#it makes me feel insane. but I know I can’t take their vitriol as truth when I have so many loving trans people in my life

[genderfreakxx]

Bigots are so fucking stupid. They’re so fucking nonsensical. At their CORE.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

With our veins running fire

My Masterlist  

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: “May I please request a fluffy one shot with Ivar’s first time? I’ve always wanted a better rewrite of that one scene in 4B, besides his insecurities were fully fledged and he just deserved a nice lover to help him along the way.”

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: 18+. Smut and fluff, soft!Ivar, and again, there’s a top and it ain’t him.

A/N: Title from the Charlotte Brontë quote: “...soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. (...) I am insane—quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs.”

I am so sorry it took me this long to get this request out, I have nothing to say in my defense. Sorry sweetheart, hope you like it!

The blond Prince nudges your foot with his, demands your attention as Hvitserk walks around the room somewhere behind you.

Sigurd lowers his voice, and tells you, “You can still back down. Say the word and-…”

“Thank you, but no,” You interrupt, lifting your eyes to his, “You can stop offering that now.”

“I’m just-…”

“I know what you’re doing.” You interrupt again. You know there’s kindness in his gesture, when it comes to you there’s kindness in all Sigurd does.

Doesn’t mean he can’t be cruel.

“She made her choice, brother.” Hvitserk states, standing tall across from Sigurd and leaning his shoulder on a wooden pillar. His eyes remain on his younger brother for a few moments before turning to you and offering you a smile.

You narrow your eyes, slightly unsettled with how the two just…linger here.

“Surely you aren’t planning on staying.”

Hvitserk offers you a lift of his eyebrows, and a playful smile.

“Why, are you offering?”

You throw a pillow at him, but there’s no anger behind it. You know he does it to make you laugh and he manages to ease your nerves a bit.

Because…this is a strange situation, there’s no way around it. Your family and theirs have always been close to one another, with your father being a earl under Queen Aslaug’s jurisdiction, and it is true you’ve always been interested in the youngest Ragnarsson. A couple of weeks ago, sitting with Ivar outside while the feast raged on in the main hall, you dared close the distance and kiss him.

Still, none of that made being visited by Ubbe and asked if you’d want to have sex with Ivar any more normal, or expected.

“I want to talk to you. About Ivar,” Ubbe states, eyes piercing but warm as they gaze into yours. He sits in front of you, elbows on his knees, and even reaches with one hand to put a hand on your knee, a smile on his face, “I know you care for him, I know you like each other.”

You stay silent, because there really isn’t anything you can say, and this doesn’t really sound like him questioning about it.

He offers a smile. It is polite, but strange.

Past the extremely strange interaction you had with the eldest Prince, or the incredibly odd situation you were asked to be a part of, you didn’t think much of it, until earlier today, when you were approached asking if you were free tonight.

Though you did question at first why it wasn’t Ivar the one who approached you with these questions -would have certainly helped make everything much more normal if he had been the one to ask you-, you know him well enough to know why it was Ubbe the one to ask.

The door to the cabin you are in is kicked open, and Ubbe walks in with Ivar thrown over his shoulder. It is foolish, but you feel a ball of nervousness tighten in your core.

You have been with a man before, it is no secret for you what awaits you know. A few months before your father first brought you to Kattegat, almost more than a year ago, the son of a family friend and you fooled around and stumbled into having sex with each other.

But it is completely different now, even if you tell yourself what you ought to expect is the same. Ivar is different, and how you feel about Ivar is different.

His brother drops him on the edge of the bed, Ubbe has that odd smile on his face as he remains bended at the waist, his hands on his knees and his eyes on his brother.

He relays some silent message to Ivar before he straightens with an exhale. Why Ubbe looks as nervous as you feel is beyond you, but he still smiles at you and nods his head, before signaling with his head for his brothers to leave, and doing the same.

And you are left alone with Ivar, who still sits on the edge of the bed and refuses to even look in your direction.

Knowing it is up to you to take the first step, you walk to stand before him, resisting the urge to fidget with your fingers.

Ivar spares you a glance but almost-wide and somewhat unmoored pale blue eyes fall from yours after but a breath, and he leaves you with no choice but to crouch on the ground before him, trying to find his gaze but not succeeding.

So, with a hand on the side of his face, a hand that you surprise yourself at seeing not shake as much as you thought it would, you gather your courage and lean up to press your lips to his.

It isn’t too unlike the first kiss you shared with Ivar. He remains unnaturally still as you cup the side of his face and guide his face to yours, he lets out the faintest of sounds when you press your lips against his, and he seems to want to chase after the faint touch when you pull back but is stopped by the way he holds his body so tightly under his control.

Your free hand lets you find purchase on the bed, and Ivar jumps a bit when the place your hand rests is right beside his thigh.

There’s something to the way he holds himself, still yet jittery, uncomfortable yet longing, scared yet wanting.

Which is why you kiss him again, not giving him time to think or speak. If he starts thinking, you know his thoughts will chase themselves in circles and one way or another he will end up angered or biting, and that is not what you want. The side of him they all know, the side of biting wit and wrath and dangerous edges; that is not what you want.

You want the side of him you and a few others are fortunate enough to have stumbled upon, the side of small smiles that seem to surprise even him and vulnerability and hesitant softness.

You want the side of him that you saw bare of any lies the night you kissed him, when he watched you with wide eyes and parted lips, asking questions you didn’t want to answer yet.

So you press softly against his mouth, willing him with gentle touches of your hand and careful movements of your lips to relax and let go of any thought that isn’t this.

But, of course, how could you hope Ivar would let anything be easy.

He pulls back, turning his face slightly down, you do not know if either to hide his expression from you or to give you a silent command not to kiss him again.

“Y-You saw Ubbe bring me here, didn’t you?” He asks, startling you. Ivar scoffs, but it sounds tremulous, “I bet it was quite a sight, him carrying his crippled brother for you to have sex with.”

His older brother meant well, even if he was a bit overbearing. You have a feeling Ubbe would have carried you here if you hadn’t arrived earlier.

You search his eyes, your hand on the side of his face trailing slightly downwards, resting at the side of his neck. Though you think of something to say, Ivar doesn’t give you a chance to, because he just…keeps talking.

“Maybe this was all for nothing, and the Gods really made me boneless. Thought about that when you said yes?”

You pull back, crouched on the floor in front of him, looking up at Ivar’s uncertain blue eyes that seem to want to look everywhere except in your direction.

“What is going on, Ivar?” You ask. It is the easiest way you can voice the turmoil of questions inside you. Do you not want this? Do you not want me?

“You said yes.” He states, but you know it is a question.

“I did,” You tell him, offering a soft smile, “It is no secret how I feel about you.”

His eyes fall from yours, and he offers a small hum, but it dawns on you like a weight in your stomach that he thinks you to be lying. Or worse, mocking him.

“I know how you feel.” He tells you, but he still doesn’t meet your eyes.

“I thought you knew I liked you,” You say quietly, leaning closer. He seems to tense up even more at your proximity. If he didn’t know… You continue, “Ivar…we’ve kissed before.”

There’s a twitch of anger in his expression, a tell of gritted teeth. The anger is familiar, but it speaks of no less fragility than his hesitance.

“Sigurd told me.” Ivar bites out, voice low, words almost a growl.

“Told you what?”

Now, he meets your eyes. A storm of rage and pain and so many more things.

Accusing eyes and cutting words leave his lips like a curse, “That he dared you to do it.”

“What?” You frown, your heart feeling cold on your chest, “That isn’t true!”

When his eyes search yours, you dare think for a moment he believes you, you dare hope he sees you for who you are and not who his insecurities make out of you.

But he holds on to the anger, to the resentment, to the bitterness and the vitriol. ‘It is easier to be angry’ he told you once, and you think the meaning behind the words becomes a tad clearer for you just now.

Ivar presses,

“You agreed to…to this,” There’s a faint tremble in his mouth that speaks of jagged edges and embarrassment. “Why? To say after that you had sex with the cripple out of pity? Just like you kissed me as a joke?”

To all his chaos what you can offer is certainty, and so you do, and so you remain unwavering, straightening your back and meeting his gaze, “I did not kiss you as a joke. No one ‘dared’ me to do it. You know me better than to believe that.

His eyes threaten to fall from yours, and at your truth you see the resolve his anger gave him crumble, and there’s a battle between holding on to the anger and surrendering to the vulnerability.

“And I did not agree because of pity. There’s nothing to pity about you, Ivar,” Your voice is certain even as your heart beats wildly in your chest, and after a breath of hesitation you confess, “I agreed because I want you, I have wanted you…ever since I met you. I thought…I thought you asked this of me because you wanted me too.”

And over the conflict and angry hesitance that were clear I his expression wins something softer, something awed and hopeful and vulnerable. His eyes soften as he looks down at you now, and his lips are slightly parted as Ivar takes in your words.

Still, silence reigns between you, for a few breaths but long enough that you feel exposed and uncomfortable, with your words, your confession, hanging in the air between you.

You offer what you hope is a smile and not a grimace, and your eyes fall from his, partially afraid of rejection and partially humiliated.

Ivar seems to realize you were waiting for him to speak, because he sucks in a sharp breath and stutters out,

“I did, I-…” He stops himself, but the words are still as rushed when he speaks again, “I-I did, I…do, um, want you.”

At his words relief mixes with the foolish hope and joy that make your heart flutter, and you smile around a sigh.

“Can I kiss you, then?”

Ivar’s eyes jump to your lips, and he swallows thickly before nodding his head.

“Y-Yes. I, um, I liked that.”

You close the distance between you slowly this time, lingering when your lips are but a hair’s breadth away from one another so you can admire the way his eyes flutter shut as he awaits the touch of your mouth on his.

You kiss him for long enough your nervousness dissipates, is lost in the shaky breaths you draw out of him, is drowned by the soft little sounds he lets out when you deepen each kiss.

But Ivar pulls back. Again.

“I don’t…I don’t really know what to do.” He confesses, not at all what you were expecting.

It’s not that you were expecting him to know what to do, or have any experience; it’s that you weren’t expecting for him to admit it, for him to be pulling back to offer unguarded truths instead of accusations or something else.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

He grits his teeth, petulant, “I told you already, I want you,” He tells you, and even if the tone is biting it still sends a thrill through you. Ivar’s nose furrows a bit in anger, “Why would I ask you here if I didn’t want to, hm?”

You bite back a retort about how he could ask you here just to spend time with him, he has before, but you know this isn’t the time to try your hand at irking him.

So you kiss him, and between murmured words you move further back on the bed. And in between kisses Ivar murmurs the words that steal your breath,

“I want to see you.”

There’s a war between thrill and fear within you, a war that makes you demand the same if you are to offer yourself.

“And I you.” You tell him, the deal you ask for in exchange unsaid but understood. Ivar nods his head, eyes roaming over your face before venturing lower, tracing with his eyes a path over your clothed figure.

A deep breath, and you stand up, undoing the loose laces of your dress and letting it fall on the ground.

He doesn’t say a thing, but the way he looks at you, the slightly parted lips, the big blue eyes taking in your form in the low glimmer of the candlelight, it makes you feel beautiful, strong. Powerful.

You take another deep breath, and move closer to the bed.

“Your turn.”

Ivar forces his eyes to leave you and faces ahead again, a choked little hum leaving his lips as he accepts your words.

He takes off his shirt first, and the sight of the muscles of his arms and back moving as he lifts the shirt over his head makes your mouth run dry.

You know you are probably staring at him like a ravenous woman, and…you are. Gods.

He hesitates only for a moment before tugging down his pants, leaving himself completely bare to you. Almost, since he hasn’t fully taken off his pants, but there’s time for that, you tell yourself.

You let your eyes trail over the whole of him, before returning to his face, and meeting his wide eyes that now hold a silver of uncertainty you thought you’d banished.

Instead of saying anything, you return to your previous place on the bed, straddling him and claiming his mouth, your hands eager as they trace over his heated skin, as they find purchase on his chest and become witnesses to your effect on him as you feel his chest rise and fall in uneven breaths.

It doesn’t fail to make your heart skip a beat in your chest, the way you feel him gradually relaxing under your kisses and your caresses. The way his shoulders drop, his muscles loosen the tension they held, his hands don’t shake quite as much and start exploring your curves.

You lose track of time in all the breaths you share, and in all the sounds you are able to draw out of him, and in all the different ways he says your name.

The electrifying press of his half-hard cock against you is enough to draw a few shaky breaths from you, to make the daze of lust that envelops you take you under.

And hungry lips trail down his chest just as your hand reaches down. When your fingers wrap around him, you lose your breath at the moan you draw out of him, the mindless and unashamed sound you earn for yourself before he bites his lip and grits his teeth.

Your core tightens at the thought of what delightful sounds of pleasure you can draw out of him when you take him in your mouth, and so you continue exploring, and your hand keeps moving over him, feeling him harden more and more under your touch.

When you reach far down enough, Ivar stops you with a call of your name, and a hand on your hair. You look up, but don’t move.

“I want…I want to be inside you.” Ivar tells you, resolute even if his voice wavers and his chest trembles with yet another shaky sigh when he looks down at you, so close to his cock.

A stubborn part of you wants to insist that you want to pleasure him with your mouth, eager and starved for the moans and whimpers you may earn, for how you could make him quiver and surrender.

But you silently comply, moving back up his body and searching his gaze carefully, half hoping and half dreading he sees in your eyes everything you are too afraid to say out loud.

And you keep your eyes on him, you keep him trapped in the spell of your gaze, as you lean a bit back and ready to take him inside you.

Because he might be able to see all you cannot say in your eyes as they gaze into his, but you are also able to see all he doesn’t say. And you don’t want to miss a thing.

Your nails claw slightly at the skin of his shoulder as you take him inside you, and if having him watch you as you bared your body to him made you feel powerful, there isn’t a word the Gods have granted you to convey what it feels like to have Ivar underneath you, gasping your name in a choked moan as you move over him.

There isn’t a word for the thrill and the need that courses through you at the sight of him, there aren’t words for what each sound you draw out of his perfect lips does to you, there aren’t words for how each twitch in his expression and each quiver of his body reduces you to something that only wants to admire him and claim him yours.

He doesn’t last, and you certainly didn’t expect him to. Regardless, you lose a bit of yourself -a bit if your heart, maybe- as you watch Ivar’s face contort in pleasure. Head titled back, eyes screwed shut, and almost-painful ecstasy written in his expression.

Your breaths are still as heavy as his as you watch him fascinated as he comes down from his high.

His eyes remained closed for a while, but he doesn’t let go of you, hands firm -even if gentler than they were before- on your hips. You settle against him, unable to keep yourself from pressing a few kisses against heated and sweaty skin and whispering your praise in between those kisses.

Ivar sighs your name, and a shiver runs down your spine.

“That was…” He loses his breath again, as if breathless just from the aftershock of it, from the memory of it, and your smile widens.

Ivar’s hand on the back of your neck brings you closer to him, and he kisses you breathlessly, half a man starved and half a man that lost all his strength.

And you kiss him back, hoping he has found in this something he is as insatiable for as you have discovered you are.

When you pull back, and darkened blue eyes search yours, lips parted and breaths heavy, you find your answer.

You were asked to remain in that cabin for a night, you end up not leaving for almost two days. You were asked to be at Ivar’s side for one night, and you willingly give him all of your nights and days.

____ ____ ____

Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed! Ik this isn’t my best work, but holy hell I am so unimaginative when it comes to smut, sorry! Love ya!!

Btw, I don’t think Ivar would be so comfortable being completely bare on his first time with someone, but I debated with myself whether that particular insecurity is deepened by the events of 4x11 or if it was there from before, because he does go fully nude in canon, so idk. Anyhow, I wanted to keep this somehow related to canon since the person who requested asked for a rewrite of sorts, so completely naked it is.

Taglist: @flokisdaughter​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @1950schick​ @ietss​ @peachyboneless​ @encounterthepast​ @maggiescarborough​ @chibisgotovalhalla​ @fae-sedai​ @zuxiezendler​@crazybunnyladysworld​ @stupiddarkkside​

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

I Learned That From You: Six

When your phone chimed you look at your phone with a frown. It was irritating being interrupted while you worked. And you’d be lying if you said that some of your irritation wasn’t because James had been radio silent without any warning. 

You hated that. If you wanted to deal with that sort of thing, you would have stayed with Clint. Clint… well. He tried. But. When he went on the road with the show it wasn’t uncommon for him to spend a lot of time giving you radio silence. You looked at the dresser, currently half varnished and sighed. “Nope. He can wait, Rock,” you say out loud.

The old dog doesn’t stop gnawing his hunk of the antler you’d given him so you could work without having him knocking over the paint tray or putting his paws in the varnish trying to lay his head in your lap or get a pet or just investigate. He hardly ever does stop gnawing once he has his thing to tear apart. But still. It’s nice to have more to talk to than your current project. Or the empty air. It makes you feel less like a whackadoodle. 

When your phone chimed again you bite your lip. “It could be a client though,” you protest. “I can look and not answer.”

You glance at the phone and exhale slowly. “No,” you sigh. “You’re right. If it was a client they would call. Most of the Bougie Becky’s that buy my shit don’t text… Unless they’re trying to shill diet pills.”

You turn back to the dresser, musing about drawer pulls and mosaics and other little bits of frill you might be able to add. Anything to try and keep yourself away from your phone. You knew it was childish, wanting to leave James on the same radio silence he’d given you. But. You really did ascribe to the doctrine that you taught people how to treat you. 

Clint had taught you that. 

He’d taught you a lot of things. And some of them weren’t so bad. Like blowing bubble gum bubbles and how to slow dance. Those things made you feel… warm when you thought about them. It was sweet. But. That wasn’t enough to make you stay. To drown out all the nights that got late. The vitriol that got hurled your way. 

You shook your head and tried to redirect your thoughts. Clint had been on your mind a lot. More than you had really thought about him in years. You’d go days now, sometimes weeks without him in the fore front of your mind. And you weren’t sure. But you thought it was probably because of James. 

He was warm. And familiar. And some things about him reminded you about the best parts of who Clint had been. 

Still. He was different. Or at least. Different enough from Clint that you could feel comfortable. The maturity in the way he worded things and the way he was just concerned about you. It felt nice. It was just nice to feel cared about again. Like someone… saw you. You’d forgotten, or thought you had forgotten about how it felt to have someone care about you that way. And by the time your phone chimed a third time, you couldn’t convince yourself to leave it on the desk. 

You set aside your brush and walked across the room to look at your phone. And your heart skipped a beat. It had been James. 

“Hey! Sorry. Work has been crazy. I haven’t really had a chance to talk to you properly. And I didn’t want to only give you half my attention.” 

The words lit up the screen and you felt something in your chest unclench. It was good to know that he hadn’t just… left. Sure. You got a fair amount of attention. It was a dating site. But none of that felt the same way this did. 

“I’m glad your work finally loosened the noose a little,” you start, “But can you do something for me?”

You hit send and take a deep breath. It was time to set a boundary. To make sure James understood what you needed. 

“What’s that, beautiful?” 

“Here goes nothing, Rock-rock,” you tell the dog, worrying your bottom lip in your teeth. 

To James, you typed, “Can you tell me before you go radio silent?” you ask, “It’d be nice to know you were okay.”

___________

Clint felt his breath catch. It was the first thing you had ever asked him to do. You never even demanded a new picture or to talk on the phone. 

“Of course,” he answered. Trying not to think about Bucky and Nat staring at him in the corner, waiting for him to get it over with and tell you the truth. “I’m sorry,” he typed, “I meant to talk to you and got distracted.”

“Well?” Bucky demanded. 

“I’m sorry,” Clint sighed, “I can’t- I can’t do this to her this way I need-” He couldn’t finish that sentence and exhaled slowly. 

“You need to see her in person,” Nat said softly, understanding. 

“Yeah,” he whispered. “She deserves at least that much. Especially after the way I left it.”

“I thought she left you,” Bucky said, frowning. 

“She did,” Clint said, “But I didn’t leave her much choice… And I never fought for her either. I never followed her. Even though I knew where she was, at least to start with.”

“So-” Nat started. 

“How’d the divorce go through?” Clint said smiling a little. 

“Yeah.”

“She hired a private detective to track me down… Then had someone bring me papers. I was so pissed off and hurt that she even leeft to start with that I just signed. I didn’t realize until later that that was my last chance.”

Bucky shook his head and sighed, “The fuck did she thing was going to happen marryin’ a circus clown?”

“She was an acrobat,” Clint said smiling a little, “And she did tightrope. Without a net… The circus marketed us as a dynamic duo kinda thing for a while. And sold tickets to the wedding.”

“That’s insane,” Bucky said, incredulous. 

“We were 18,” Clint said fairly. “It was the only way we could really afford to get married.”

“Then why-” Bucky started but then snapped his mouth shut and shook his head. “Fucking kids, man. Stupid.”

[lovemesomerafael]

Others Like Me                                Chapter 6:  The Compound

Chapters 1-5   Read it on AO3

Bucky has a hard time adjusting to calling Marya by her name, but he’s determined never to call her “Eight” again.  That was never a name.  It was a dehumanizing designation and he’s not going to use it even one more time, if he can stop himself.  Everyone else seems to make the transition easily, and Bucky thinks that’s a combination of not having known her as long as he has, and not wanting to call her “Eight” any more than he does.

Steve’s being careful.  He’s entirely confident now that Marya is who she says she is, because Natasha is satisfied of that, and that’s good enough for Steve.  But in the Compound, he’s not letting Marya have any weapons, or access to anything sensitive, until further notice.  She’s unhappy about being unarmed, given her discomfort with being in a new and potentially extremely hostile environment, but she’s also been a soldier from childhood, with obedience literally beaten into her.  

Bucky’s trying to keep Steve at arm’s length after what’s happened between them, which is insanely difficult for about a million reasons.  No one else probably notices anything out of the ordinary – they’ve been struggling for a long time – but Steve’s longing stares have a renewed intensity matched only by Bucky’s determination to return to the easy brotherhood they once had, before they admitted their love for one another.

Bruce wants Marya to be wheeled into the Compound on the gurney but, when she complains, she gets support from everyone else on the plane.

“Quit bein’ such a mother hen,” Sam tells Bruce affectionately.  

“Even mother hens let their chicks walk by themselves,” Natasha adds, then says in an aside to Marya in Russian, “He’s a man.  He thinks we’d need as much time to recover as these boys would.”

“Isn’t he a doctor?”  Marya asks her.  “Doesn’t he know how much tougher women are than men?”

“Some of us speak Russian, you know,” Bucky mutters, trying to seem offended.  

It’s the last light moment for a while, because Marya’s back to being afraid. Bucky expected that, and plans to stick close to her until she feels comfortable.  He knows how terrifying new places and situations are for people like them when they’re unprepared, and he remembers his own introduction to the Compound. He finds himself charmed and gratified at the way Marya glues herself to his side, walking and standing just behind him but so close that he can feel her.  

As soon as they arrive, everyone scatters to their own areas of the Compound. Steve tells Bucky to put Marya in rooms near his, which Bucky knows will sound to Marya as though he’s trying to make her comfortable by letting her be near Bucky.  But Bucky knows better.  The truth is, Steve’s own rooms are adjacent to Bucky’s, which means Steve will be in a good position to keep a close eye on Marya himself.  

Bucky points out features of the place on their way: the kitchen, the common areas, the training building.  Marya’s on extreme alert, but she unconsciously shows her trust in him by holding his hand, which he finds he really likes, in a protective if slightly egotistical way.  When they reach the area where his and Steve’s rooms are, Bucky shows her which doors are theirs, before opening the door to the rooms where she’ll be staying.  She’s interested in everything, and her expression says she likes the rooms, but the first thing she says is, “I’ll be so far away from you.  From everyone.”  

“I know, and I know you won’t like that at first.  But maybe you’ll find that you like privacy.”

“Maybe.  I’ll try.”

There’s a commotion in the hallway outside.  He turns toward the sound and hears, “Barnes, I’m gonna kill you for-“

There’s a flash of movement past him and a thud in the hallway.  Bucky sighs, knowing what he’s going to find as he takes the several steps to the door and looks out.

Marya’s straddling Tony Stark, her forearm hard across his throat and a knife held in her hand with the point about two inches from his left eye. Tony, being Tony, has an eyebrow raised and an otherwise bland expression on his face.  

“Nice to meet you, Marya.”

“Let him up,” Bucky says sharply.

She keeps her eyes bored into Tony’s, and doesn’t move except to tilt her head slightly toward Bucky.  “Why?”

“Because that’s Tony Stark.”

She still doesn’t move.  “He said he was going to kill you.”

“He says that a lot.”

“He’s got weapons on him.  They’re… weird, but they’re weapons.”

Bucky can see that Tony’s good humor is quickly evaporating, which he kind of can’t blame him for, knifepoint at his eye and all.  He doesn’t want things to get any worse.  If she’s going to work with The Avengers, she’s going to need to be on good terms with Tony.

“Soblyuday, Soldat,” he growls.  He feels a little guilty about using such a loaded command, but he’s relieved to see it has the intended effect.  

She immediately flicks the knife back into the sheath in her sleeve where it had been hidden and stands, gracefully using her momentum to pull Tony up with her. But she’s not happy about it.  She keeps Tony fully in her sight as she turns a glare on Bucky.

“You’re not supposed to have a knife,” Bucky says to her with disapproval.

“THAT’S the problem you see here?”  Tony shrieks.

“Relax, Tony.  She’s just nervous.”

“Then let her fidget or talk nonsense, like the rest of us.”

There’s a tense silence as Tony glowers at Bucky and Bucky tries to think of something to say to defuse the situation.  To both of their surprise, Marya gets there first.  

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Stark,” she says, in an oddly stilted way as if she’s reciting lines.  “I overreacted, and I’m sorry.  I hope I haven’t hurt you.  It won’t happen again.”

Tony looks from Marya to Bucky.  

“In her defense,” Bucky tells him, “She only tackles people when she first meets them. Once she knows you, she’s very polite.”

“I often regret not killing you,” Tony says to Bucky in an offhand tone that’s almost fond.  He then turns to Marya.

“Apology accepted.  I like a girl with spirit.  I am going to have to ask you for that knife, though.”

She quickly, though reluctantly, takes it out and hands it to him, handle first.

“A few house rules,” Tony says, in his usual rapid-fire style.  “First, no attacking the host.  That’d be me.  Defend me, by all means.  And you’re welcome to attack this one at will.”  He motions toward Bucky.  “Second, if Cap gives you an order, you follow it.  He says no weapons, that means no weapons.  You with me so far?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Tony looks toward Bucky.  “You hear that?  ’Yes, Sir’. I already like her better than you.”

Bucky smirks.

“Third, if anyone catches you anywhere you’re not supposed to be, they have orders to kill you on sight.  That might strike you as a little rude, and I suppose it is, but no one’s ever accused me of being socially acceptable, and you did just knock me down and stick a knife in my face, so I think we’re even.  Are we clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Oh, I could so get used to that,” Tony gushes to Bucky, then turns around and begins to walk away.  “One more thing,” he says, holding up a finger and turning back toward Marya.  “I understand you have a couple of Hydra’s toys, and that you understand how they work.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll talk.”  With that, Tony spins back around and strides rapidly back down the hallway.

 The next week is hard on both Bucky and Marya.  One of the reasons is their rapidly escalating impatience.  Nothing seems to be happening.  Marya thinks constantly of her ‘brothers and sisters’ in the bunker, and can’t stand the idea that they might think she isn’t coming back for them.  Bucky, too, is thinking of them.  He doesn’t know them, so he can’t care about them personally the way that she does. But he knows enough.  He knows what he endured.  He knows that he cannot and will not leave them there.  

Bucky’s also having nightmares like he hasn’t had since he first escaped Hydra and went to ground in Bucharest.  He’s hollow-eyed and haggard, and he dreads the nights.  Sometimes he wakes up soaked in cold sweat, tangled in his sheets.  Those are the good nights.  It’s the nights he wakes up screaming, stabbing at nothing and terrified almost to madness, that have him wondering whether it’s all worth it.  

Sam tells him it’s a good thing.  Miserable, agonizing, but a sign of progress.  A sign that meeting Marya has helped him to be able to approach a well of memories and emotions he wasn’t ready to even acknowledge before.  Bucky hopes so, because he feels like he’s drowning.

One night, he dreams he’s back in captivity, looking at a circle of flunkies aiming weapons at him while shithead Pierce spews megalomaniacal vitriole disguised as patriotism at him.  He sees Rumlow, drooling and sprouting wood at the idea of what’s about to happen to him. Bucky’s aching for Pierce to shut up, but at the same time desperate for him to continue so that what’s coming next won’t happen.  But it does. He feels the clamps, then the unbearable torment, like every nerve in his brain is being torn out separately and at the same time, and he wakes up, screaming and clawing at his head, bolt upright in his bed dripping with sweat.  

He sees his shadowy room, and knows he’s safe in the Compound.  He knows he’s going to blow that fucking bunker to kingdom come if it’s the last thing he does.  He’s with The Avengers now.  He’s not alone.  He’s Bucky again.  He’s not The Asset or whatever the fuck he was back then.  But he also knows that he was that person.  He did those things.  That was real, and it happened, and it’s never going away.  For the first time in a very long time, Bucky covers his face with his hands and cries.  

That’s when he hears the soft rustle of fabric, and a whisper from the corner of his bedroom.  

“Sergeant?”

He startles, but recognizes her voice.  “Marya?  What the hell?”

She steps away from the wall where she’s been standing and crosses silently to sit next to him.  

“I’m here.  Can I touch you?”

“Why are you… I…”  

His surprise quickly drains away and, as it does, his despair returns.  He hiccups and she reaches out, tentatively, to touch his metal shoulder.  Bucky realizes that he wants nothing more than to let go.  To give way, just this once, to the wretched tide of pain and grief and guilt and shame that will engulf him if he lets it.  He knows how strong Marya is.  As she turns to put a knee on the bed and shift herself so she’s kneeling next to him, he knows that the arms she wraps him with are sculpted with well-defined, hard muscle, and that she’s pulling him to her because she can take his weight, and the weight of his anguish.  So he leans into her and lets his arms fall weakly to her waist.  He lets her pull his head to her shoulder and starts to sob as she strokes his hair.

Once he starts, he can’t stop.  He’s afraid sometimes that he’ll never catch his breath as he’s overtaken with wracking, shuddering cries that tear themselves from his throat.  But he doesn’t fight it.  He lets it have him.  He leans on her with his whole weight, letting her keep him upright.  He soaks the soft cotton nightshirt she’s wearing with his tears and probably snot and spit, too.  He doesn’t care and she doesn’t even appear to notice.  She just holds him, rocking him sometimes, stroking his back and arms and hair, kissing his head, his forehead, his cheeks and lips, murmuring soft endearments and comforting words in Russian and English.

It’s got to be an hour before his wails and sobs even begin to slow down into weeping.  And he weeps for at least another hour.  She’s crying, too, sometimes as hard as he is, but the whole time, she’s supporting and sustaining him, keeping him safe as he falls entirely apart and stays that way for hours.  

Finally, Bucky’s completely worn out, drained of every bit of energy and strength he had.  All of the filth and suffering inside him has, for the moment, been exorcised.  She lays him down, covering him with the sheet and cradling his head to her chest.  She wraps both arms and legs around him and he falls asleep clinging to her.

 In the morning, he wakes up alone.  He knows it happened, because his eyes are swollen and sore, and he can catch the faintest scent of her hair on his pillows.  He doesn’t know quite how to feel about that.  He’s grateful to her for allowing him the privacy to figure it out, before he sees her.  

But it doesn’t take long.  In the shower, he thinks through his dream, and the fact that she was there in his room, and her unflinching acceptance in the presence of his staggering, overpowering grief and rage, and he knows exactly how he feels.  He feels grateful.  He feels honored.  He feels loved.  And he feels love.

He’s disappointed when he finds that she’s not in her rooms.  He was hoping to have the opportunity to see her alone, to talk about what happened.  He needs to try to thank her, although he knows he’ll never be able to find the words to tell her how grateful he is.  

He thinks about Steve, and Bucky’s already-raw emotions register instantly a sense of guilt that he’s shared with Marya, a woman he barely knows, all the things that he hasn’t been able to let his lifelong best friend see.  The things that Steve’s been begging Bucky to trust him with.  Bucky knows why it happened that way: Marya is who Bucky is.  If Steve lives for another hundred years, he still won’t be able to understand what’s been inside of Bucky the way that she can.  But Bucky also knows that he will have to take that knowledge to his grave.  Steve would be destroyed to know that Marya could give Bucky something he couldn’t, and Bucky’s not going to do that to him.

 In the large kitchen, everyone’s just finishing breakfast, sipping coffee and enjoying some camaraderie before going on to whatever they have planned for their days.  Bucky sees Marya, sitting at a table with Clint and listening to him explain something about his bow.  He grins, because he knows Clint must be ecstatic.  No one else wants to hear him go on and on about what it can do, but Marya seems enthralled.  She looks up at Bucky, and they share a small smile and a nod.

Steve’s sitting with Tony, just watching Bucky like a lion watching a particularly tasty-looking gazelle, when Tony sees him.

“Good morning.  Catching up on our beauty sleep, are we?”

Bucky grunts a greeting and pours a cup of coffee.

“Bad news, Barnes,” Natasha says from the other side of the table where she’s reading some sort of printouts.  “Not only didn’t it work, but we ate all the bacon.”

“Assholes,” Bucky mutters, and begins to take inventory of his breakfast options. It’s not long before Marya crosses the room to do something at the oven behind Bucky, then steps up beside him.  She holds out a plate heaped with food, including a respectable amount of bacon.  Bucky takes the plate automatically, and feels that it’s warm. He smiles wide, not only because of the gesture, but also because she looks adorably pleased with herself.

Clint’s offended shout cuts through the moment.  “Hey!  You said there was no more bacon!”

“I’m sorry,” Marya says apologetically to him as she returns to join him at the table.  “I guess I don’t know the rules about bacon.”

When Clint looks away, Marya gives Bucky a secret wink.  He’s delighted.  

“Unpredictable and overly violent, but loyal,” Tony mutters to Natasha. “Shit.  Now there are two of them.”  Natasha smirks at her papers.

Steve crushes the coffee cup he’s holding in his hand, and there’s minor commotion as people scramble out of the way of the spill and try to outdo each other making fun of him.

After a while, people start to excuse themselves to start their days.  Clint’s gone to the training building, leaving Bucky and Marya sitting together, a bit apart from the others.  On the way out of the room, Tony says to Marya, “Come to my lab later.”

She goes instantly from relaxed and cheerful to rigid and bristling with fear.

“Gizmos,” Bucky says quickly, putting a hand on her arm.  “Remember?  It’s not that kind of lab.  He makes electronic gadgets.”  

Bucky looks daggers at Tony, who shrugs and says nonchalantly, “Yeah.  I only experiment on myself.  We’re just gonna take a look at that Hydra technology.” He looks at Bucky then.  “You come, too, to make sure she doesn’t do anything.”

“Jeez, Tony, she’s sitting right here.”

“You know I have no manners, right, Marya?”

“Yes, Sir,” she says in a small voice, not looking at him.

It takes a while for Marya’s terror to bleed off, and Bucky’s aggravation with Tony lasts even longer.  

Steve leaves the kitchen then, not having said a word to Bucky, and he and Marya find themselves alone in the room.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, hoping she can hear the weight he’s putting into the words.

“You’re welcome.  I don’t know whether you’re talking about last night or this morning, but the answer’s the same.”

“I was talking about last night, but I gotta say, saving me some breakfast is pretty great, too.”

He likes her pleased smile.  

“I don’t really want to make a joke about it, though.  You bein’ there, letting me… vent, I guess, that was…” He’s been practicing how to say it, and still he gets tangled up in the words.  “It helped me so much, and I just want you to know how much it means to me.”

“I’m glad if I could help.  I’ve hated seeing you in such pain.”

“It’s been that obvious, huh?”

It’s been a while since Bucky’s seen Marya’s perplexed look, but she’s wearing it now.  “Yes. You’ve been thrashing, and shouting, and…”

“What are you…  When?”

“Every night since we’ve been here.”

“Are you telling me you’ve been in my room every night?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you sleep?”

“Not very well.  It’s too quiet, and-“

Bucky grins a little.  “You’re cold.”

“Yes. The first night, I thought I heard you, and it didn’t sound good, so I went to make sure you were all right.  When I saw that you were having bad dreams, I worried about you.  So I started coming in, so I’d be there if you needed me.”

“Wasn’t my door locked?”

“Yes.”

Bucky would laugh at that if he wasn’t such a wreck.  “So you just watched me sleep?”

“No. I slept, too.”

“Standing in the corner of my room?”

“Sitting.”

Bucky realizes he isn’t really very surprised by this.   He takes Marya’s hand and kisses it.  “That isn’t necessary.  But thank you.”

“It feels necessary,” she says.  “I love you.”

It’s a straight, simple declaration, just like the time she told him in Lucerne that she wanted to have sex with him, and Bucky’s thunderstruck.  Not knowing what to say or do, he squeezes her hand and kisses it again, longer this time.  

“We should go to Mr. Stark’s lab,” Marya says softly.

 The seeming chaos in Tony’s lab has always been incomprehensible and vaguely threatening to Bucky.  Marya, on the other hand, is wearing an impossibly wide grin, and takes it all in with hungry, enchanted eyes.  Tony’s asked them to give him a second, he’s having trouble with something and he thinks he’s just about there.  Apparently, he’s not, because he keeps swearing.  

After five minutes of slowly circling the huge room, eyes wide with wonder and interest, Marya steps behind Tony to see what he’s looking at through the powerful magnifier.  It’s some kind of microcircuitry in a machine whose purpose Bucky can’t even guess at, but she’s intrigued.

Tony swears again and Bucky sees a tiny puff of smoke stream lazily out from where Tony’s working.  

“That connector’s backward,” Marya murmurs.

Tony turns on her angrily.  “What?”

She steps quickly away, reflexively taking a defensive stance and looking afraid. She doesn’t repeat what she’s said, just watches every movement Tony makes as he scowls at her and shoos her away. She hastens to Bucky’s side, standing just behind him and leaning just the tiniest bit into him.  

Tony works for a while longer while they just watchfully wait for him to acknowledge them again.  He pulls the tools he’s using away from the machine and it starts to do… something. He swears again and gives Marya another dirty look.  

“Connector was backward.”  

Bucky’s relieved to note that Marya wisely doesn’t respond.  

The conversation that follows is wide-ranging and mostly incomprehensible to Bucky, but he’s always liked futuristic gadgets and gizmos, and it’s entertaining.  The part that really catches his attention, though, is when they begin to talk about Bucky’s arm, and the fact that it was Marya who disabled it on the plane when they’d first abducted him.

“How did you know how to do that?”  Tony asks, half fascinated and half seriously annoyed.  

“I didn’t.  But I looked, and it seemed like if I disconnected those two components, it wouldn’t work anymore.”

“Hmm. And how’d you fix it?”

“I didn’t fix it.  I made a patch that would stick on the outside to draw the components back together again.  It was the best I could do, and I guess I forgot to go back and repair it.”

“Well, let’s do that now, shall we?”

It doesn’t escape Bucky’s attention that Marya was terrified to come into this lab for fear she’d be experimented on, and he’d reassured her that wouldn’t happen.  Now he’s the one sitting obediently while they mess around with his arm and talk in one of the few languages Bucky doesn’t speak.  It’s a long morning.

That night, Bucky again finds himself dreading the prospect of going to sleep. He finds things to do, including having a fairly heated discussion with Steve about why they’re still not planning a raid on the Hydra bunker in Siberia.  Eventually, though, he’s the only one still up, and he decides it’s time to quit procrastinating.

In the hallway outside his door, he makes a decision.  He goes to Marya’s door, instead, and knocks.  She’s wearing soft, grey leggings and a tank top made of the same material, which do nothing but accentuate the shape of her strong, graceful body and the obvious fact that she’s not wearing a bra.

“Are you all right, Sergeant?”  She waves him in, but he stays where he is.

“I just wanted to tell you to stay here.  Get some real sleep.  I appreciate everything you’ve been doing, but you don’t need to.  I’ll feel better knowing you’re here, comfortable, and not just hanging out in the corner waiting for me to have a nightmare.”

Marya looks hurt and a little confused.  “I’m sorry if I did the wrong thing.  You said people like privacy, so I shouldn’t have-“

“No. It’s not that at all.  I understand what you did, and I appreciate it. More than you know.  The thing is, I want you to be comfortable.  You can’t just be watching over me all the time.”

“I understand.”

The look on her face is tearing at Bucky.  “No, you don’t.  I’m not mad…” He can’t not take her into his arms when she’s looking down with her shoulders slumped like that.  

She hugs him back, but he can feel her uncertainty.  After what she did for him, after all she’s done for him, and what they’ve been through together…  “Marya, I’m sorry.  I’m a chump when it comes to words.  I’m trying to be nice to you.  Maybe we could…”

Suddenly, the way forward is clear and easy.  “What if you sleep with me?  That way you can be comfortable, and you’ll probably sleep better than in here, anyway. And if – when – I have a nightmare, you’ll be there.”

She looks a little happier, but still uncertain.  “But Natasha said it’s too intimate.”

Bucky kisses her.  Intimately. “She was right.  I know you don’t really associate sex and sleeping with eachother, but…  we could do both.  If you want.”

That gets the look Bucky was aiming for.  He takes his arms from around her but keeps hold of her hand as he leads her out of her door and to his.  

When they’re lying together on his bed, mouths tasting and exploring, this seems to Bucky like the best idea he’s had in a long time.  The almost-shy, vaguely hesitant way she’s touching him, though, raises a question that he’s been wanting to ask since he first noticed how beautiful she is.  

Bucky lifts up from Marya’s lips and slides a hand down to cover her breast as he looks into her eyes.  “Do you… know what comes next?”

She arches up when he begins to tease her nipple with the tips of his fingers, but doesn’t break eye contact.  “I think so.”

Bucky tilts his head in inquiry.

“We were children.  No one told us anything.  But then we got older and we… figured things out.  I don’t know whether we guessed right, though.”

Bucky chuckles at that.  “I’d bet a lot of money that you got it right.  It’s pretty instinctive.”

“Show me,” she breathes.  “I’ll tell you if we got it right.”

Bucky smiles and goes back to kissing her, enjoying the way she seems to respond to his tongue, and then try to repeat what he does.  It’s bliss to finally get his hands on her bare breasts, and he yanks her tank top over her head at the first opportunity.  The moan she makes at that goes straight to his cock, which she’s fondling gently.  Too gently. He takes her hand and presses it into him, thrusting against it.  He feels her smile.

She makes a tiny, frustrated noise when he pulls out of her reach to scoot down further in the bed, but she seems to feel better about things when he takes one of her breasts into his mouth.  Bucky’s a sucker for sounds of pleasure, and Marya doesn’t hold back. He’s very surprised that, rather than find it funny when she calls him “Sergeant” as she’s exclaiming at how much she likes what he’s doing, he finds it ridiculously erotic.  Just another of the endless variety of ways he’s fucked up, Bucky guesses.  This one doesn’t bother him too much.

She cooperates enthusiastically as he pulls her leggings and panties from her, and gasps – actually gasps – when he touches her.  “You all right?”  He asks around a mouthful of her nipple.

“Yes, that’s just…  feels so good…”  

Bucky gets a little worried when he slides a finger inside her and she stops breathing.  He lifts his head.  “Marya?”

“Yes?”

“Everything OK?”

“Oh, yes!”  She’s breathing now.  Panting actually.

“You just… I thought you were holding your breath there for a second.”

“I was concentrating.”

Bucky laughs.  He really likes that answer.  

“But…”

He doesn’t like the “but”.  

“What’s wrong?”

“You have all your clothes on.  I want to take them off.”

Whew. Bucky crawls back up so they’re lying face to face again.  “Be my guest.”

With a happy sigh, Marya takes hold of Bucky’s layered shirts and pulls. When the shirts are lying on the floor, she spends a long moment just breathing hard and marveling at his chest. “You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” she whispers, touching him in reverent strokes with the tips of her fingers, as though not sure she’s allowed to.  It’s mesmerizing.  Bucky just lets her admire him, watching her face and doing his own appreciative gazing at her chest.  

Eventually, one of her awed caresses ends at the button of his jeans.  She looks at his face.  “Can I…?”

“Yes. I want you to.”

Once she gets his jeans off, Marya spends another mini-eternity admiring Bucky’s lower half.  He has to grit his teeth to maintain control as she touches his cock like it’s a religious artifact.  In the part of his mind that’s still thinking, Bucky realizes how conceited it is that he’s getting off so much on her naked appreciation of his body, and knows that Steve would be howling with sardonic mirth.  

Nope, Bucky thinks, shutting that down in a hurry.  Not gonna think of Steve right now.

Bucky surrenders himself to Marya, letting her touch him everywhere and plant open-mouthed kisses wherever she wants, which is pretty much everywhere, too. He’s too aroused to endure the way she starts to use her tongue on his dick, though.  When he comes, he wants it to be inside of her.  

“Marya, come here…”  He groans.

“Am I doing that wrong?”

“Fuck, no.  You’re doing it too right.  I want you. I want my cock in you.”

Apparently, Marya’s very on board with that plan, and she moves with him when he turns them over so that he’s lying on top of her.  “I want to make you come first, though.”

“’Come?’  Is that when that… explosion happens?”

“That’s what it is, all right.”  Bucky rubs his cock against her, feeling her lips slide to accommodate him, and she uses her feet against the mattress to rock her pelvis against him.  She reaches down to take his cock in her hand, using the head to rub exactly where she needs it, and it’s mere moments before she’s coming with a spectacular series of shudders and inarticulate cries.  One might’ve been “Sergeant,” and Bucky kind of hopes it was.

He plans to wait, rubbing against her until she’s completely finished, but she moves her hips until the head of his cock is against her entrance, then wraps her legs around him.  He doesn’t need any encouragement.  He thrusts into her, both of them gasping with the sensation, and immediately begins to fuck her with a determined rhythm.  When he feels her start to buck against him with her second orgasm, he feels the rush of pleasure roar through him and they’re both shouting as they come.

They both sleep soundly through the rest of the night, once they’ve agreed that Marya and the rest of the Hydra captives did, indeed, get it right.

[entireoranges]

Trek fans are here and proud

An open letter to those who pitch thine fit and whine thine selves to sleep:

Do you wish to have some sharp cheddar with your whine? Perhaps some Camembert or a nice Brie? No? Alright. Thought I’d offer.

You are allowed to not like something. Thought it’d be best to get that out of the damn way. It’s 1,000% your right and I’m fine with it. That is your opinion and this is mine:

What I’m not fine with is the constant, unending, trite badmouthing. The moronic telling of outright lies, the instigation and insinuation that things are going to shit. You don’t know that. You are assuming.

Now, I might be talking about any old show in any old fandom, but no. This time I’m talking about Star Trek. Specifically the anger cast towards Discovery, and by association Picard.

Discovery didn’t have a good first year. I’ll freely admit to it. I thought it was damn clever, I liked the character arcs, I thought it was interesting. A little Klingon-heavy for my liking but all-in-all not too bad for a new show.

Before anyone says one word in the series the fandom at large on the internet doesn’t just REVOLT, they pepper their anger with acidic, hell acerbic remarks. Now recall these are mostly the same fans who haven’t had any Star Trek on TV since Enterprise left the air in the early 00’s. A show that in of itself had plenty of anger associated with it.

Burnham is a Mary-Sue or Tilly is annoying or that the show has nothing but politically correct SJW’s in it…hell…I’ve heard it all trust me. They were carrying on since second one. Was it because they made Micheal the adopted sister of Spock? Was it because the tone was too dark?

I don’t know what set them off but allow me to air some grievances:

1.) They’re all Politically Correct SJW’s: Well in a strictly Sci-Fi sense aren’t all members of Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets PC SJW’s? I mean think about it for a second. They are a society that values truth, honesty, even footing for everyone, it’s a culture of inclusion (example: Geordi with the VISOR is treated no differently than anyone else with normal sight), they are even a bit self-righteous sometimes (Captains Janeway, Sisko) but they operate within a society at large that is open and by and large inclusive to everyone as long as you aren’t a homicidal maniac hell bent on destroying the galaxy. Remember they tried to make friends with the Borg before they were forced to cede that they were unreachable. You make it sound like it’s a bad thing to have virtues that the characters of this series have always had. And you make it sound like it’s a bad thing. It’s not. It makes sense.

2.) Micheal Burnham is a Mary-Sue. Nope. She’s not. If you didn’t watch Season 2, go do that. Again the first season of any show is uneven at best and we saw growth in her character by the end but it was still very much in the awkward first season way. The second season she grows in all sorts of ways. The character comes alive. I for one loved Sonequa Martin-Green from moment one. She commands the scenes with substance and a sense of purpose.

3.) It’s not Star Trek. This is patently absurd. It is Star Trek. It might not be what you grew up with but it is Star Trek. I’m sure this is what the parents of TNG fans thought when that show began airing in 1987. Think about it. Did any of those sets look “correct” or in line with what had been established? It’s a generational gap. This is how the creators want it to look and feel. But it’s still Star Trek.

4.) It’s in an alternate reality/it’s not chronologically accurate: Nope. Prime timeline. Look…was I disappointed that the sets didn’t look like 1966? A little. A very tiny bit of me, sure. Did I realistically expect it? No. Is chronology ruined? Not at all. People forget that ships can change, tech can advance quite fast, and Starfleet loves to change uniforms, and interfaces on a whim. Did Enterprise look like it was 120 or so years before TOS? Nope. Did anyone bitch? Yep. Was it a bad idea to do a prequel? Not at all. But Discovery isn’t alternative timeline. It’s merely a cosmetic choice to have it look different. And they’ve been true to established canon too. The Cage happened before Discovery and TOS after it.

5.) I gotta PAY for it? I never PAID for it before! Physical media is dead. Streaming is king. From a business standpoint this makes sense. Discs are comically available for holdouts on Discovery Season 1. At $50 you are essentially paying for as many months as it would’ve cost you to buy the service and have access to a huge library of other content not just Discovery or all Star Trek TV Shows. Broadcast TV wasn’t going to take a risk on a prime time Star Trek TV show but much as UPN was anchored by Voyager when it began they surmised All Access would have similarities and it’d do good there. It has.

6.) Cut the female empowerment crap out it isn’t Star Trek: This one cracks me up. It isn’t? So characters like Uhura, Crusher, Janeway, Torres, Kira, Dax, and T’Pol aren’t all bad asses? They are. All of them. Strong, powerful women who excel at their jobs. What’s truly sad is I just mentioned about every series regular on all the shows and I didn’t even come up with enough for a bridge crew. I for one am happy to see the empowerment. Keep it up. It’s very Star Trek.

7.) Fine but I’m not treating this as canon: Fine sit in the corner and cry. This is stick in the mud to no end! Believe whatever you’d like, just realize that everyone who enjoys it realizes it is canon and you’re woefully behind because you’d rather believe your own headcanon rather than capitulate to what is on the screen.

8.) I’m going to derisively refer to the show as STD even though the official abbreviation is DIS and that fits in line with every one word Star Trek title since Voyager (VOY, ENT): Sure man whatever floats your boat or flies your starship. You do you. Does it annoy me? Absolutely. Will I probably assume you’re a troll if you use that abbreviation? Yup.

Fact is: I realize not every fan is going to like every show. I’m not honestly expecting them to. That’d just be foolish. But the amount of pure anger and vitriol hurled at Star Trek is insane.

When I was a kid, the show was nerdy, outcast, people didn’t watch it mainstream and it wasn’t cool at all. Star Wars was, but not Trek. Now? It’s trying to be cool. More space battles, epic panoramas, vistas, planets, exotic aliens…they want to create more. Do more. Be more. If you can’t appreciate that then I’m sorry.

There’s a lot more of this kind of Star Trek on the way. You won’t be seeing a return to TOS or TNG anytime soon so either buckle in for the ride or sit at home and rewatch those shows on your choice of discs or streaming services.

Gene Roddenberry created this franchise, Rick Berman and Brannon Braga changed it, and Alex Kurtzman changed it again. It’s just what it is. And at its core it still stays true to the original concept. Again I’m sorry if you can’t or won’t see that but that’s what’s happening.

If you’re looking for new TOS, check out Star Trek Continues on YouTube. Fantastic acting, storylines, etc. a virtual love letter to 60’s-era Trek.

As for Picard: You have seen one teaser trailer lasting under two minutes. Patrick Stewart is heavily involved in its production. It won’t be bad. Trust me on this.

If you’re looking for new Star Trek, sit down and get ready. There’s a whole lot of it coming soon!

[juliairian]

Kissing in the name of...

Chapter 05 | “…Indulgence.” | A fluffy short johnlock ficlet

Sherlock spent as much time at St. Bart's as he possibly could. It had already been late when they’d returned from the stakeout, so that meant it was the middle of the night. He slid another slide under the microscope, categorising samples from one of Molly’s recent corpses. It was dull busywork; on a normal day he might have enjoyed experimenting on the samples a bit more, but today he barely managed the groundwork without getting distracted.

He had run away. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, one of the most brilliant people in London, for crying out loud. He’d faced down addiction, armed murderers, explosives and the bloody British Government – and he was running from John Watson?

John, the most unassuming man to ever wander into his life. The man who’d stepped into the mess of 221B Baker Street and for some insane reason had decided to stay. Who was still staying there, right now. Probably sitting in his chair, looking forlorn, wondering what he’d done wrong.

Nothing, Sherlock wanted to say. Everything.

The idiotic man had somehow solidly planted himself by Sherlock’s side, and in his heart (the existence of which had been largely unconfirmed up to that point). Why would he choose Sherlock, of all people? Idiot, idiot, idiot, Sherlock’s mind spun on repeat, wondering why his heart ached and his lips tightened in longing at the thought.

It was just an experiment, nothing more. Fixed parameters, predictable results. Only John, in all his unpredictability, had to go and mess it up completely. He’d somehow brought sentiment into the equation, turning Sherlock’s thoughts upside down, making him daydream of soft kisses tinged with heat and the taste of desire. Once again, the feeling of John pressed against him, crowding him to the wall of the warehouse, arose unbidden and clouded his vision. God, the sight of him. The taste of him. Sherlock could still feel the urge as he’d crouched before John to tear his jeans apart further and simply do what he was pretending to do. If the drug dealer had come by a few minutes later, who knows what might have happened?

Stupid, how incredibly careless of him. He’d known after that first, surprising kiss and after the surge of jealousy at the bar, that being that close to John would only tempt him to go further. To take, take, take, without thinking of the consequences. And now he had to face them: John, against all expectations, actually wanted him, wanted to give and take as much as Sherlock had, and suddenly the experiment had slipped away from him completely, and Sherlock was caught in a downward slide, no longer in control.

As long as neither of them had been aware of this… whatever it was between them, things had been in a careful equilibrium. Now it had become too obvious to ignore. In the taxi, Sherlock had suddenly realised that John knew beyond a shadow of a doubt how Sherlock really felt. And as soon as they reached Baker Street, John would do something about it.

Well, he’d gotten (run) away, to cold-turkey himself into abstinence. His own fault, really. He had thought that he was completely uninterested in anything of a sexual nature in general, but his own silly experiment had shown him the truth. Perhaps, subconsciously, that was why he latched on to the idea so quickly? Well, the damage was done. He now knew what John Watson tasted like and he couldn’t – most definitely wouldn’t – delete that.

But there was no going forward with it. Sherlock knew himself. He’d take and indulge and then he’d... crash. He would say something and John would be hurt and snap at him and it would be terrible and tedious and sooner or later, he’d leave, disappointed. A cold feeling settled in Sherlock’s chest. God, self-pity was almost as bad as the pining; but he’d gotten through worse.

John would sulk, feeling spurned, but he’d find himself another inane woman to date and he’d get over it, too.

Sherlock tried to ignore the dejected blankness that spread through his chest at the thought. Bitterness is a paralytic.

Sherlock knew that John had left to work at the clinic the following day, so after staying at Bart’s and sneaking home at four o’clock in the morning, he stayed resolutely in his room until John had left. He’d heard him dither outside his door for a few minutes, but thankfully he hadn’t barged in and demanded answers. No, John was far more likely to stew in silence (much like Sherlock himself).

He went out again that night, checking on the homeless network, annoying Molly for a while and visiting his old haunts, seeing if anything interesting (crime, preferably) was going on that might benefit from his attention. However, he drew only blanks (and some very irritated muttering from Molly) and he missed being at home. He liked sitting in his armchair, the fire crackling in the grate, working through some of Lestrade’s cold cases or playing the violin to still his thoughts.

The next day, he deemed it safe enough to face John again. He was not due in the clinic, so Sherlock found him in the sitting room with his laptop when he finally emerged from his room. He sent John wary looks from the corners of his eyes as he puttered around in the kitchen, but for what felt like hours, John steadfastly ignored him. Sherlock braced himself for some kind of tirade of accusations about using people, but it never came.

Instead, John finally got up, calm as it gets, and sauntered into the kitchen to make tea. He muttered a casual “…morning” to Sherlock, who didn’t dare look up until the kettle had boiled, the tea been made, and John was leaving the kitchen again. Just when he turned into the sitting room, Sherlock raised his chin a fraction and looked up from under his lashes. John was looking over his shoulder at him, and Sherlock shrank back from what he saw. His eyes were shouting John’s thoughts across the room loud and clear: message received, backing off.

Sherlock swallowed down the lump in his throat as icy tendrils curled in his chest.

The day after that, John had seemingly calmed down a bit. In fact, he seemed to hum with a kind of restless energy that Sherlock couldn’t explain, but was wary of. Something was up with John.

Finally, in the evening, he stepped up to Sherlock as he sat by his desk, working on his laptop.

“Sherlock, I need your assistance.”

This was the most words John had spoken to him since… that night. Sherlock met the iron gaze and blinked slowly. John’s body was tense, but not from anxiety. His eyes were focussed and unhurried. He had a plan of sorts, something he’d made up his mind about.

“With what?”

“An experiment.”

Sherlock pushed back from his desk and stood. He took a deep breath as he realised John was echoing his exact words back to him. Very well, he might still be wary, but he was curious enough to play. “What’s the hypothesis?”

John shifted his weight, but didn’t budge. “I can’t tell you. It would skew the results. I’m sure you understand.” That last bit sounded like it should be a sneer, but John’s face was guileless as only his could and his voice contained no trace of mockery.

“How can I assist you if I don’t know what I’m doing?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to see what John was getting at. Was it medical? Psychological? Was he just going to kiss him and see what happened? It was exactly the kind of romantic nonsense he expected from John. Yet he felt strangely thrilled and his resolve slackened a little as he took in John’s confident, no-nonsense stance. Stubborn to a fault.

“You don’t need to do anything. I just need permission to experiment.” John clasped his hands behind his back, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

Sherlock leaned forward a little, squaring his jaw. “…on me?” He felt a smirk curl on his lip, but quickly subdued it.

John did not flinch back. “Seems only fair, you experiment on me all the time,” he shrugged, and this time, the faint vitriol was definitely there. His eyes flashed with hurt and anger for a second, reminding Sherlock that John Hamish Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers was not a man to be trifled with. Not someone you used and then put aside. A shiver went down his spine.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?” John’s tone was back to carefully neutral, but there was still the challenge, the turnabout’s-fair-play kind of attitude.

Sherlock forced himself to sigh as if bored, even though he was anything but. “How long is this going to take?”

“Three days.” Looks at the watch. “Starting on your word.”

Now, Sherlock was definitely bewildered. But also intrigued. Wary. A little terrified. His head jerked in a nod, trying for a disinterested hum. “Well. Have at it then.”

“Good enough for me.” John abruptly turned on the spot and walked away.

Sherlock felt as if he’d been slapped. He’d prepared for a kiss, a punch or something in between, but…. “What about the experiment?” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as uncertain as he felt.

“In progress,” John merely said, leaving Sherlock in complete bewilderment.

The next three days were to become the most trying Sherlock had ever experienced living with John.

It didn’t take him long to chart a pattern in John’s changed behaviour, though the first few times it happened, it startled the hell out of Sherlock.

First, John simply let their fingers brush when he handed him the paper. Sherlock felt like he’d touched an open wire. A little bit later, he absently let his hand rest on Sherlock’s shoulder when he looked at the laptop. Then, he had his shoulder pressed briefly against Sherlock’s when he sat on the couch. It went on.

John was touching him. Deliberately. As much as he could without it being too obvious, even knowing that it was of course spectacularly blatant to Sherlock. Small, affectionate gestures like the brush of a hand over his hair, the hand at the small of his back when he led him through a door, the generally gentle presence of standing a little too close.

His manner also changed. No longer was he ignoring Sherlock or snubbing him; he was friendly in a casual way, smiling faintly and holding a few conversations. It was more pleasant than the icy silence from before, but it was still… fake. John didn’t really look happy, and Sherlock hated that he could tell. Was he only torturing him with the touches to punish him? Or where they as secretly welcome and comforting as they were to Sherlock?

Because he had to admit, whatever this experiment was doing, it was kind of working. Sherlock found himself charting the touches, cataloguing them, counting them, sorting them by degree of intimacy in his head (from 0.1 for the lingering fingertips over a cup of tea up to the current maximum of 5.2 when John ran his fingers lightly through Sherlock’s hair, giving him goose bumps down to his toes.)

Sherlock resisted. He didn’t reciprocate, mostly because there was no time to do it – the touches were as fleeting as they were infrequent. Sherlock had to concentrate, but he had managed to get himself somewhat under control when John suddenly upped the ante.

On day two, John stepped out of the shower in nothing but a towel. The large, blue fluffy fabric was wrapped around his waist, leaving nothing above and everything below to Sherlock’s vivid imagination. John traipsed around the kitchen, making breakfast and showing no inclination to get dressed anytime soon. When he was done eating (only John could make that look so suggestive) he took his sweet time about washing the bloody dishes and making more tea.

Sherlock suddenly stood in the kitchen door, unsure how he’d gotten there. But now he couldn’t help himself as John offered a cup to him; he was ogling him, there was no other word for it. He felt his cheeks grow warm as he remembered touching that strong chest and those firm arms through only a thin layer of shirt. He remembered the erection trapped in John’s jeans. His gaze dropped momentarily downwards before he rallied himself with a shiver.

He thought he saw a faint trace of amusement in John’s eyes and he abruptly drew himself back. “John,” he groused, unable to stop himself. “This is childish. Whatever you’re trying to…” He suddenly stopped and swallowed.

John gave him an innocent look. “Trying to what? I’ve just made tea,” he said, and swanned past him to sit in his armchair.

God, the man was infuriating! So calm! Unconcerned! And if Sherlock admitted that these blatant (obvious! crude!) attempts to seduce him were actually doing something to him then he lost. The… game? Experiment? Was that something one could lose? What was the damn hypothesis?! How long Sherlock could stand this foolishness before he snapped? He tried to ignore the pangs in his stomach as he wrestled down his baser instincts as well as the hurt he felt over John’s strange behaviour. And a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, taste of your own medicine.

He blinked rapidly, still staring at the spot John had vacated, tea forgotten in his hand.

On day three, Sherlock was convinced he couldn’t take it any longer. He was geared up like a caged tiger, high on the adrenaline of John’s increasing touches. He knew the exact time the experiment had begun, and for the last few hours, Sherlock had pretended to work on a case but actually watched the clock on the mantle tick away the time until this all made sense.

He paced the flat. Finally, John came home after work and shopping. It was nearly time for the grand finale. Sherlock followed John around the flat as he took his jacket and shoes off and put the shopping away. John ignored it.

At one minute to zero, Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when John finally, deliberately laid his hand on his shoulder.

He spun around. “Well?”

John regarded him calmly. “Well, what?”

“The experiment. Your bloody secret experiment.” Sherlock gestured at the clock. “It’s over now.”

John looked at the clock even though Sherlock knew he knew exactly what time it was.

He huffed a small, humourless laugh, pretending to sound surprised. “Ah. So it is.”

“And?” Sherlock loomed in his personal space now, staring John down, yet the man would not flinch.

“And… nothing. That’s all it took.” John squared his shoulders under the onslaught of the Sherlockian glower.

“All it took – to find out what exactly?!”

“That’s still under wraps, I’m afraid. I’m still working on the results.”

Sherlock began pacing again, gesturing wildly at John. “Working, what work, you’re not working, you were shopping, how is that work?!”

John allowed a somewhat sad smile to curl on his lips. He cocked his head. “Sherlock... you’ve deduced the entire thing on day one, so why are you so furious that I won’t spell it out for you? It’s hardly a secret, is it?” He gave Sherlock a long look. “Nothing much is, living with you.”

And there it was. Sherlock had no answer to that. Because of course he was right.

The next day, John was away, doing… something. Sherlock hadn’t been entirely listening when he’d left, too lost in his thoughts. However, he had noticed the absence of John much quicker than normally. The flat had gone quiet and somewhat cold. By the time the afternoon rolled around, Sherlock had gone without John touching him for 24 hours.

During the previous days, allowing for regular sleep times, on average, John had touched him approximately once every 63 minutes.

24 hours was absolute torture.

No… Sherlock recognized it. It wasn’t torture, exactly, it was withdrawal.

Oh. Sherlock felt confused for a moment when the thought hit him. He was annoyed, yes, pissed off, actually, that John would do that sort of thing to a former addict, and yet… he was also quite impressed.

John had known exactly what the result of his experiment would be, because he knew Sherlock so well. He used the fact that he could predict his behaviour and made it work for him to prove his point. Sherlock was more than mesmerized by this clever and devious move. If anything, it only made the warm appreciation that was humming inside his chest grow louder still. Coupled with a desperate itch for payback.

“Yoo hoo!” Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t heard Mrs Hudson’s steps until she was inside the room. She carried a tin.

“You made biscuits,” Sherlock deduced from the smell.

“Yes, so come and have some while they’re fresh, dear.” She put the kettle on, humming a tune.

Sherlock struggled from his chair and dragged himself to the kitchen. He hadn’t bothered getting dressed – boring – and hadn’t found the will to eat anything; yet the smell of the biscuits bypassed his conscious reasoning and went straight to his stomach, which growled in anticipation. Tedious. He morosely grabbed a biscuit and began munching on it in silence.

Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow, watching him. “What’s happened?”

“Hm?”

“You’re sulking.”

“John is bullying me,” Sherlock glowered at his biscuit as if it alone was at fault.

Mrs Hudson merely scoffed at his words. “Oh Sherlock!” she exclaimed and waved a hand, as if that could not possibly be true.

Sherlock popped the rest of the crumbly treat in his mouth and then grabbed two cups from the cupboard. “He is! He is tormenting me,” he threw two teabags into the cups, “entirely unduly; he’s being unreasonable and stubborn,” he tossed some sugar into his and some sweetener in the other cup for Mrs Hudson, “—and the whole thing is completely idiotic.” Well, it certainly felt good to say it out loud.

Mrs Hudson chuckled. “Sounds like somebody else I know.”

Sherlock huffed and frowned at the kettle until it boiled. He poured the water over the teabags and then leaned against the counter, sighing heavily.

Mrs Hudson came over and gently put a hand on his arm. “Sherlock, what did you do?”

He bristled. “What did I do? What makes you think I did anything?!”

Mrs Hudson merely raised both eyebrows and gave him that look. That we-both-know-I’m-right kind of look. But Sherlock wouldn’t relent. “What?”

“Sherlock,” she said patiently. “This is John we’re talking about.”

Sherlock sighed, frowning. She had a point there. John had a strong moral compass and was a loyal friend (more than a friend). Of course he’d only….

“I—I may have been a bit—I may have—I—,“ he suddenly started and then stopped again. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling them in frustration. He turned and got the teabags out of the tea and stirred in the milk, feeling good about distracting himself with his hands.

“Oh Sherlock, why don’t you just talk to him? I’m sure it can’t have been that bad. Just apologize. See what he has to say and hash it out.”

“Dull. Tedious.”

“So is this,” she gestured in his general area. Then she took the offered teacup, tutting to herself. “Honestly. Men.”

Hm. Talking. About his feelings. A last resort, certainly, but perhaps desperate times called for desperate measures.

John had returned after work, taken a shower and was stepping carefully into the sitting room when Sherlock pounced on him.

He hadn’t meant to, actually.

He’d had this whole speech planned in his mind, about how he was attracted to John and how he was sorry he used the experiment and the case as an excuse. He’d thought – really! – that the talking might be a good idea.

But then John had walked in, hair wet, still in the act of buttoning up his shirt, and something in Sherlock simply short-circuited.

He’d bounded off the sofa and into John, and was now somehow backing him into the kitchen table. John looked up at him, his lips slightly parted, perhaps in surprise, but he didn’t dither or act confused. Instead, there was a low-burning fire in his eyes, a contained intensity that drew Sherlock ever closer.

“John,” he said, his voice low and quiet. Some deeper part of himself seemed to have taken over, something very base and primal guiding his body, and his brain could only lean back and watch. He leaned in and lowered his head to John’s neck, not touching him, just taking in the warmth radiating from his skin, the fresh smell of the shower, the slight flush of John’s skin. “You’re back,” he murmured, completely unnecessarily. A slight tremor went through John’s frame at his words, and Sherlock felt a surge of satisfaction.

He pulled back and his eyes searched John’s. A small smirk played around his lips, and he saw John answer with one of his own secret smiles, the one where his eyes lit up from inside and no one but Sherlock would notice. It was as if they were having a conversation entirely without words, finally being on the same page.

I figured it out, like you said. Clever.

Took you long enough.

What John actually said was, “dinner?” His voice had dropped another octave and the sound went straight to Sherlock’s knees. John looked at him as if he was contemplating having him for dinner instead. It was thrilling.

Something finally gave, and Sherlock felt what remained of his meagre resolve melt away. Screw not indulging. If John wanted this, on his head be it. Let the consequences be something they worried about tomorrow.

He slowly, deliberately took John’s hand.

“Starving.” He smiled and briefly pressed his lips to it before he quickly withdrew to his bedroom to change.

Finally! I wanted to make the ending one chapter, but now it’s going to be two ;-)

Also on Ao3!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

[ghiraheeheeheem]

I know exactly what you are talking about. As a conservative I have often been the target of this hatred towards any outside of the "we." It is a collectivist mentality where they. Collectivism BREEDS hatred, it's why I don't like socialism (though some aspects of socialism are needed, most end up being toxic & destructive due to this collectivism). I have watched just pages and pages of hatred targeting me on this and news sites, and Berkeley... well... that was people cheering as [continued-]

-they set fire to a building with PEOPLE STILL INSIDE and beat a guy into a coma for not even sharing my views but wanting to LISTEN to someone who shares some of my views. Thousands of these people cheering. It’s fucking terrifying to me that happens in my own damn country for having anything like what I believe. We’re supposed to believe EVERYONE has the right to think and say what they wish no matter how horrible it might be, and this is just a fairly moderate gay Republican provocateur. 

Tumblr’s far left collectivists. Because conservatives need to be beaten since they’re Nazis according to Antifa’s own site. By that logic it’s okay for Conservatives to beat up all left-wingers because they’re all Sovietists. And what’s insane is Antifa is filled with anarchy-communists, they were waving the actual soviet flag as they burned down buildings and beat a man into a coma with a flagpole while he’s unconscious. Just… it’s a fucking nightmare with some of this. 

I’m just kinda letting off steam at this point but seriously, it’s bad. It really doesn’t help that media constantly tries to paint anyone supporting Trump as racists, that it takes the smallest group, who while having terrible ideas at least respect the First Amendment and are non-violent, and tries to paint everyone as part of it. It’s just… and people don’t seem to understand that this is why people voted Trump, because they felt oppressed by all sides and their voices weren’t being heard, now you want to silence them completely. 

Again this is getting really rant-filled and I’m sorry. I just needed to get this off my chest and that post was something that just brought it rolling out like a waterfall. I’m just told to shut up and my opinion doesn’t matter by this site. It’s a Nazi sexist misogynistic racist fascist ideology even though I’m an egalitarian individualist who hates putting people into groups. I’m just glad we’re finally moving away from this identity-driven ideology. 

Thank you for listening and stuff. If I missed an Anon please just screen shot it and block it out. I am happy to talk to people about this in IM but I do not want it being wide spread because I anticipate a severe response. Sincerely, An individualist egalitarian conservative who hesitantly supports God Emperor Donald J. Trump and enjoys offensive jokes such as that Nazi skit from Fawlty Towers, likes to acknowledge and laugh about these things, move past them rather than hide from them.

Thank you for sending this. I consider myself a staunch liberal, and I have even made my fair share of jabs at conservativism truth be told, but I have no qualms about admitting there is a great excess of aggression, hate, and intolerance from the end of every spectrum, and liberals are far from exempt.

As a liberal, I’m sure that there are many things that you and I disagree on, but I am sorry that you have been a victim of ridicule and aggression for your perspectives. With few extreme/intolerant exceptions, I think everyone should have a right to state their opinions calmly and rationally and in turn be treated with respect even in the face of disagreement.

There are many things I like about Tumblr and the information and perspectives that I have gained from being on here, but there are also things on Tumblr that drive me insane. Such as the anti-privileged-humans mentality that is running rampant that makes jokes out of hateful perspectives. 

I also agree that people are here, definitely some more than others, are very quick to slap labels on people that are far from applicable. For instance they’ve really taken a liking to the word “Nazi” as of late. Yes, there are real Nazis and yes, some of the people making headlines are, in fact, real Nazis. But they are pointing fingers at anyone whose views contrast their own like a goddamn witch hunt and it (as usual on here) is getting really out of hand. 

Add that to the list of things that annoy me on Tumblr is people don’t know when to stop… 

Moving on, I think the fact that you enjoy offensive jokes is a whole new can of worms, and I am not going to address it in this post, only point out that I think it is a separate issue entirely.

I’m glad that my blog is safe enough that you feel comfortable telling me this, anon or not. I can see you are frustrated, but I appreciate that in spite of this, you aren’t slinging mud or even making broad generalizations about liberals, and it takes a lot to keep that kind of calm in the face of people being disrespectful and cruel. I have a lot of respect for that. Honestly some days it’s more than I can say for myself…

Thank you again for your perspective. 

I ask my followers if you are going to reply to either me or the anon, please keep it rational and respectful. I don’t want any vitriol or lashing out on this post. If you can’t debate calmly, then make your own post instead.

[lucasflanagan-blog]

2006's Best Movies (adjusted for time)

And here we are at the end of my trilogy. The deck is stacked against me because we all know the third part of a trilogy is rarely worth the trip. So, folks, listen closely and I'll make you this promise: This is probably not going to be worth it. Carrying on. We're going to take a look back ten years to see how the movies of 2006 have fared. Time is the only real test of quality for movies and every time I do this exercise, I'm surprised to find how my feelings have changed. With that said, these were my top ten movies from 2006: 10 - After The Wedding 9 - Blood Diamond 8 - The Fountain 7 - The Lives Of Others 6 - Brick 5 - The Departed 4 - Letters From Iwo Jima 3 - Exiled 2 - Pan's Labyrinth 1 - Children Of Men First things first, when I took a look back I was stunned by how many great comedies came out in 2006. Obviously many of these movies didn't make my top ten list but they all have grown exponentially in my mind over the past ten years. Grandma's Boy is a dumbass movie but it's also one helluva hilarious dumbass movie. Little Miss Sunshine was a movie originally in consideration for my top ten list in 2006 but I cooled on it quickly. In the years since, I've come to a greater appreciation for this movie. Beerfest is ridiculously quotable and still gets watched on the regular. Borat is not necessarily a movie I look to watch anymore but it's been undeniably influential on comedy as a whole. Also, Mike Judge's Idiocracy is a bit of a mess and more of an interesting curiosity than a great movie but it can also now be called unfortunately prophetic. That leaves one, and it's a big one but we'll hold it for now because it's jumped into my top ten list. On the drama front, I loved Ken Loach's, The Wind That Shakes The Barley. Handsome production with a great performance from Cillian Murphy. Running Scared was a crazy little movie from Wayne Kramer, boasting a frenetic performance from Paul Walker. I'm a sucker for "It happened all in one night" movies and this movie was one of the better attempts I've seen. Lastly, we come to Richard Kelly's, Southland Tales. It's a mess of a movie but also one with some true brilliance hiding underneath. It's a movie crying to be seen at home where it can be more properly digested and deserves a new audience. Now we can move on to my brand new top ten list -- the one time has decreed is the better list. The top three movies have stayed the same while four others have shifted and three have fallen off the list completely. Letters From Iwo Jima, Blood Diamond, and The Fountain are gone -- I just don't care about these movies. They all have great qualities but I can't remember the last time I thought about them, let alone watched them. Here we go. 10 - Talladega Nights: The Ballad Of Ricky Bobby This is the most underrated of the Ferrell/McKay movies. I remember thinking it was funny but I'm not into NASCAR at all and thus allowed myself to shutdown to a certain degree -- big mistake. It's easily Ferrell's second best character to date (nobody beats Ron Burgundy) and the rest of the cast is insanely hilarious -- especially Gary Cole as Ricky's long lost father. Classic comedy. 9 - The Departed I'm glad Scorsese finally won his Oscar but he should have won one earlier for any number of better movies. I could talk all day long about Goodfellas vs Dances With Wolves but I'll spare you all the vitriol. In the end, The Departed is awesome and cool but wasn't really close to the legend's best work. 8 - Dave Chappelle's Block Party I've loved this movie for a long time and have no idea how this missed my list ten years ago. This was the first change I made and it was an easy one. The comedy, the music, the social commentary -- it's all amazing. 7 - Casino Royale The second best Bond movie I've ever seen after Skyfall. I was never a big Bond fan but this movie kicked and still kicks all kinds of ass. Anyone who had seen Layer Cake knew Craig was made for the role of Bond and he's never disappointed us. 6 - After The Wedding A small movie with heart to spare. The second movie in a row starring Mads Mikkelsen. This guy is one of the finest actors alive right now and has been for some time now. See this movie if you haven't yet done so. 5 - The Lives Of Others This won the Oscar for best foreign language film and while I still think Pan's Labyrinth is the better movie, there's no denying the power on display here. This is a movie which looked into a dark period of Germany's past and may be more relevant than ever for Americans. 4 - Brick The movie that gave Rian Johnson to the world. This guy is about to unleash Episode VIII on us so let's not forget his earlier movies. This was film noir set in a high school and JGL killed in the lead. I still love this one as much as I did ten years ago. 3 - Exiled Anthony Wong is the shit. Johnnie To is a fucking legend. Hollywood wishes it made action/crime/gangster movies as good as Hong Kong (and Korea and Japan and actually anywhere in Asia). This movie is brilliant. 2 - Pan's Labyrinth Guillermo Del Toro is a genius. I whole-heartedly believe this to be the truth. Everything he does is so specific and unlike anything he's ever done prior and also unlike anything we've ever seen before. He's the most unique filmmaker in the world today and this is his masterwork. 1 - Children Of Men Did I just call GDT a genius? Well, the same goes for his compatriot, Alfonso Cuaron. I watch this movie multiple times every year and it still stuns me. There's not a wasted moment in the entire movie. It's as close to perfect as I've seen in as long as I can remember. I don't think there's been a better movie since. I could be wrong. I'm probably wrong. That's it. Time, right? It certainly changes things. I'll be back some time this week with my thoughts on Logan or maybe John Wick: Chapter 2. One or the other. I'll decide later. Until then, love each other.