#eighteenth amendment

[classic-simpsons]

S08E18 - HOMER VS. THE EIGHTEENTH AMENDMENT

[flyinghellfish]

[spockvarietyhour]

[dionetaofavalon]

They're not going to indoctrinate themselves, ya know.

I also had:

or

I had way too many options: control, constrain, restrain, shackle, hinder, hobble, limit, neutralize, mentally euthanize, undermine, block the children, brainwash the children . . .

Con the Children

Oh, won’t somebody please control the children?

Condemn the children, convict the children— won’t somebody please conscript the children for cannon fodder, for canon clatter, just dogma splatter. Please, conceive of “children” as indistinct matter— moldable, trainable, constrainable. Oh, everybody please, consider the children as formless abstracts— as brutal bullets of sophistry, as kangaroo contests of sympathy.

Convert the children to bricks in thrall.

Contain the children, for multitudes challenge preconceptions, prompt receptiveness, promote connection— confine the children, lest they learn diversity. Convince the children of limitations, that salvation is members-only; restrict the children’s contemplations, restrain them from questioning, consign them to ignorance.

Cancel the children’s individualities, erase their personalities, make them conform— raze them to blankness, then tabulate “normal” and “proper” and “moral”. Construct The Children as props, as cudgels, to beat, berate, obfuscate, to turn conversations into self-congratulatory muggings— to proselytize, delegitimize, dehumanize— to valorize violence. For the children.

Warn the children that the content of their characters is no concern of yours.

Think of the children, but don’t allow them to think for themselves.

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Homer and Bart have both shown a talent for multilingualism many times over.

But I love the “not going to lie to you” - leaves joke so very much. It’s honest! He didn’t lie!

[vase-of-lilies]

Efforts to Make Amends

❀ Tfatws!Bucky x Mom!reader (f)

❀ Non-con and rape (DO NOT READ IF YOU DO NOT LIKE IT), past abuse, past parental abuse, mentions of captivity, fluff, childbirth, some suicidal ideation (but no actions), taking of virginity, some after sex bleeding, talking badly about a baby, pregnancy, dad bucky 🥺 (if there is anything else, PLEASE let me know!)

❀ Word Count: 6.3k

❀ A/N: This came to mind when I was just thinking about Buck:) I don’t know if this is already a concept, but if it is here is my take on it! :D

The cry of the newborn baby sent shivers down your spine. Not a scared shiver, or a nervous shiver. Just a shiver. You are her mother now, and you can not let this baby down. You won’t let this baby down. As the nurse gently handed the bundle of joy over to you in a pink blanket, you laid eyes on the most beautiful little thing in the world. With her eyes barely open to see, her blue eyes stared back into your own. 

Tears filled your eyes as you held her to your chest, her babbles slowly dying down to soft breaths. You smiled down at the tiny human in your arms, clutching onto your finger softly. You heard the heart monitor go off, and you immediately held your daughter tighter in your arms. Not wanting to let her go, not for one second. Your OB/GYN entered the room, smiling brightly with the paperwork of your brand new baby. 

“All is well with your little girl. I’ll let you decide on a name and we can fill out this boring stuff.” She chuckles and sits next to you on the bed. 

“Oh, I really like this one.” She hums softly at the baby names in question. She points to the fourth one on the list that you made on a piece of paper. “Clarisse” is the name she chose. It was your mother's name. Bright, shining, gentle, and brave. She was your advocate through the years you were held captive by your own father. 

Of course the circumstances of how this child came into this world is not how you imagined it, you are still eternally grateful to have her in your life. 

It was at this moment you knew all too well what you had to do. You had to start brand new; New name, address, hair color. Everything you can to stay away from the life you were forced into as a child. Going by the name Carla, you set off out of the police station with your new ID, and a new life ahead of you. You couldn’t hold back the smile that had formed on your face by the time you made it to the bus stop. 

Paying the bus driver, you sat down on the bench by the window. Carefully holding your newborn baby to your chest, you stare out the window at the passing cars, buildings, and people. All making their way home from work or even to work. Even the people who call themselves “superheroes” have a home to go to, don’t they? No matter where you go, you know you have to provide what's best for this baby. The police were some help, getting you your ID, colored contacts as well as a wig and a new passport. But it was a long, aggravating process. With every woman looking at your baby with prying eyes, getting ready to let their lips loose in the daily office gossip session. 

Finally, it was time to leave. It was time to leave the life you were previously living, and set off on a new adventure with a new companion.

~~~~~~~

Arriving at the airport, you follow the directions to buy a ticket to Spain. With what little Spanish you knew was not the problem at this point. It was getting away from a crime populated city such as New York. The culture, the people, and the ocean around the country felt like the safest option. 

“ID, ma’am.” You heard the woman at the desk say. Pulling out your ID, you make sure it is your new one. This has a special hidden key trustworthy people can scan that tells them you are a witness in protection. They are very caring with you, and question nothing if you hesitate with your new name. “Carla Davenport. Date of birth November eighteenth.” Fuck! What's the year?? “Year?” The woman asks. “U-uhm, 2001...” You almost say it as a question, but the woman smiles and hands you back your ID. 

“Enjoy Spain!” She says from the desk, and onto security you go.

~~~~~~~

The plane ride was long, and agonizing with how anxious you were. But Clarisse easily soothed your nerves. The looks people gave you were noticeable, and the last few people to board on the plane seemed reluctant to sit next to you. A newborn on a plane is someone's worst nightmare. But Clarisse was a sleepy girl, and slept a majority of the flight. The moments she did start to cry, you knew she either had to be changed, or was hungry. Once you went to the bathroom, you sat on the toilet and began to breastfeed your little girl.

The mirror that was across from you, a woman you barely recognized stared back. False black-dyed locks fell around an exhausted, hurt, and abused mother. There wasn’t much that stared back. You peeled your eyes away from the mirror, and pinned them back on your little girl. Clarisse was enjoying her milk, and was soon going to fall into a milk coma. You just knew it. 

Sighing as you sit back down, you look back out the window. The night sky was absolutely beautiful at this time, and you loved what it looked like. Even though Clarisse was asleep, you still pointed out the lights along the coast that shaped the continent of Africa, and soon to the lights that covered Madrid. Your new home town. 

As the plane landed, you stopped at the gift shop to get a Spanish-to-English dictionary to start learning. Also stopping at a small convenience store in the airport, you exchanged all of your US dollars to Euros and bought some diapers and a diaper bag as well. It was the small things that the program didn’t provide that seemed to be the biggest issues for you. But you were grateful for the small apartment they found, and even more grateful that they provided rent for the first year of living there. 

Getting a job will be difficult, but you knew that you would figure it out somehow. With how populated the world is, there is bound to be an English speaking job for you out there. But that was the least of your worries right now. What you needed the most was food, sleep, and a warm blanket for you and Clarisse. All that you needed for a couple nights was already at the apartment, and you were eternally grateful. 

Finally getting to the small one bedroom apartment, you immediately lock the door behind you, and set off to the small bedroom. There is a mattress on the floor as well as a few blankets and a pillow, but other than that nothing much else. It was simple, and you liked it. Just for you and your little girl. You smiled as you saw the view out the window. The beautiful city lights shone through the fire escape balcony, giving a soft glow in the bedroom. It felt safe. 

Getting out a diaper and some wipes, you begin to change Clarisse. “I know sweet girl, it’s been a long day.” You whisper, giving soft kisses to her face as she babbles into the open air. “Are you gonna sleep well tonight? Hm? Or are you gonna keep me up?” You chuckle at the small girl in front of you, and you softly tickle her sides. Her incoherent giggles are music to your ears, and it is nothing like you have ever heard before. “You are so beautiful my little flower.” You smile, nuzzling your nose against hers softly.

After getting Clarisse all settled, you decided to move the mattress just under the window to get the perfect view of the night sky. You lay your head on the pillow, a feeling you haven’t felt in a very long time. Your little girl snuggled right up next to you, and stared up at the sky as well. You knew she would grow up to be the best little girl there is, and there is no doubt about that.

~~~~~~~

Sweat covered your forehead as you ran through the cold Russian woods. Barely escaping the Hydra base with your ankles not broken. You kept running until you knew you were far enough away to take a breath. But oh... were you wrong. The Winter Soldier was right behind you, every step of the way. It almost felt like he was in the trees, stalking your every move just like your father had conditioned him to. 

The man was silent as he looked for you, but the silence screamed death. You were terrified, and rightfully so. Even trying to hold your breath so no one could see it, including you, was one of the only options to stay hidden. Besides trying to hide within the trees, and snow on the ground. It was hopeless. You could already hear the crunching of the snow underneath the heavy combat boots of the Winter Soldier coming your way. 

This was it, you were going to die. You never knew why your father kept you in the base, but he would not be disappointed to hear that you were gone for good. Maybe it was for the best. No one would have to worry about keeping you silent, or contained. With the secrets you know, you could uncover the world's most dangerous criminals, documents, and codes to plenty of nuclear energy. But you swore to your mother you would never tell a soul. She loved her husband and her daughter equally, but her caring nature made her keep the world she lived in safe. 

You were in your thoughts for too long. ‘Fuck-’ you suck in a breath, not moving an inch as you feel the cold blade barely cut into your neck. “Please...” you couldn’t believe you were begging for mercy, but you were strong. You had to stay alive; for your mother. “Cooperate and I won’t kill you...” the soldier said in a dark voice. You didn’t understand why he wasn’t going to kill you. 

Instead of questioning him, you gave a small nod. “Good girl.” He whispered in your ear, sending chills down your spine. Soon the cold spread from your arms all the way down to your most intimate parts. He had sliced away at your thin hospital-like gown, and stripped you bare. You couldn’t do anything with a knife to your neck so you stayed still. “Please d-don’t, I-I’ll go back wi-with you, just p-please!” You quietly beg him, but he has already stripped himself of his own tactical pants. 

He ignored your pleas, commanding you “Be a good girl and lay on your back...” A whimper left your throat and you froze. “N-no.” You stated, calmly. Instant regret filled your veins as he swiped his foot underneath yours and you fell to the ground. Your head hit a root sticking out from the ground and your vision was rendered blurry. “P-please...” Your attempt of a small plea exited your mouth, but you gave up. 

His veiny, god-like sculpted cock filled your cunt to the brim. You tried to scream, but nothing would come out. He started to thrust, and thrust, and thrust. It felt like it never ended. His blue eyes stared into your dull y/e/c eyes with no emotion or mercy. He was told to do this to you, and it traumatized you. With no luck, you tried to push him away but he was quick to pin your hands above your head with his strong arms. One metal, one flesh. 

“It's ok... just take it...” Was he trying to comfort you? 

“I- I can’t...” 

“You will.” That was the very last thing before you were left in darkness, unconscious and barely alive. 

~~~~~~~

Clarisse lets out a small cry, waking you up instantly. “Hey sweet pea, shh shh mommas got you.” You whisper to her, gently rocking her in your arms. You didn’t know what time it was, but you knew for sure you only slept a wink. You stayed up the rest of the night, helping her to sleep, feeding her every now and then, and getting only some sleep yourself. You were more than happy to stay awake for her, and that was a sacrifice you were willing to take. 

Once the sun started to come up, you yawned and decided to see what snacks you had brought from the airport. Some ChexMix and an apple was enough until you gathered enough courage to go grocery shopping. It had to be about 9:00 once Clarisse started to wake up. Swaying her as she drank from your breast, you hummed her a soft song and smiled from above her. As she drank, you began to grab what money you had, Charisse's baby bag and a face mask just in case someone did end up recognizing you. It would be lethal to have anyone from Hydra even know you exist. 

~~~~~~~

Bucky POV:

Of course I regret everything. I have to live with what I have done every day of my life, and deep down I know that I can’t blame myself for my actions. It’s not something to get used to. Some would say that I have gotten used to hearing the last breath come from someone's gurgling throat. Some would say that “he likes to watch them die.” But in truth, nothing is worse than seeing someone's life drain from their eyes just like a painting being washed away; the paint clinging to life to stay on the canvas but the water just too damn strong. 

A victim I remember very clearly, said whilst looking through the barrel of my gun “Fools make romance of death, for it is brutal and cruel. That I say be at peace with my passing is not such a thing. But once it is done, I will be safe and sound once more. I will live as long as I can, be with you as many days as we are sent, then keep me in your memories. I will see you again. That is a promise.” He was right, I would see him again. Not in heaven, or hell where I belong. But in my nightmares every single night. Therapy can only do so much for a broken, lost and helpless soldier. Let alone a 106 year old one. 

However, I was slowly making amends with the people who were fortunately left alive. Yori Nakasima, the sweet old man I have lunch with every Tuesday is just an example. He was not a victim, but his son was. He was caught at the wrong place at the wrong time, and in turn he fell straight to the line of fire. My line of fire. No matter how much I try, I can never expel the begging that came from his mouth. He was innocent and had absolutely nothing to do with that mission. Simply… a loose knot that had to be tied tight. Yori and I went our own ways, and it makes me happy to see him still go to the same restaurant every Tuesday. He may not remember our conversation, but rest assured he can sleep knowing what happened to his son. 

One more name.

One more name and I can throw this damned book away.

Y/n Y/L/n. 

Y/n has been on this list for four to eight months now. Her name staring back at me with anger and regret. God why did her own father make me do this? Thoughts were racing through my head as I searched for Y/n, but nothing came up besides death certificates. She can’t be dead. She has to be alive, I know that she got out of there alive… Going deep into police, military and FBI/CIA records, along with the witness protection program as a sergeant, I was able to find someone by the name of Carla Davenport. I obviously knew this was wrong, and I was mostly doing this for myself. But there was one part of me that wanted to tell her that she is safe, and that she could finally rest with her guard down. 

Doing further research, I finally came across an address. I lucked out by being in Madrid at the time with Zemo and Sam while I did my research. All I had left was to confront her and tell her my intentions. Knowing Y/n, she would be feisty, careful but most likely fearless. I know her, and she would fight with every last cell of energy in her body to win. I slightly jump as I hear my phone buzz and I answer Sam.

“Hey Sam.” I said, jotting down Y/n’s new address. I heard a sigh on the other line, and I knew I was in for something. 

“I got a call from a CIA agent who found a breach in the witness protection program. Was that you?” Sam replies. 

“Uh, why would you think it would be me? I have no reason to be on that site in the first place.” Seriously? What kind of answer was that?? “Dr. Raynor told me you needed to find some people… Buck come on man, we could have done this together.” 

“Whatever happened to patient privacy? I found what I needed, so can I log out and be on my way?”

“Listen, I know you’re hurting. Especially over Y/n. I'll help you find her, but can we please do it the legal way?” He sounded convincing enough that he actually wanted to help, but I knew that it was just a ploy. Or, maybe that was my irrational thoughts talking for me.

“I’ve gotta do this on my own. She is the last one before I can finally go out and live how I want to. She will determine if I deserve to be free.” There was silence for a short period of time, and then another soft sigh from the man on the other line. 

“Alright, fine. But if I get one more phone call telling me you did something illegal, you’re kicked off my team for charades, and you are going to talk with Dr. Raynor. Do you understand?” 

I chuckled at his threat, and I nodded to myself. “Yeah, Sam. I understand. I wouldn’t want to bother Captain America with calls from random CIA agents about the site of witnesses in protection. This is honestly something Raynor should have let me do. She was the one who told me to “use your resources'' where there was nothing else to use. Anyway, I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow.” 

“See you tomorrow Buck. Have a good night.” 

Hanging up the phone, I sigh and I finish writing down the information from the website. Now that I knew where she lived, it would then be the hard part of everything. Telling her what I did, and apologizing for it. 

~~~~~~~

Your POV:

It had now been three full weeks of living in Madrid and you were living your best life! You had a desk job dealing with English complaints for a website that was fully in Spanish, and your little girl could be with you all day long. Being able to earn a stable living was nice in such a large and new country. Also with your new way of life, you were not living off of ramen and buttered toast. You were able to make full meals with fresh ingredients from the finest vendors just down the street from your apartment. Steamed vegetables, freshly cooked meat that only needed a little bit of heating in the oven and your own seasonings and finally the glorious, melt-in-your-mouth Churros con Chocolate was what you were blessed with for dessert. It was heaven, and you were living in it with such happiness. 

Clarisse is now one month old, and has been a little more aware of what she can do with her body. Even at this young age, she knows who you are and who you are to her. Soon she’ll be running around on two healthy legs with energy skyrocketing every second. Watching her grow up is the highlight of your life, and you never wanted it to end. Her eyes would scan each room you went through, each aisle you walked down, and even grabbed up at you from your arms as you made your way down to the baby section. Clothes, shoes, food. Clothes, shoes, food. All you needed was those three things, and you would be on your way. 

It was a relief that you had not encountered a challenge by anyone. Not when little Clarisse cried for a little bit, and not even when the panic set in at the sound of the bustling cars outside the store. It was a success, and you could not wait to get home. Checking out with ease, you held Clarisse close to you as you took your groceries in the small basket on the back of your bike, and strapped the little girl into her car seat carrier on the front of your bike. “All safe and sound, my sweet girl,” You whisper, gently putting her blanket over her. On the way back to your apartment, you followed the same route to and from. Two lefts, a right, up the hill and to the left. It was almost a song you replayed over and over in your head, just to help you get home. Just like your mother taught you;

Down the hall and to the left, a little bit longer, up the stairs and in my arms you go! This song was to navigate the hallways of the large house your father had bought your family before he decided to keep you as his own lab rat. 

Once you made it into the safe walls of your home, the lock was the first thing in place after putting your bike inside. Clarrise still strapped in her seat, you rolled the bike to the far wall of your kitchen. The babbling baby in her carrier made you smile as she reached out to you, her feet kicking in excitement as she made eye contact. 

Holding your little girl felt so right, yet so wrong at the same time. Not only was this life forced upon you, but this baby took everything from you. Your passion for dancing and painting, your want to go to college, desire to learn and grow. This creature that is in need of so much care and attention took all of that from you. But so did he. He hurt you the most. 

Every day memories flow through your brain like a movie projecting onto a loosely hanging sheet. Warped, but clear for a person to know what happened. It was your duty to Clarrise that she did not know your past, and that she was brought into this life in a way that is a crime. And she never had to know. Having her not grow up with a father was a sacrifice you were willing to take to keep her protected from the pain you went through.

Your alarm on your phone went off, and you sat down on the couch to feed Clarrise. As you unclipped your padded bra, you froze at the sound of a knock came from the front door. Luckily Clarrise didn’t seem too hungry at the moment, so you slowly approached the door. You looked through the peep hole and saw a man. He had short brown hair, and piercing blue eyes. He looked… gentle. 

As you held your child close to your chest you slowly opened the door.

“Can I help you?” 

He looked down at you, a hight difference clearly present. He smiled at the small child in your arms and responded to your question. “Im looking for Carla. Does she live here?” 

You nod and say “I am her, is there something I can do for you?” You ask again, wanting a reason for the sudden visit from this man. He looked back to your face and you made eye contact with him, it was his eyes that looked so familiar. 

“Right, I just moved in down the hall way and wanted to introduce myself. Im James Barnes, and I’m from 107, that way.” He pointed down the hall way and you followed his finger. You nodded with a smile. “Well, its nice to meet you James. Would you like to come in? I was just about to feed this little one, but if you don’t feel comfortable with breast feeding, you don’t have to come in.”

You invite him in, not thinking of the dangers or intents of this man. He kindly accepts and enters your small apartment. Offering him a seat on the couch, you sit down opposite from him in the rocking chair. Putting a cover over Clarrise, you begin to feed her, the milk coming from your breasts entering her mouth as she begins to feed. 

“What brings you to Spain? I don’t know a lot of English speakers here besides the land lord.” You say, wanting to start conversation. He nods and shrugs, smiling softly. 

“I just needed a change of scenery, thats all.” He keeps his answer simple, not knowing how to bring himself to tell you what he did. 

“Have I seen you around? You seem very familiar, maybe in the market?” You ask, knowing you have seen him somewhere. 

This was his chance, this is the time to tell her. 

“No, I don’t think it was in the market,” He says in a sad tone. “It was a while back, I- um, I worked with Hydra. For your father. A-and I was ordered to do something very harmful to you, and I believe it was the result of- of her…” He slowly explains as he takes off his glove, revealing his metal hand. 

Your heart drops, the puzzle piece finally fitting in the right place in your mind. Tears pool in your eyes as you look from his eyes to his hand. The metal one. The memories come flooding back to your head, the nightmares, the feelings, and the eyes. His eyes, those got forbidden eyes. As cold as ice, yet as blue as the ocean of where you pictured yourself at the time of his assault. 

"I am only here to apologize. I am not asking for forgiveness. I am no longer the winte-”

“Why,” you cut him off. “Why did you do it?” Your voice cracks, many emotions coming through your gritted teeth. 

His eyes softened at your broken voice, and he sighs softly looking down at his hand. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“What did my father do? What did he do to you?” You ask, pity also filling your voice as you too know what horrors other prisoners went through. You felt bad, even for him. You tear your eyes away from him, moving them to your baby, his baby. 

“He did horrible things, but nothing compares to what he did to you. What he made me do to you. I- Im so sorry Y/n…” He takes the risk of saying your name, not expecting anything from it. 

“What are you doing here, James? What do you expect me to do?” I ask, trying to understand why he is here. “Did you come to finish the job?” You ask the question that dreaded your mind the moment he told you who he was. 

“No, not at all. I actually came here to offer protection. But I understand if you want nothing to do with me or the life you had to endure when under the horrors of Hydra.”

You considered. You actually considered letting him stay and try to protect you. “What or who am I in danger of?” You counter his offer, trying to prove something but unsure of what. You sigh and shake your head. “Forget about it. Im in the witness protection program, so protection shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Carla. How do you think I found you?” He asks, exposing what he did to find you. 

Your brows furrowed and you glared at him. “I see.”

You didn’t engage anymore, you were numb and didn’t know how to feel about the situation. You felt violated all over again, by the same man. “Leave. Please just go.” You whisper, tears falling freely down your cheeks. Once Clarrise was done eating, you clipped your breast back into your bra and stood up. You didn’t notice James put a card on your coffee table as he made his way to your door. 

“I understand your fears. I hope you have found safety in Spain, Carla.” He said emotionlessly, actually understanding your fears. As he went back to his apartment which he did actually buy, he sighed and shut the door. 

As he dialed the only phone number he actually knew, he slid down the door and sat against it as the line rung. He closed his eyes and let his head hit the door. 

“Hey, you’ve reached Sam Wilson, Trauma counselor at the department of veterans affairs. Please leave a message and I will call you back when I’m free. Thanks!”

“Sam, It’s done. She- She’s crossed off the list.” 

~~~~~~~

Hours had passed by the time you could even speak. “How could he have found us?” You ask as you bounce Clarrise in your arms. The sleeping little girl in your arms was clueless to your question, hopefully dreaming of running free and not in hiding anymore. “My god, maybe it would be good to have protection…” 

You were talking to Clarrise as if she understood, but you knew she didn’t. You give her head a small kiss, looking in the direction of the coffee table in the middle of your small living room. An index card sat on the corner, scribbled on it was a phone number and a sloppy “107” on the bottom. You knew who this was from. 

You sighed and sat on the couch, cuddling your baby close to your chest, clutching her as if she would disappear. Staring at the piece of paper in your hands you contemplate calling him, contemplating on apologizing. Apologizing on your fathers behalf. 

Before you could stop yourself, you reached for your phone and dialed the number. 

~~~~~~~

Bucky jumped at the ring of his cell phone. He instantly recognized the number from the witness protection program website. 

“Hello?”

You took a few seconds before talking. “I know you know who this is. I’m making dinner a-and was wondering if you would like to join me?”

Bucky was taken a back by the sudden invitation, “Oh, sure I would love to. What time should I be there?” 

Responding rather quickly, you said, “Now?”

Before he could say anything, you had hung up and began making dinner. Boiling water for the noodles, opening up some seasonings you had just bought and putting the bread in the oven, you were ready for James. 

He knocked on your door and you put Clarrise in her bassinet in the living room, keeping an eye on her as you cooked. As you opened the door, you smiled softly at James. Instead of fearing him, you wrap your arms around him. He freezes, not yet used to such a gentle gesture from someone. 

As you sigh into him, he returns the hug and softly wraps his arms around you too. “Im so sorry James. Im sorry for everything my father did to you…” You know you shouldn’t have to apologize, but you can’t help but feel obligated knowing what James went through. 

“No, you have nothing to apologize for. It was and never will be your fault. Do you understand me?” James said, giving you a soft squeeze. 

You nod silently in response, and you gently pull away; tears falling from your eyes. Out of instinct, he cups your cheek and tenderly wipes the tears from your cheeks.

You lean into his benevolent touch and look up at him, a sense of security falling over yourself. Even though you knew him as the winter soldier, you knew you were safe with James. You knew that Clarrise was his child as well, and that she was safe with James. 

Gently reaching for his hand, you lead him into your home. He shuts the door behind him, and smiles as you walk to the kitchen continuing your work making dinner. You pause and look over at Clarrise who is now wide awake. 

“Do you want to meet her?” You ask, noticing James looking over at the babbling baby. 

He nods with a smile, subconsciously knowing that Clarrise is his child. As you approach the bassinet, you smile down at her. “Hi sweetheart, are you awake?” You ask in a small voice, smiling as she smiles back up at you. Picking her up, you hold her against your chest, looking to James with a smile. 

“I named her Clarrise, after my mother. Do you want to give her a middle name?” You ask, subconsciously accepting that he is her father. He looked to you and tilted his head. 

“Are you sure?” He asked, not wanting to force himself into the life you and Clarrise already have. You nod and wait for him to give an answer. “What about Sarah? After my sister?” 

Your ears perked at the word ‘sister,’ “You have a sister?” You ask with smile. 

“I had a sister. She um, she passed away a couple years ago. But she was sweet, and I think that it would be perfect for this sweet girl as well.” You smile at his suggestion and nod in approval. 

“Clarrise Sarah Barnes.” You utter, gently handing James your baby girl. “It’s ok, you won’t hurt her, I know you won’t.” Looking up at him, you can see the hesitation in his eyes. As he takes Clarrise in his arms, the connection is clear between them. A father-daughter bond that no one can just create. She was his.

“She’s beautiful, just like her mother.” He subtly compliments you, himself falling for you. This time in the form of true love, not forced love. You feel your cheeks heat up, a shy smile pulling at your lips. 

“She has her fathers eyes,” You point out Clarrise's blue eyes, still slightly forming as she grows. “And his bravery.” Adding onto her attribute, you look at James face as he interacts with the baby. 

Thinking of his preposition, you say to him, “You know, I wouldn’t mind a little protection. I-it would be nice to not feel so scared going out. Clarrise I bet would love to have her father around as well.” 

You anxiously wait for James’s reaction, hoping he doesn’t think you are moving to fast. Relief flooded your system as he nods. “I promise you, no one will hurt you. Not anymore.” He says, turning his head back to you. “I promise, Carla.”

You shake your head, and wave your hand a little bit. “Y/n is fine. Im sick of being someone Im not.”

He chuckles softly. “Trust me, I get it.” You smile and you move next to him, leaning on his strong bicep as you both look down at your beautiful baby girl. 

“James?”

“Yes, Y/n?” 

You pause.

You smile as he transfers Clarrise back into your arms. She has fallen asleep again, so you put her back in her bassinet. With the knowledge that both of her parents looking down at her, it makes you feel secure and safe. 

You turn to Bucky and look up at him, your hands coming to meet his cheeks. The proximity of the both of you made your heart beat quicker, and your mind blank. You did what you felt was right and leaned forward, connecting your lips with his. His hands hold your waist gently, and he pulls you into him. You pull away breathlessly and he kisses your temple. You move your arms around his torso, and he holds you in an embrace, his chin resting on your head.

"I’d like you to stay. Please.” You answer, a sigh of relief escaping your mouth as you feel him nod his head. 

“Of course, princess, of course.” He cradles the back of your head in his large hand and kisses your forehead once again. He may have hurt you in the past, but he’s gained a little bit of your trust. He showed you that he is sorry, and you understand that it was not his fault. In this new chapter of your life, you know you will make it far.

And so will your baby girl. 

[todaysdocument]

Petition of Margaret S. Gittings in the Fugitive Slave Petition Book

Record Group 21: Records of District Courts of the United StatesSeries: Fugitive Slave Record Book

123 Record, 33, The United State of America District of Maryland to wit In the Matter of the Petition of Margaret S. Gittings Be it remembered, That on this day, to wit the Twenty Second day of May in the year of our Lord one thousand Eight hundred and fifty four, the said Margaret S. Gittings filed in the District Court of the United States in and for the Maryland District her Petition and proof in the words and of the [terms?] following, to wit, To the Honorable William F. Giles, Judge of the District Court of the United States in and for the District of Maryland. The petition of Margaret S. Gittings, of the City of Baltimore in the District aforesaid, respectfully shows, That she is the bona fide and lawful owner of a negro boy named William Thompson, or William Hemmings as he sometimes calls himself, now about sixteen or seventeen years of age, and that the said negro Boy, William is her slave for life and as such slave owed your petitioner service and labor within the State of Maryland, from which her said slave Escaped and ran away on or about the Eighteenth day of May, Eighteen hundred and fifty four and that your petitioner has not since recovered the possession of her said slave. She further shows that her said slave, William Thompson or William Hemmings, is five feet to four to six inches in height, stout of his age and square built, of a dark mulatto colour, very large feet & hands, has a scar on his forehead from a Fall, also a scar on one leg near the knee from the healing of a sore, had a large flat nose and a large mouth, with a bushy head of hair, speaks and understands German having lived in a German family understands it better than he speaks it, but can speak it so as to be understood. Your petitioner further shows that she is desired to reclaim her said slave and regain his services, wherefore she prays your Honor to inquire into the matter and facts stated in this her petition and to cause a record to be made of the matters provided under it, so as to enable her to obtain the benefits of the Act of Congress approved September 18, 1850 Entitled "An Act to amend and supplementary to the Act entitled An Act respecting fugitives from Justice and persons Escaping from the Service of their Masters approved February the Twelfth One thousand Seven hundred and ninety three" and as in duty bound, &c. Margaret S. Gittings Witness John Hanan

[a-hell-of-a-time-archive]

@fortiethkey

Having left Yukitaka with Yui back home, and after leaving Andrealphus with more human world souvenirs (why he took a liking to hornet larvae was a mystery to her, but she wouldn't question it), Caim had made her way back to the manor she once called home. While it was not the one she had given up to Andre when she signed over everything as per Paimon's directive, it was the one she had grown up in.

She was returning to her father's house.

It had been many, many years since she last set foot in this place, and all that time apart had left her feeling anxious. She was well aware of the hurt and pain she inflicted by leaving with her mother; Andrealphus had been hurt by her abandoning their engagement, and no doubt her father suffered an even worse hurt by his daughter turning her back on him and going silent for many years after her eighteenth birthday. In the time apart she had gone through many milestones, and losses that her father should have been a part of. Instead she had kept to herself and fled from the goetia. From her father.

There would be no more of that. She was done running from the part of herself that could not be denied. It was time to embrace all of herself, and make amends with one of the most important people in her life.

Curling her talons into a fist, she knocked on the manor door. Hopefully he would be home.

[redeemingvillains]

the soul's brand (x) - draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x half-blood fem!reader

summary: the war is over, but what does that mean for you and draco?

word count: 2.5k

warnings: 18+ mature, sexual/suggestive content below the cut

chapter nine series masterlist

The wizarding world was adjusting slowly to its new reality. Everyone was trying to come to terms with all that had happened, to rebuild from the rubble, to digest the immeasurable loss, to comprehend the staunch corruption from the highest levels of the Ministry.

Your eighteenth birthday came and passed. You received owls and well wishes from Harry, Ron, Hermione, Luna and so many of your friends laden with sweets, cards and good news of how they were all doing. You waited, watching the windowsill of your parents’ new apartment in London for one more owl to arrive, hoping to hear from Draco, hoping he would have a way to track you down, having no way to find him yourself.

That weekend the doorbell rang and your parents shared a confused glance as your father walked cautiously towards the door and opened it to see an extremely large bouquet of two dozen red roses, and peeking out behind them a figure dressed impeccably in black, a stark contrast to his white blonde hair.

You had filled your parents in on nearly everything that had transpired with you and Draco by way of explanation for why you had vanished on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts. You were still desperately trying to make amends for disappearing on them. You had never thought in a million years he would show up to your house, ring your doorbell, and shake hands with your father who reluctantly but earnestly shook back.

It was no secret that Draco had been cooperating with the Ministry after the Daily Prophet ran a story about him and his family, not entirely complimentary, but it was clear enough that he had been trying to do the right thing. You had never been more proud than when you had seen that, your heart squeezing for him, and for the knowledge that he had to be somewhere in London, and now he was standing at your front door. You ran to meet him and threw yourself into his embrace, crying happy tears for the first time in as long as you could remember as he scooped you up. He set you down rather quickly after a narrowed glance from your father and handed you your roses.

“How did you find me?” you asked, breathless.

“Granger. I saw her… at the Ministry” he said, a blush rising to his cheeks as his eyes met the floor.

Your mother stepped forward to greet him warmly, quickly enveloping him in a hug that caught you all by surprise. She more than anyone else had been rattled by everything that had occurred in the wizarding world, feeling helpless to keep her family safe. “Thank you” she whispered as she held Draco tightly, tears brimming her eyes. “You kept her safe, in the very best way that you could. I will always be grateful for that.” Draco was stunned at her warmth, her kindness, and her compassion, seeing quickly where you got it from as she ushered him inside, offering him tea and cauldron cakes and pumpkin pasties which he eagerly accepted, shooting you a cheeky grin.

You could hardly believe the two most important parts of your world were coming together… effortlessly. You slid into a chair at your kitchen table as your mom chatted to Draco about the weather, about London as she returned to baking in the kitchen and your dad chimed in to talk about the start of the new quidditch season. You sat in awe at how it all played out, how easily they meshed together as Draco sat next to you, tangled his fingers in yours and pressed a kiss to your cheek. He looked better than you’d ever seen him, he had a lively tint in his cheek and his eyes were no longer laden with bags, they sparkled grey and onyx when they looked at you and his smile and his laugh came easily. Though he had always dressed well, you realized that for so long his clothes had hung on his narrow frame; now he filled them out nicely and they clung tightly to his muscular chest and arms.

He stayed until the sun hung low in the sky and when he stood to leave you glanced at your mom, hoping to convey how badly you wanted to go with him. She glanced quickly at your father and relented, nodding and pulling you into a tight hug before pressing a kiss to Draco’s cheek and sending you both on your way. Your father was less thrilled at the idea but stood nonetheless to shake Draco’s hand sturdily and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

As the front door closed behind you, Draco let out a deep breath. “Your father is more intimidating than half the Death Eaters I knew” he said, exasperated. You slapped him playfully on the arm.

“What? Too soon?” he asked, laughing as he wound his arm around your shoulders and began to walk.

Even though it was nearly dark there were quite a few people on the street with you as you made your way to his apartment. The gravity wasn’t lost on you that for the first time in seven years, you were able to walk arm in arm, publicly, with the boy you loved, not hiding in the shadows, not afraid of who might see you. In fact, no one seemed to spare either of you a second glance. You snuggled further into his grasp. You thought perhaps he might be thinking the same thing when he stopped in the middle of a particularly busy square as you were jostled by the crowd and turned to press a kiss firmly to your lips, catching you by surprise before you wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed into him on your tippy toes. You lost yourself in him for a moment, winding your hands into the hair at the base of his neck before he pulled away reluctantly. “Come on, only a few more blocks” he said, grabbing your hand and quickening his pace.

His apartment was set back from the street by a small courtyard, and even from the outside you knew it was going to be extremely nice. He opened the door to an opulently well-furnished space with small touches of things here and there that were so decidedly him it felt immediately like home. You had never been so settled in a new space before as you ran your finger across his bookshelves, taking in some of your favorite titles, drinking in every detail of what made this place his before smiling at him.

He leaned against the doorframe to the living room, watching you, a soft smile on his face. You were a vision to behold, here, in his apartment, with him. You fit perfectly here. This could be yours too, at least, that was his intention, which is why he had bought every single one of your favorite books. But he didn’t want to get ahead of himself. For once, time was on his side and as desperately as he wanted to usher in his future with you, he didn’t want to rush it. He wanted to savor every moment.

He approached you softly as you peered out the large bay window overlooking the courtyard below and turned to face him. His eyes sparkled like a cloudy night sky and you smiled sincerely at just how happy he looked. His eyes landed on your lips and he reached for your face, his fingers tracing your jaw, making you blush like you were sixteen again. Though that was only two years ago, it felt like decades, but somehow he still had the ability to make you nervous, to make your heart beat wildly in your chest, to make your wrist feel warm and electric across his initials.

You looked down and pulled back your sleeve to show that his initials were twinkling on your body. You looked up to see him smiling as he traced a finger softly around the letters of his name. His touch was so gentle and light but somehow it still sent a shiver across your body and ignited a flame deep within you. He saw you shiver slightly, registering the change in your body language, the blush on your cheeks and the desire in your eyes as they glanced at his lips. “Draco—” you whispered breathlessly, his name on your lips healing every last sin remaining in his body as he sunk his lips to yours.

You had lost count of the number of times you had kissed him, but none had ever felt like this. Your lips moved against each other with the urgency of seven years of having to keep them apart. He was impossibly gentle with you but at the same time passionate, like he couldn’t get enough, would never get enough of you to make up for lost time. He walked you gently backwards against the wall, engulfing you in his presence as his tongue found yours and all of him pressed against all of you. You moaned against his lips and he lifted you off the ground, pressing you into the wall, your legs wrapping around him as your wrist hummed with pleasure, tingling as your hands worked into his hair and his held you firmly in place, grasping at your waist, your hips pressing into his.

Before long he pulled you further into his arms and began to walk you down a long hallway towards what you could only imagine to be his bedroom. Your heart raced in your chest, but your nerves had long subsided, his touch, his kisses feeling so perfectly right. He settled you onto his bed and he lay on top of you, careful not to crush you with his body weight as you tugged him down further by the lapels of his suit jacket, your eagerness eliciting a smile from his lips as they worked against yours. Your hands pulled at his shirt until it came untucked and your hands roamed against his torso, his body hot to your touch and alight with goosebumps at the same time. You had to physically remind yourself to breath as your head dizzied at the feeling of his lips on your jaw and your neck, your hands moving to pull off his jacket and unbutton his shirt, your eyes drinking him in unabashedly.

He pulled back just briefly enough to see the glazed look of desire in your eyes as they searched his, your lips swollen from his, your cheeks flushed, the way your body reacted to his. It was impossible to think about anything else in a time like this, but you lying in his bed, looking at him like that was enough to make him feel like everything you had both been through was all worth it somehow.

He took his time, expertly balancing his insatiable desire to be with you with the ability to relish in your body. He didn’t tease, he lavished, drawing out every loosened button, fasten and zipper on both of you until only the slimmest fabric separated you both from each other and you were under his emerald sheets. You bucked your hips up to meet his, pulling a groan deep from within his chest as he moved one hand behind your head to continue to guide your mouth to his, while the other slid down your body, ghosting over your ribs, past your stomach, lower, tantalizing lower, grazing the fabric of your lace thong. “Darrrlinnggg” he purred against your lips an exclamation and a prayer wrapped in one as he felt the way you responded to him, how ready you were for him. You had your hands around his neck, trying impossibly to bring him closer to you, to convey with your body what you so desperately wanted, your toes curling at the pleasure building inside of you. After only a moment he paused, breaking your kiss to look at you, his fingers now trailing the waistline of your thong. “May I--?” he asked

“Yes” you said quickly before he could finish his statement; whatever it was, yes, one hundred times yes and he blushed as he pulled your thong off you slowly, bearing you to him, pausing one more time.

“Are you sure?” he whispered against your lips.

You nodded, never more sure of anything in your whole entire life.

He kissed you tenderly. “Need to hear you say it” he said, his hands on his briefs as he kissed down your jaw and neck, hitting the tender spot right below your ear.

“I want you, Draco. All of you. Please” you begged, and he kissed you fully and in earnest, guiding himself to you and starting an agonizingly slow rhythm, one hand resting on the back of your head, continuing to guide your lips to his, the other angling your hips to meet his in just the right way. As your hips finally connected, his breath hitched, mumbling against your lips as he increased the pace. “Love you darling, I love you, I love you…” and you fell apart in his arms several times over.

You remained tangled in one another, unwilling to let go as you fell into a deep sleep. It was the first night in two years’ time Draco slept through the night without a nightmare. The dark drapes of his room kept out the morning sun, letting you both sleep late into the afternoon. You awoke in his arms, buried in his warm chest, the feeling of his fingers brushing your back gently. Your eyes fluttered open and you looked up to see him smiling at you. You drank in his sleepy eyes and the relaxed look on his face as he lifted a hand to brush hair out of your face. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, to his neck and you could hear a happy grumble in his chest. You loved every chance you had and would have to coax the happy out of him.

“Mmm” he hummed in delight. “Good morning to you too” he said as he shifted to press a kiss to your lips, capturing your smile. He leaned back to look at you, to take you in, your bare skin glowing as it tangled in his sheets. “You look good here” he said. You raised an eyebrow at that flirtatiously. “In my apartment, in general, I mean. With me, here” he clarified.

“Yeah?” you hummed innocently.

“Yeah” he said. “I don’t know what the future will bring, though I have a few ideas of my own… but I like the idea of you living with me. I’ve spent seven years in all manners apart from you, forgive me if I don’t want to be more than a few feet apart now. And I’ll kindly remind you that I intend to keep my promise, I have a lot of making up to do.”

“Draco, you don’t owe me a thing” you replied. “You saved my life, in more ways than one.” You cupped his face with your hand and he turned his head to kiss your palm, the raised scar on your wrist then each of your fingers in turn. “I love you” he whispered, thinking how brilliant the three-carat emerald and diamond ring hidden deep in his closet would look on you one day. Soon.

“I love you too" you whispered.

series masterlist

taglist: @moiravim

[gatheringbones]

[“The history of the transatlantic slave trade and chattel slavery looms large in contemporary trafficking conversations – often in the form of claims, subtle or not, that modern trafficking is worse than chattel slavery. Politicians and police officers meet to tell each other that ‘there are more slaves now than at any previous point in human history’; a UK former government minister insists that ‘we are facing a new slave trade, whose victims are tortured, terrified East European girls rather than Africans’. Matteo Renzi, then prime minister of Italy, wrote in 2015 that ‘human traffickers are the slave traders of the twenty-first century’. The Vatican claimed that ‘modern slavery’, specifically prostitution, is ‘worse than the slavery of those … who were taken from Africa’. A senior British police officer remarked that ‘the cotton plantations and sugar plantations of the eighteenth and nineteenth century … wouldn’t be as bad as what some victims [today] go through’.

A 2012 anti-trafficking ‘documentary’ that was screened for politicians and policymakers around the world, including in Washington, London, Edinburgh, and at the UN buildings in New York, proclaims: ‘In 1809 the cost of a slave was thirty thousand dollars. In 2009, the cost of a slave is ninety dollars.’ White people co-opting the history of chattel slavery as rhetoric is grim, not least because the term slavery names a specific legal institution created, enforced and protected by the state, which is nowhere near synonymous with contemporary ideas of trafficking. Indeed, the direct modern descendant of chattel slavery in the US is not prostitution but the prison system. Slavery was not abolished but explicitly retained in the US Constitution as punishment for crime in the Thirteenth Amendment of the Bill of Rights, which states that ‘neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction’ (emphasis ours).

The Thirteenth Amendment isn’t just a vestigial hangover. In 2016, the Incarcerated Workers Organizing Committee released a statement condemning inmates’ treatment in the prison work system:

Overseers watch over our every move, and if we do not perform our appointed tasks to their liking, we are punished. They may have replaced the whip with pepper spray, but many of the other torments remain: isolation, restraint positions, stripping off our clothes and investigating our bodies as though we are animals.

There are more Black men in the US prison system now than were enslaved in 1850. Seeking to ‘end slavery’ through increased policing and incarceration is a bitterly ironic proposition.

White people in Britain and North America have been very successful at ducking any real reckoning with the legacies of the slave trade. Historian Nick Draper writes, ‘We privilege abolition … If you say to somebody ‘tell me about Britain and slavery’, the instinctive response of most people is Wilberforce and abolition. Those 200 years of slavery beforehand have been elided – we just haven’t wanted to think about it.’ By rhetorically intertwining modern trafficking with chattel slavery, governments and campaigners have been able to hide punitive policies targeting irregular migration behind seemingly uncomplicated righteous outrage.

Men of colour become ‘modern enslavers’ who deserve prosecution or worse. Their ‘human cargo’, figured as being transported against their will, are owed nothing more than ‘humanitarian return’, and the racist trope of border invasion is given a progressive sheen through collective shared horror at the villainy of the perpetrators. Meanwhile, in crackdowns and deportations, European governments position themselves as re-enacting and re-writing the history of anti-slavery movements to make themselves both victims and heroes. Of course, these actions by European governments do harm. For example, their policy of confiscating or destroying smuggling boats has not ‘rescued’ anyone, only induced smugglers to send migrants in less valuable – and less seaworthy – boats, leading to many more deaths. This policy continued for years, despite clear evidence that it was causing deaths. But, faced with twenty-first century ‘enslavers’, there is little need for white reflection. Instead, Renzi later wrote that European nations ‘need to free ourselves from a sense of guilt’ and reject any notion of a ‘moral duty’ to welcome arrivals. At the time of writing, the Italian government’s ‘solution’ to the migrant crisis is to pay for migrants to be incarcerated, stranded in dangerous, disease-ridden detention centres in Libya. As Robyn Maynard writes,

By hijacking the terminology of slavery, even widely referring to themselves as ‘abolitionists’, anti–sex work campaigners … in pushing for criminalization … are often undermining those most harmed by the legacy of slavery. As Black persons across the Americas are literally fighting for our lives, it is urgent to examine the actions and goals of any mostly white and conservative movement who [claim] to be the rightful inheritors of an ‘anti-slavery’ mission which aims to abolish prostitution but both ignores and indirectly facilitates brutalities waged against Black communities.

What does the fight to save people from ‘modern slavery’ look like on the ground? In 2017, police in North Yorkshire told journalists that they were fighting to rescue ‘sex slaves’ and asked members of the public to call in with tips, adding that the ‘sex slaves’ themselves ‘are prepared to do it [sell sex], they believe there is nothing wrong in it … We have just got to … educate them that they are victims of human trafficking.’ It seems fairly obvious that women who are ‘prepared to do it’ and ‘believe there is nothing wrong with it’ will not particularly benefit from being ‘educated’ about the fact that they are victims of trafficking – which in England and Wales means a forty-five-day ‘respite period’ (frequently disregarded) followed by a ‘humanitarian’ deportation.”]

molly smith, juno mac, from revolting prostitutes: the fight for sex workers’ rights, 2018

[flyinghellfish]

[spockvarietyhour]

[valkyries-things]

FRANCES WILLARD // SUFFRAGIST

“She was an American educator, temperance reformer, and women's suffragist. Willard became the national president of Woman's Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) in 1879 and remained president until her death in 1898. Her influence continued in the next decades, as the Eighteenth (on Prohibition) and Nineteenth (on women's suffrage) Amendments to the United States Constitution were adopted. Willard developed the slogan "Do Everything" for the WCTU and encouraged members to engage in a broad array of social reforms by lobbying, petitioning, preaching, publishing, and education. During her lifetime, Willard succeeded in raising the age of consent in many states as well as passing labor reforms including the eight-hour work day. Her vision also encompassed prison reform, scientific temperance instruction, Christian socialism, and the global expansion of women's rights.”

[simpsonsknowledge]

"Homer vs. the Eighteenth Amendment" showcases the wacky events that follow Springfield's enactment of a prohibition as a consequence of a too-rowdy Saint Patrick's Day celebration.

[popculturebuffet]

James Earl Jones Memorial Halloween Special: Treehouse of Horror I Review! (Comission by WeirdKev27)

Happy Halloween all you happy people! I"m amped not just because I love spooky season: the decoratoins, the candy, the excuse to inject horror into my veins but that we get to talk about one of my faviorite shows. Despite the many, MANY simpsons refrences that grace this fair blog, largely thanks to the site frinkiac for making it easy to meme any simpsons refrence that ops into my dome, I don't cover the show itself often. A lot of it is simple: I just forget to and what retrospectives me or kev have had ideas for have never materialized. Still Kevin, my producer and frequent comissioner, found a perfect episode to cover for the perfect reason: last month legendary actor, voice actor and voice in general James Earl Jones sadly passed and while trying to think of something, Kev brought up how James is present in all three seconds of the first treehouse of horror.

It was a great prospect both to honor james, as he has a sizeable role in the second segment and is essentailly the star of the third as the narrator, and to explore an episode of simpsons I don't really watch. I didn't watch season 2 much to begin wtih as a kid, and don't really now, and didn't like the middle segment. Petty I know, it's the same reason I don't watch Treehouse of Horror IV as much as I should when I can just.. skip the middle segment and enjoy devil flanders and dracula burns. So it was a chance to explore a treehouse I really didnt' know that well and to honor a man who was a part of my childhood and adulthood and general seemed like a kind, resonable person. So in honor of james and to give this episode a fair shake, join me under the cut for some halloween fun with everyone's faviorite family.

We open with Marge warning everybody, a fun idea that works well and would get played with in later specials. The insperation for this one according to writer Al Jean was EC Comics, doing that sort of horror anthology thing tales of the crypt used to do in comics and would again.

The wraparound is a fun and simple one. I also miss them doing these as while I get why it stopped, to give the segments more times, they were a lot of fun, paticuarlly III's halloween party. This one has Bart telling scary stories to lisa in the treehouse, a fun little premise. Homer is listening in because he just finished trick or treating, none of which is suprising but is still entertaining. We'll come back to this at the end for now let's dive into the meat of this special

Soooo hot take.. this was my faviorite of the three segments. I love the raven and will gush about it later, but this was a very nice suprise, having a more rapid fire pace from the seasons to come compared to the rest of season 2 or even it's fellow segments.

This wasn't a huge shock when I found out who wrote it: John Swartzwelder, a singularly weird simpsons writer who smokes and who did all his writing in a diner booth and continued to even after smoking bands by purchasing one, who tends to shy away from the public, to the point they called him on a commentary track just to prove that yes, he exists.

Swartzwelder has written 59 episodes with heighlights including Bart the General, Two Cars in Every Garage and Three Eyes on Every Fish, Homer at the Bat, Whacking Day, Krusty Gets Kanclled, Homer the Vigilante, Itchy and Scratchyland, Homer the Great, Homer's Enemy, Attack of the 50 Foot Eyesores, Homer Vs the Eighteenth Amendment, and Homer's enemy among many others. While he did loose a bit of his sheen as he went on, it can't be denied his peak stuff is some of the series best and this is no exception.

The premise is simple: the simpsons take on the amityville horror, the film based on the book that used a real tragedy to make money. The Simpsons move into a spooky house, nearly murder each other and escape alive. Which isn't a guarantee with Treehouse of Horror NOW but seemed to be a requirement early on as the simpsons don't impliclity die till Treehouse of Horror V and don't die on screne till Treenhouse of Horror X.

It's mainly an excuse to just pack the things with joke after joke, all hitting: the moving man, played by james earl jones mutters under his breath he's glad the house will kill them. There's a random vortex in the kitchen that theyt hrow an orange into.. that throws back a piece of paper asking them to stop throwing garbage in that dimension. The walls bleeding barely bothers marge and Bart getting choked by a lamp has Homer asking how he'll explain his way out. It's just joke after great joke, with Harry Shearer doing a great job as the house which frequently bellows GET OUT. My second faviorite joke of this segment is when Marge decides indeed to get out, and the house puts the kids coats on them for them. Just a simple hilarous gag. I also like homer being bounced into the celing and trying to act like it's fine.

He does get them to stay overnight which leads to the creepiest part of the specail as a whole and a great bit of horror: the house convinces the rest of the family minus marge to kill each other. The expressions here are truly disturbing, and i'ts unsettling to see the simpsons all in a trance ready to murder each other.

Thankfully the humor right after not only deflates it, but is great: Marge is seen grabbing a knife like the rest of her family.. but is making a sandwitch, easily lectures them out of it then plans to leave spouting the awesome quote I choose to use as the image. I'ts just such a marge thing to brush off something this horrid like it's some new conflict in the family.

The simpsons soon find the old racist trope of the house being built on a native burial ground.. which is a thorny concepts for sure, but this is an old enough episode to get away with it and I like homer angrily calling his realtor only to find out the guy mentioned it 5 or 6 times. The house tries to give a meancing speech.. only for marge to angrily tell it off, a bit I love, from Julie Kavner's delivery to how it works. She demands it either leave them alone or live with them in peace.... it chooses to collapse on itself after shooing them outside instead. Aw well can'jt please everyone. Just several minutes of great jokes with some great horror sprinkled in.

Not a fan of this one. It IS better than I remembered as it packs in some good jokes. That's courtsey of writers Jay Kogan and Wally Woodarsky, who while having a slow start, finished their run on the show with classics Bart's Friend Falls in Love, Treehouse of Horror III and Last Exit to Sprinfield

The premise is a riff on the Twilight Zone Classic , To Serve Man. For those of you who don't know what the Twilight Zone is, you just made me feel very old, but it was a classic Science Fiction anthology series, running the gamut of genres and often falling into horror. The simpsons would go to the twilight zone a LOT for Treehouse of Horror: They'd riff on at least one episode a year for the first four treehouses and would still return to the well on occasions. The simpsons has parodied A Good Life (Bart's Nightmare), Living Doll (Clown Without Pity), Nightmare at 20,000 Feet (Terror at 5 1/2 Feet) , Little Girl Lost (Homer^3), and finally A Kind of Stopwatch (Stop the World I Want to Goof Off). As the show went on they drifted into parodying horror films more as Twilgiht Zone faded, but I miss it and hope they do one again some day or as a special since their now doing Treehouse of Horror Presents.

At any rate it's a pretty basic parody: Kang and Kodos in their first apperance kidnap the simpsons along with Sorak the Preparer, played by JEJ, and have them eat a lot, making vauge hints they'll eat the simpsons and droolling a lot. There's a gag or two I love: the ufo they abduct the simpsons in having to put out an extra beam to pick up homer, tilting to the side otherwise, the aliens admitting to having thousands of channels except hbo "That costs extra", and the aliens defensifiness when how primitive pong is is brought upop "Raise your hand if your capable of intergalactic travel". I love bart sticking up his hand and homer slapping it down. Good stuff.

Most of it though.. is eh. The twist is that. .they aren't trying ot eat them and are hurt Lisa assumes it with the book being how to cook FOR humans. Then how to cook FORTY humans, then how to cook for FORTY humans. I love Sorek's hurt feelings and what not, but it's a pretty bland parody compared to Bad Dream House, which nailed it. It feels like a bland middle to two pretty dope piece sof bread. It has some good jokes nad gave us Kang and Kodos, so it's not without merit, but it's easily the weakest segment in an otherwise good episode.

For our finale Lisa reads Edgar Allen Poe's classic Poem the Raven. In the second best refrence to it the shows ever done

It's the breakout of the segments and while I prefer Bad Dream House and stand by that, The Raven is very close and a very creative flex. Matt Groening was nervous it'd come off too pretentious, but instead we get a great break from formula. The first two segments, while fun breaks from teh simpsons mostly grounded reality, at this point anyway, do feel lik ea standard episode that just happens to be about a murder house. The Raven.. is something entirley diffrent.

It's a mostly straight adaptation of the poem: James Earl Jones does an impressive and haunting reading of Poe's narrations, while Dan Castlenatea does an awesome job as homer, injecting some humor into it but reading moments like the main character lashing out at the raven and his sorrow with such convection. While we'd see plenty of range from homer as the show went on, this was an early indicatior of just what dan was capable of with the character.

The show also nicely breaks tension in places: Homer is literally reading a book of forgotten lore, Bart chimes in with his commentary, and there's some good physical gags. But the heart of it, a tale of greving, loss and ultimate death, as the narrator gets haunted by a raven (Played by bart naturally, with Lenore played in a painting by marge (with the nice gag of her hair extending into another painting and Lisa and Maggie playing Serapphim), i'ts a wonderful segment that is hilarous.. yet also heartwrenching and haunting. I haven't read the poem, but this segment makes me feel it, a haunting wonderful piece. James Earl Jones kills it with the utmost conviction in his reading, upping the intsnesity was we go and really getting into it. He did a marvelous job and apparently went the extra mile for his performance in the second segment by eating a cookie while recording to get the drool right. What a man

So we end the specail with the kids fine but homer scared and Marge refusin gto help him because.. I dunno she's a dick tonight. A great end to a fantastic start to a wonderful tradition. Thanks for reading.. and james wherever you are up there... thank you.

[samwpmarleau]

fic: angel in blue jeans

whumptober day 11: convenience store masterlist: tumblr, ao3 Skye does a double-take when the man in the white-striped leather jacket stalks through the doors, she’s only marginally ashamed to say. She doesn’t get a lot of lookers that come in at three a.m., though his truly impressive RBF makes the odds of a sparkly personality unlikely.

She notices him when he walks in.

She notices everyone, if for no other reason than because she works graveyard and there aren’t a whole lot of people who come into the 7-11 at this time of night anyway. It’s an easy way to entertain herself. Greet whatever zombie-eyed soul who walks in and decide why they’re there, what might have happened.

Maybe nothing special — they’re a nurse finishing up a sixteen-hour shift, or a fellow graveyarder on their lunch break. Maybe something happy — an elderly man buying a card for a new birth, or a teenager buying NyQuil for no other reason than because it’s their eighteenth birthday. Maybe something sad — a woman in an oversized sweatshirt and tear-stained cheeks buying a bottle of wine, or a father buying ear infection medication for his wailing son.

Whatever the cause or the person, Skye catalogues it all. She doesn’t usually have regulars, so getting invested in people’s made-up lives is often the only way she can actually be perky enough to not get fired.

The man in the white-striped leather jacket comes in on a particularly dead night, which all by itself makes her excited to see him. There’s only so many times you can watch a Seinfeld rerun with closed captions that are three seconds behind. She does a double-take when he stalks through the doors, she’s only marginally ashamed to say; she doesn’t get a lot of lookers that come in at three a.m.

But he is, all scuffed-up Vans and mustache he actually pulls off, though his truly impressive RBF makes the odds of a sparkly personality unlikely. Oh, well. She can work with that. Hollywood wouldn’t be half as successful as it is without handsome, broody biker-types.

No, not a biker, she amends as she spies the ride in the parking lot: A Charger in mint condition straight out of Fast and the Furious. Not exactly the normal caliber of cars that frequent this place. Vanity purchase or inheritance? she wonders. Possibly both. Possibly neither, depending on the name on the pink slip.

But she’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. She is not in the mood to be held at gunpoint today.

She watches him head down the first aid aisle for some bandages, then down to the cards-and-toys aisle, where after some deliberation he selects a teddy bear, then to the refrigerators where he grabs a Red Bull. Could be any number of reasons for those items, she muses. A new father? College student who uses a stuffed animal as a sounding board instead of a rubber duck? An average joe trying to win back an ex?

He doesn’t stay long, nor does he talk much. The stitched-up gash on his face and slight limp explain the bandages, at least.

“Cute bear,” she says as she scans it.

A noncommittal grunt is all she receives in return. Fine. Made-up story it is, then.

“That’ll be $15.21,” she says. “Cash or card?”

“Cash.”

He gives her exact change from a beat-up wallet. She hands him the plastic bag with his items with a, “Have a good night.”

“Thanks, Skye.”

She blinks at him in alarm. “What?”

There is the slightest bit of amusement on his face as he clarifies, “Your name tag.”

Her cheeks go red as she realizes that she is, in fact, wearing a name tag and he wasn’t being creepy. In her defense, if she had a nickel for every creepy man who came in during her shift, she would no longer be working here.

“Oh. Right.”

He leaves with a nod and a slight chuckle that she tries not to be insulted by.

She forgets about him. Mostly. Days pass with no indication of seeing him again — not that she particularly expected to — and she studiously continues inventing stories for each customer. She prevents two poorly-thought-out shopliftings and allows a third, pretending she doesn’t see the too-thin woman pocketing a couple cans of Chef Boyardee. The store can handle a few bucks’ worth of shrinkage.

What she doesn’t forget is coming out of the break room at six a.m. ready to go home, only to slip on someone’s spilled slushie — cherry, for maximum staining — and fall like a damn villain in an Acme cartoon. She has enough wherewithal to not crack her skull open, but it means she cracks her wrist instead, and she cries out in pain.

“Sorry,” says some teenager who doesn’t really look all that sorry holding a half-empty slushie cup.

“Watch what you’re doing,” she snaps. She’s not on the clock, she doesn’t have to be nice. The kid turns around and leaves without so much as an offer to clean up the mess.

Miriam, her sixty-seven-year-old Comptonite coworker whom Skye’s seen first-hand point a pistol right back at an armed would-be robber with an expression of such I-will-shoot-you energy that he scampered right out the door, reaches down to help her up.

“You all right, honey?” Miriam asks.

“Apart from the broken wrist? Yeah, I’m super.”

“Need me to take you to the hospital? I’ve been here longer than Dave’s been alive, if he gives me guff, I’ll tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

Skye laughs. She has no doubt Miriam would do just that, and that their boss would capitulate. “I’ll be all right. I broke my wrist, not my legs.”

“All right. Let me know how you’re doing once they get you squared away.”

“Will do.” Blandly, she jokes, “Cleanup on Aisle 5.”

“Oh, get outta here,” Miriam laughs.

It figures that she’d hit traffic when she really, really does not want it. A fifteen-minute drive turns into thirty, and by the time she pulls into the lot outside the hospital, she’s not only in throbbing pain but a terrible mood. Doing her best to remember it’s not the receptionist’s fault, she approaches the desk and reports, “Pretty sure my wrist is broken.”

The woman peers over her desk to see what Skye’s talking about. “Any bleeding or other injuries? Concussion?”

“Not that I know of.”

“In that case, you’ll have to take a seat in the waiting room. We just had a bus crash come through that takes precedence.”

Skye takes a deep breath. “Got an ETA on that?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Awesome. Can I at least get some ibuprofen or something?”

“Sorry, sweets. I can’t dispense any medication.” She hands Skye a clipboard with a check-in questionnaire. “Fill this out and bring it back up here once you’re done, please. What’s your name?”

“Skye. No last name. My parents were hippies.”

It’s not true (or, she imagines it’s not), but it’s the easiest way to avoid questions. The receptionist clearly remains confused, but either she’s not paid enough to probe further or she’s seen enough “no last name”s in this part of town to assume something shady happened and doesn’t want to get involved.

Skye takes the clipboard and sits in the only seat available, between an old man with a hacking cough and a pair of twenty-somethings death-glaring each other, one with a developing black eye, the other with a split eyebrow. She tries to make herself as small as possible, undecided as to whether it’d be better to contract whatever illness the old man has or piss off a pugilist.

She waits, and waits, and waits some more.

And some more.

“I’m sure it’ll be soon” is the answer she receives when she gets up to check for an update with the receptionist.

It’s been an hour! she wants to yell. But making a scene likely would only worsen things, and she knows the receptionist can’t do anything.

She heads off to the vending machines instead in search of a muffin or breakfast sandwich or something. She hasn’t eaten anything since her break at four.

As she’s deciding between chips or a granola bar (neither muffin nor breakfast sandwich in sight), she hears shoes squeak to a stop a few feet away. She glances up and freezes. She wonders at first if she’s hallucinating; maybe she actually had hit her head. Because it’s Jacket-and-Charger Guy, from weeks ago. He looks almost sallow in the awful hospital lights, but it’s definitely the same guy.

“Skye,” he says, as surprised as she is.

“Uh, hi … you.”

“Robbie.” His eyes run from her head to her toes, which normally she’d take issue with, except he’s got a frown the whole time and, well, she is in a hospital. “What happened?”

She also becomes abruptly aware that she must look awful. Hoodie splattered with Red Dye #6, hair haphazardly tied into a ponytail, makeup at the end of its staying power. She holds up her wrist. “Fell. You?”

At his lengthy pause, she almost tells him he doesn’t have to answer, except he’d asked her first, so it’s only fair. “My little brother’s here. We got into a car accident a few weeks ago.”

A few weeks ago and he’s still here? That doesn’t sound good.

“That’s unfortunate,” she says. Then, it clicks — “That’s who the bear was for?”

“Yeah. I knew he’d think it was lame and that it’d cheer him up.”

“Glad I could help. Took a lot of effort to ring all that up and make an idiot out of myself.”

“I wouldn’t say idiot.”

She intends to dispute that — thinking he was someone to call the cops on because she forgot she was wearing a name tag? Yeah, that qualifies. She doesn’t get the chance to, however, as over the PA system, she hears the receptionist call out, “Is there a Skye here? We’re ready for you.”

Reeling a little, she says, “That’s my cue. Took them long enough.”

“Hey, wait,” says Robbie before she can turn around. “I know this is a weird place to ask, but … could I take you out for coffee sometime?”

Of all the things she might’ve guessed he’d say, that was not among them. “Could you — what? You don’t even know me.”

“Well, that’s what the coffee would be for. Running into you here is a pretty crazy coincidence.”

“And you think that’s some sort of sign?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

“No, just … another chance.”

She can’t say he’s wrong about meeting him again being an odd coincidence. God knows she’s done more for less, and it would mean she could get a real story out of him rather than making up one.

The receptionist calls her name again, adding that she’ll lose her spot if she doesn’t respond. Robbie’s provided a nice enough distraction, but her arm still does hurt like hell. “Coffee, then,” she agrees quickly. From her purse she pulls out a pen and scribbles her number on his palm. “Call me. Or text, whatever.”

Robbie smiles. “Will do.”

As promised, several hours later when Skye finally gets back home, arm in a cast and a week’s worth of Vicodin for the pain, she pulls out her cell to text Miriam.

“Wrist broken but ok,” she types. She bites her lip in consideration, then adds, “And I sorta got a date out of it.”

Miriam’s text gets straight to the point: “Tell me everything.”