” Sniper asked, a hint of concern, or perhaps even nervousness, peeking through that normally confident tone. You shook your head.

“No, you were perfect. You were both perfect,” you said, turning to acknowledge Spy as well.

“That’s good, darling,” Sniper said, a soft smile playing on his lips. Spy made his way back over to the bed for a moment, brushing a hand over your cheek before leaving to prepare for cleanup.

“You did very well. Now just let us take care of you, chérie.” You nodded, leaning back on the pillows, more than willing to do just that for the rest of the night.

[backstabbing-spook]

Merde. Accurate to the Bushman and I.

[alliluyevas]

book recommendations on mormon history?

oooh worm. very excited. I'm going to focus for now on what I would consider the best introduction books to Mormon history (of the ones I have read).

the number one book I would recommend for people who know little to nothing about Mormon history is American Zion: A New History of Mormonism by Benjamin Park. I think it is an excellent new entry to help fit a much-needed niche of "overview broad-brushstrokes history of Mormonism that is not written from an explicitly faithful perspective." (The author is LDS, but it's definitely written to appeal to secular audiences in a way that the other existing overview books which are mostly church-produced are not.) It goes from Joseph Smith all the way up until Mitt Romney, essentially.

If you want something that goes a little bit deeper and doesn't cover quite as much time, I actually would also recommend Dr. Park's other book, Kingdom of Nauvoo, which covers the period of Mormon settlement in Illinois from 1838-1846, including the advent of polygamy and Joseph Smith's assassination. The Nauvoo era is really interesting and arguably the most crucial period in very early (pre-Utah) Mormonism.

For a narrower focus within the Nauvoo era, American Crucifixion: The Murder of Joseph Smith and the Fate of the Mormon Church is also pretty good and is a very accessible read. Joseph Smith for President: The Prophet, The Assassins, and the Fight for American Religious Freedom covers a lot of the same ground. I would still recommend these books for Mormon history "beginners" because Joseph Smith's life and death is so pivotal.

In terms of reading more about Joseph Smith, I would recommend Fawn Brodie's biography No Man Knows My History, with some caveats. I think this is a beautifully written book and a lot of the scholarship does hold up, but a) it was written in the 1940s b) it was written by someone who was in the process of leaving Mormonism and definitely takes the position pretty stridently that He Made It All Up and it's controversial within Mormon history as a field because of that. There have been other biographies of JS written since Brodie: Dan Vogel's is good but extremely dense, and Richard Bushman's I have not read so I don't feel like I can recommend it. (Side note: I think it is very difficult to write biography about Joseph Smith because the question of whether or not the author believes he was a prophet and the subsequent question of whether or not the author believes he believed he was a prophet is really omnipresent. I don't think you can really evaluate his life and work without also evaluating the truth claims of Mormonism as a religion in a way that is not quite as true for subsequent church leaders.)

Speaking of subsequent church leaders, I would really strongly recommend Brigham Young: Pioneer Prophet by my former professor John Turner, who is really getting gassed up on this blog today, lol. Great bio of the man who shaped Mormonism more than anyone except Joseph Smith (and, arguably, just as much as Joseph Smith.) I actually think this would work fantastically as an overview too because Brigham Young joined the church very early so you basically get a front row seat from origins well into the Utah period.

I wish I had more intro recs about the Utah period or about Mormon women's history/polygamy, but a lot of what I've read on that is either really niche in focus or really dense, so I'm not sure it is a great place to start. That being said, if you want a female perspective on early Mormonism, you should read Mormon Enigma: Emma Hale Smith which is a biography of Joseph Smith's legal wife. It's a great book and was a really ground-breaking classic in Mormon history that imo totally changed the mainstream LDS narrative about Emma.

[spockanalia-archive]

Spockanalia #1: Vulcan Psychology

By Juanita Coulson

Art by Sherna Comerford, DEA, and Kathy Bushman

A BRIEF SURVEY OF PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT AND LIFE ADJUSTMENT IN A HUMAN/VULCAN HYBRID, by Juanita Coulson

SUBJECT: Spock

Age ____?

Father : Vulcan, Ambassador, deceased (?)

Mother : Earthwoman, Scientist/Teacher, deceased (?)

Occupation : Science Officer and First Officer of United Star Ship Enterprise

N.B. Subject has not volunteered himself for therapy, and his dossier is not available. Therefore, this writer is limited to speculation, based on observation over an eight-month period, plus any information disclosed by the subject in the course of conversation with his peer group. His personality and adjustment to his environment have obviously been affected by his total background, but since the observer must garner such background entirely via allusions to past events, and by the subject's present behavior, this analysis is based solely on inference. Caveat. 

Spock's father was a native of the planet Vulcan, and his mother was an Earthwoman. From Spock's behavior and statements, we are informed that Vulcans are pacifistic and have eliminated war and other violent anti-social patterns, such as murder, from their culture. Additional reference has been made to Vulcan control of all emotional display (a quite severe suppression in human terms), dogged loyalty, and blunt honesty; Vulcan demeanor, in human terms, seems to be coldly unemotional, with occasional overtones of patronizing superiority (both intellectual and cultural).

Since Spock regards himself as more Vulcan than human, it is probable that his mother was of the "convert" personality. Spock's behavior patterns—primarily Vulcan despite his half-human inheritance—are not likely to have occurred if his mother had insisted on even partial Terran conditioning during Spock's formative period, and we may assume she embraced both the Vulcan culture and its methods of education and child conditioning as superior to those of Earth.

The subject was the child of a family situation in which normal communication between parents was impossible; it was also a situation in which it would be forever impossible for either parent to understand his child completely or for him to understand either of them.

Spock's only criticism of his father, implied or expressed, has been in regard to his father's inability to comprehend the emotional needs of his mother. Spock not only behaves as much like a Vulcan as he is capable, but he speaks with special pride of his father and his own half-Vulcan ancestry as a point of personal esteem. Nevertheless, he does not completely deny his half-human ancestry, although, as a verbal fencing exchange with certain privileged human peers, he allows himself to seem offended to be reminded of his human inheritance.

Spock has indicated that his mother's dedication to Vulcan culture patterns was not sufficient to enable her to overcome human emotionality permanently. Apparently, at some time, she either openly requested or otherwise expressed a desire for affection from Spock. Already conditioned in Vulcan behavior patterns, and denying himself such a (to him) distasteful emotional display, Spock still undoubtedly sensed the intense need of his mother for verbal and/or demonstrative physical affection. Thus, he must have been quite violently torn between the urge to express his love for his mother, to please her and gain her approval, and his irrevocable Vulcan conditioning which made it impossible for him to respond in the way his mother wished. Since he has always spoken of his mother in the past tense, we assume she is dead; any opportunity to express his love for her is now lost, a fact which seems to add to Spock's guilt and unhappy self-image.

Spock has a tremendous sense of duty which amounts at times to an obsession; he has on occasion insisted on performing his duties above and beyond that required by service regulations, even to the point of endangering his health and life. Possibly his obsession with duty is a cultural trait of the Vulcans. But it may also be interpreted as a projective method of gaining approval from his father or a father substitute (the figure in greatest authority in his present sub-culture). If the Vulcans are totally pacifistic it's possible Spock's career on a military vessel may be a falling-short in the type of goals Spock imagines his father may have preferred for his son. Obsession with duty may be a sublimation to replace an unsatisfiable wish for normal human relationships and family.

It is probable that Spock can never, physically, mentally, or emotionally, reach the ideal of "Vulcanism" he so admires in his father. Spock can only attempt to reach this goal through the devious method of setting inhumanly high conduct standards for himself, and driving himself to fulfill his duties in spite of all hazards and limitations.

Underlying and co-existing with Spock's obsession with duty are certain masochistic tendencies. These seem to be a form of self-punishment for:

His failure to respond to his mother's desire for affection and 

His failure to satisfy what he feels might have been his father's wishes and/or goals. 

Over and above pushing himself to physical and mental limits, Spock absorbs tremendous amounts of verbal and physical punishment before reacting, even when such punishment is grossly unjustified. (There is a physiological grounding for this behavior, which we will discuss later.)

Over and above pushing himself to physical and mental limits, Spock absorbs tremendous amounts of verbal and physical punishment before reacting, even when such punishment is grossly unjustified. (There is a physiological grounding for this behavior, which we will discuss later.)

When Spock reacts even to unjustified punishment by defending himself, he is quick to insist on his error, to point out his fault, and to anticipate appropriate reprimand or worse. Conversely, he rarely if ever demands redress for the unjustified pain he himself has suffered. On at least two occasions, he has been severely provoked by his commanding officer. Once, at a time when he was quite ill, the ship's captain struck him three times before Spock retaliated physically, Spock's expression on that occasion plainly implied that he was appalled at his own behavior.

In the second instance, his commanding officer verbally goaded Spock with comments on his alienness, his physical appearance, slurs on his manhood, parentage, personal standards (honesty, logicality), and the object of Spock's suddenly released affections. Again, only after extreme provocation did Spock react. And again, when his anger dissipated, he was at pains to insist that he should be punished; in this case he was satisfied by an additional duty assignment—a punishment substitute. (N.B. On both occasions, the behavior of the commanding officer was entirely justified by external circumstances, and did not imply a personal hostility toward the subject.)

In a further sense, Spock punishes himself. He sets goals he cannot possibly fulfill without occasional failure, denies himself companionship and (we suspect) many creature comforts, drives himself to duty when ill, and turns both anger and disappointment inward rather than outward.

In addition to his communication conflict with his parents, his obsession with duty, and his masochism, observation shows us that Spock is not totally accepted by his current peer group—quite possibly has never been fully accepted by his human contemporaries. His rank and position indicate considerable success in both career and social strata of his particular sub-culture (Military-Scientific Vessel, Galactic Class). But the reactions of certain of his human crewmen and chance acquaintances—both human and alien—imply that they have a distinctly adverse reaction to him. Since his physical appearance and demeanor are plainly far more Vulcan than human, he is immediately identifiable as a native of that planet. Reaction to this ancestry has ranged from mild surprise and suspicion to outright hostility. In all fairness, it must be pointed out that Spock's alienness is reinforced and made more inhuman by his Vulcan behavior patterns, which make him seem cold and perhaps repellent to some humans.

Though Spock has spoken of human culture patterns as "puzzling" (in some cases a euphemism for uncivilized and barbaric), he is certainly aware of his own human half, and probably identifies at least in part with human motives, including the desire for approval and companionship (though on an emotionally-detached basis). Therefore, this reaction of suspicion and hostility toward him by human and other species must occasionally dismay him, color his adjustment to his world, and make such adjustment more difficult.

Spock's behavior indicates his home community is presently the USS Enterprise, not the planet Vulcan. Further, he seems to regard the crew of that ship as the most valuable life form with which he comes in contact; despite his oftstated concern for "sentient life," if any other form of sentient life threatens the crew of the Enterprise, it is that crew he will risk his life for. Indeed, he will occasionally revert to his predatory Vulcan/human ancestry to protect the crew. (Part of this may be attributed to his loyalty to the ship's captain, an aspect we will discuss later; but not all of it can be dismissed as such.)

Obviously, Spock regards the crew, particularly certain members of that crew, as eminently worth saving. The subject is reluctant to use the emotion-charged word "friendship," but the indications are strong that his relationships with certain crew members fit that category. The Enterprise is his community; the crew members make up his personal sub-culture. When community and citizens are menaced, survival of both takes immediate precedent over earlier cultural conditioning against warfare and the taking of life. Since this reaction not only enables Spock to save the lives of beings emotionally important to him, but enables him to do this with Vulcan logicality (i.e., sentient life of eminent worth whose duty it is to contact and preserve other sentient life forms—therefore to be themselves preserved against any unfriendly species), it is both adaptive and adjustive.

Vulcan is a heavy-gravity planet, and since Spock is genetically half-Vulcan, and spent his formative years on that planet, he is physically a great deal stronger than his human peers. While this has sometimes proved an advantage, and has enabled him to perform useful and lifesaving services, it is also an emotional Sword of Damocles. He, so very much concerned with the civilized preservation of sentient life, is potentially quite dangerous to the sentient life form with which he daily works. His Vulcan emotional control is vital. It allows him to use his strength only as a constructive tool, not as the deadly weapon it can be. On the rare occasions when he has used his great strength emotionally, his subsequent reaction has been severe and very masochistic. This is adaptive, for his strength must be turned inward at all psychological costs: both Vulcans and humans have a savage, berserker tendency in their pasts, and any reversion to that past puts Spock's self-image, indeed his sanity, into grave jeopardy. Should his strength (through a loss of emotional control on his part) ever severely injure or kill one of his human peers, in all likelihood his guilt reaction would border on the self-destructive.

Hence Spock's continued suppression of normal emotional expression: no expression must be allowed free rein, neither hate nor love impulses; the human pattern makes it far too easy for his emotional pendulum to shift from one to the other, and when Spock's emotion is hate and/or rage, he is deadly. His suppression of all emotional display is very non-adjustive, and his masochism is unhealthy—but it is adaptive, because his strength makes the alternative too terrible to consider.

Spock's relations with human women, and his entire sexual adjustment, have undoubtedly been strongly influenced by his family history. With such a vivid memory of his parents' own failure to erase successfully the racial and cultural differences which separated them, Spock appears determined to avoid a repetition of that unhappy experiment. Thus he has all but cut himself off from human female companionship (which his human half may desire but his Vulcan inheritance and conditioning will not let him accept). Quite apart from his possible sterility as a hybrid, he recognizes that he is normally incapable of the sort of demonstrative emotional response most human females expect from a lover. He is indeed not demonstrative; he does not welcome touching, or embracing, and is unable to flatter. The aloneness of his situation troubles Spock—he has admitted it is a "purgatory"—but memories of his parents have apparently made him decide another Earthwoman should not suffer as his mother did. The unhappiness must end with him.

The subject is able to respond slightly to a moderate amount of low level sexual flirtation from a human female, but more intense approaches apparently trigger painful memories of his mother's unhappy situation. He rejects such approaches outright. His one deep emotional involvement with a human female occurred during unusual circumstances, when he was able, in effect, to block his Vulcan half and become nearly human for a short time. Under normal conditions, such reaction toward a human female is not possible for him.

Since we have never been permitted to see Spock interacting with Vulcans, and since our knowledge of Vulcan sexual customs is limited to the implication that the marriage between Spock's parents was unusual, no speculation is presently possible on his attitude toward Vulcan females…beyond wondering if he might seem as repellently emotional to Vulcans as he seems coldly unemotional to humans.

His relationship with his peers on board the Enterprise is generally professional, with only occasional lapses into something resembling normal human friendship patterns. Spock treats his human subordinates courteously and correctly, though he now and again displays concern, and some affection, for certain members of the bridge crew with whom he has a close working relationship. The two human crew members with whom Spock has the most human relationship are Ship's Surgeon, Doctor McCoy, and the ship's commander, Captain James T. Kirk.

McCoy is a sensualist, would-be cynic, and humanitarian. He seems alternately angered by and admiring of Spock. In return, Spock apparently enjoys goading the Doctor with inarguable logic, and appreciates and admires the Doctor's concern with sentient life. Theirs is a companionship based on a mutual enjoyment of verbal fencing, with some underlying friction resulting from their widely differing methods of attack on the same ultimate goals. But in the end, they display grudging admiration and unvocalized affection for each other.

Spock's friendship and professional relationship with Captain Kirk is a study in itself, calling for a far more thorough analysis than time permits us here. We will confine the present discussion to a few obvious facets. While being fiercely loyal to the Captain, and devoted to his service, Spock is not above arguing his own point of view. Spock is rarely convinced he is in error, and he is rarely proven to be so. However, he nearly always submits to the Captain's orders, even though these orders sometimes countermand Spock's deep cultural and emotional convictions. On the one occasion in which Spock was forced by circumstances to betray Kirk and to disobey direct orders, the action was observably painful for Spock; it was also an emotional and professional shock for the Captain, since Spock's behavior in this respect had been previously so predictable as to seem programmed.

An additional aspect of Spock's reaction to the Captain may be a form of projection. Spock seems to seek approval from the authority figure to whom he gives his loyalty. Presumably, on Vulcan this was his father, and during part of his previous career it was his then-commander, Captain Christopher Pike; now it is Captain James Kirk. While Spock is ego-secure and logical enough to argue for his own intellectual convictions, he will not normally disobey. In this sense, perhaps he is seeking Kirk's complete approval as a substitute; it is conceivable Spock's father disapproved of Spock's choice of a career aboard a military vessel—and approval of an authority figure does seem of great importance to Spock.

In addition to their logic, controlled emotionality, and comparatively great physical strength, Vulcans possess certain extra sensory perception abilities, abilities which Spock has inherited in some part. He is reluctant to display this E.S.P., and his reasons are multiple: 

Because his inheritance is mingled, his "control is not good," 

These abilities are quite private things, and displaying them is both a physical and emotional trauma which temporarily destroys Spock's image of controlled-emotionality in his own eyes and (he suspects) in the eyes of his human peers, and 

In exposing himself to the mind of another, he must expose himself to the emotions found within that mind. 

This is an experience which he would quite probably find distasteful in itself, and unpleasant in that the emotions in question may be unpleasant ones.

Spock has employed these E.S.P. abilities only three times during the eight-month observation period. Each time, he was hesitant, even greatly reluctant, and his motive each time has been a need which only his esper abilities could satisfy—there was no logical alternative.

These extra sensory talents and/or abilities include an empathic capacity to merge his emotions with another life form (a dangerous process, and one in which he has difficulty re-establishing his own personality intact), the ability to plant a simple telepathic suggestion with some minimal manipulative control, and a mindshield to protect himself against telepathic probing. It is possible that his ability to send either telepathic or empathic impulses is quite limited. And further, we may assume Vulcan concern for privacy (necessary on a world where telepathic or empathic ability is universal) has made it almost destructively traumatic for Spock to intrude on the inner thoughts of another being without invitation—even given the ability. Presumably then, Spock is reluctant to use these esper abilities because his own control is erratic and the procedure is therefore dangerous, because it distorts his established personality image, because it holds the potential of his own personality destruction if at some point he should be unable to break empathic contact, and because it is a highly unpleasant experience. His behavior in regard to these special Vulcan abilities seems consistent, intelligent, and as adjustive as possible given the unusual circumstances.

If Spock is heir to the normal human emotions (on a reduced level, at the least) and if he is able to suppress these as he consistently and generally does, the clinician is forced to wonder what enables him to avoid the manifestations of any of the commoner anxiety neuroses. Indeed, one wonders what quirk of evolution has enabled the Vulcans (presumably) to eliminate or drastically reduce the incidences of genuine physiologic, psychosomatic change resulting from severe emotional suppression.

Spock's personality pattern—masochistic, parent-child conflict, culture conflict, non-acceptance by peers, suppression of essential parts of his nature—all point to the probable emergence of one or more anxiety neuroses. His intelligence, education, and self-knowledge would seem to preclude any of the hysterias. Any affliction would have to produce genuine physiological change, since his psyche could not be "tricked" by hysteric disorders. If Spock is not troubled by neurotic asthma, emotional hypertension, ulcers, migraine, or any of the other emotion-triggered respiratory, circulatory, or digestive involvements associated with frustration and/or emotional suppression, perhaps his Vulcan physiology is master of the situation. Or, since in the past Spock has spoken of Vulcan mental discipline—particularly, "Pain is a thing of the mind, but the mind can be controlled"—and since the anxiety neuroses are initially things of the mind, it may be that the Vulcans can control and/or eliminate their physical consequences as well. In the light of the pain, and even occasional death, humanity suffers from complications arising from anxiety neuroses and related ailments, it would seem good psychiatric medicine for each doctor pointing toward that field to spend an internship on Vulcan (once communications are fully established), learning methodology to simulate this envied ability to suppress any given anxiety neuroses without causing another—probably worse—breakout of the psyche.

CONCLUSIONS: All things considered, the subject has made an admirable adjustment to a very difficult life situation, with the exception of his occasionally obsessive masochistic tendencies, his adjustment has been consistent with ego survival, and it enables him to avoid prolonged guilt reactions. The subject is plainly not happy, but in a sense, he seems to have found the one niche he can comfortably occupy, and the adaptive characteristics to live with his human peers with a minimum of friction. Given his unusual family history and professional situation, the most the subject can reasonably expect is some degree of contentment, and in this respect he seems well adjusted. The clinician might recommend occasional therapy away from all peer group observation, in which the subject could release certain suppressed human emotions without fear of face-loss or ego-damage.

ADVERTISEMENT

The Vulcan Educational Board recommends

Examples of logical behavior in difficult situations—an instruction tape for the pre-adolescent Vulcan

It is available at your local tape printout service.

Note: With the help and guidance of Open Doors, we digitized the first volume of Spockanalia and imported it to AO3, which you can view here. In order to meet AO3's terms of service, some of the content was edited or removed. The full version of the zine is preserved on this blog. The masterpost is here.

[cefromagegrille]

Do u like pineapples on pizza? Because I like pineapples on pizza. Many people online tell me that Italy people will murder me but I think that they are very nice because they have green in their flag. And green means good. And I also really like green. I like green because it reminds me of nature, and moss, and trees, and lettuce, and buckets, and clovers, and the amorphophallus titanum flower, and sniper with a green vest. Speaking of sniper, what do u think about sniper? I have heard that u don't like sniper, is that true? Also, do you think that time is actually just a figmentation of the human mind that was originated by us to understand the vast and terrifying complexities of the galaxy itself? Also, how many burgers do you think it would take for u to throw up? Do I talk a lot like scout? I think I do talk a lot, but that is okay. Because scout is very nice even though he harasses women and bashes peoples skull in, because he is very cool. And I talk a lot. And he talk a lot, just like me, because I talk a lot too. He and I have very similar attributes when it comes to personality, except I don't bash skulls in and harass women. But anyways, about the pineapples on pizza thing, do you like pineapples on pizza? I personally think that you can't taste the pineapples on the pizza unless you put them on after you cook it. Also, did you know that you and I have mites in our skin that regulate the amount of oils that our flesh on our face produces? So if you ever feel alone, just know that there are thousands of mites on your face to keep you company :). Also, how many bananas would it take to cross the boötes void? I think it would take billions, or even trillions! I wonder, if I ate a trillion bananas, would I die? Or would I just get poisoned? Also, what's it like being a spy? Do you have specified masks for different occasions or events? Do you have a brihhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhght pink bedazzled one if you're watching barbie? And also, what would you do if you got blood on your suit? How expensive is your suit? Would you have to get very expensive cleaner for your very expensive suit? Speaking of which, how expensive is your suit? Is it really 10,000$ like they say? Or is it just 100$? Also, I am sick right now. So if I somehow break the laws of physics itself and get bacteria through the phone and get you sick, I apologize in advance. Anywho, do you like celebrating birthdays? Are birthdays a grim reminder of your eventual, and inevitable death as you grow older? Or have you accepted your life as it is? Also I think one time I went to summer camp and I got lice. I tried to tell one of the employees there, but they just said 'ew'. and I lived with it for 3 months. It's gone now, I think. I then burned the entire place to the ground on accident when I poured water on a grease fire.

Have a nice day spy

-extremely annoying anon

Alright.

- Do not take this as having something in common with me, but the mentioned dish can be enjoyable.

- Associating a color with anything regarding morality directly is idiotic.

- The Bushman does not own a green vest. He merely likes the color.

- He is... a friend. Do with this as you wish.

- Time is a necessary concept in order for humanity to live life in a proper and meaningful manner.

- This depends on who prepared them. Which means, usually, one can be quite enough.

- C'est vrai, you do talk a lot.

- It feels like you are currently "bashing" my skull in, at least.

- As mentioned, I do.

- They are not tasteless, but maybe you are.

- I was aware of this. Mites to not count as company for me, but it is my understanding that you might need them.

- This is a simple mathematical question. If we take the average banana to be 18 centimeters long, and the Boötes Void to measure about 300.000.000 light years in diameter, you may figure out the rest yourself.

- Oui. You would die.

- It is my profession, and I am good at it.

- The mask is part of my uniform, and as such I have to be prepared for the need of replacement in the event that it gets damaged.

- This is to say I own more than one, but they are all of the same red colour.

- My suit jacket is $10.000, mon ami. I fear the full price of my uniform may be too much for your mind to handle at this point, so I shall spare you for now.

- I do have a very expensive cleaner for my very expensive suit, and it has been cleansed of blood more than once.

- Your little electronic post will not bring illness upon me.

- Birthdays are as much of a reminder of time passing as they are a celebration. I do not care too much about them.

- Of course I accept my life as it is.

- Right. You may be more like Scout than I initially anticipated. Perchance it was a relief for that location to burn down.

This being said, bravo on picking your title. It might have been the only thing you have done unmistakably correctly today.

You have a pleasant day as well.

Never do this again.

Although, I cannot stop you.

[backstabbing-spook]

….

No comment.

@the-red-sniper

I don't know what to say about this, I was just thinking of doing the first image but I got a little excited...

[backstabbing-spook]

"D'you want some help to remove your suit? You tired?"

Sniper shuts and locks the door to Spy's suite.

"I'll grab your jammies."

- @the-red-sniper

“I mean…” He fidgets with his gloves.

“…If it’s not too much to ask for.”