#so if people could refrain from tagging me in mass tags until i figure out how to be normal enough to be helpful

[gorillawithautism]

i am once again asking that people don't include me in mass tagging lists when trying to boost a post it is not good for my ocd and it doesn't accomplish anything

[bluerose5]

Honesty is Key

Pairing: Scott Ryder/Jaal Ama Darav

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,487

Tags: Mass Effect: Andromeda, Pre-Relationship, Slight Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Communication, Loyalty Mission, Post-Jaal Ama Darav: Flesh and Blood, Emotional Hurt and Comfort

Scott couldn't take it.

He had been so close to losing him. His stomach churned at the thought alone. His hands shook, yet no amount of deep breaths or calming thoughts helped soothe his nerves.

Adrenaline coursed through him, showing no sign of letting up.

Scott had barely stepped foot on the Tempest before he was already rushing off to the bathrooms in quick, long strides. The others called out to him, but he ignored them. Their words were garbled, unintelligible. It was like listening to someone from underwater.

Thankfully, no one was in the restroom.

Using the codes that Kallo had given him, he overrode the Tempest's protocols and locked the doors behind him. Bile started to rise in the back of his throat, leaving a bitter taste that lingered on the back of his tongue.

Taking his helmet off, Scott tossed it aside. It hit the floor and cracked, but he couldn't find it in himself to care right now.

He had been so close to losing him.

Both of his knees buckled, and Scott barely had enough time to brace himself against the sink before they collapsed entirely. Running shaky fingers through his hair, he glanced up and met his eyes in the mirror. They were red, swollen, and puffy. Tears had started to stream down his cheeks without Scott even noticing.

His face was as pale as a ghost, and his stomach continued to churn until finally he gagged.

All he could see was that bullet slicing through Jaal's cheek, over and over again. If the shot had been aimed slightly more to Akksul's right, then he—

Before Scott could even finish that thought, he was stumbling through the bathroom. He fell to his knees in front of the toilet, and his stomach heaved.

By the time his stomach was empty, his throat burned, and his vision blurred.

He couldn't stop trembling from head to toe, feeling as if he was coming apart at the seams.

"Pathfinder," SAM said through their private channel, "your vitals are consistent with those associated with extreme distress. Should I alert Dr. T'Perro?"

"I—" Scott managed to scrape himself off the floor, careful of the shards scattered around from his helmet's shattered facepiece. "No, I'll be fine."

Eventually.

Scott rinsed his mouth out at the sink, nose wrinkled in disgust.

Cleaning up as much as he could, Scott figured he could come back later and finish up.

Of course, the second he stepped out the door, he bumped into Jaal's chest.

Well, that dashed any hopes he had of making a quick escape to his quarters. Not that he should have expected any different. Jaal wasn't the type to avoid an issue when he could confront it instead.

At the sight of Scott's blotchy, tear-stained face, Jaal frowned.

"You are upset," he stated.

"Yeah, no shit."

It took Scott a whole minute to realize that he had said that aloud instead of keeping it to himself. Jaal blinked owlishly at him in shock, but Scott averted his gaze, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, face flushed with warmth compared to mere moments prior.

Jaal regarded him in confusion.

"Why are you apologizing for speaking your mind?" he asked, utterly baffled.

Right. The angara value openness and honesty.

Scott could work with that.

Hopefully.

"Mind joining me in my quarters?" Scott asked, eyeing the empty corridor with suspicion. Knowing his crew, he might not have them in his direct line of sight at the moment, but that didn't mean that they weren't listening in somehow. Call him paranoid, but Scott wasn't taking any chances. "I want to talk about what just happened out there."

At that, Jaal shifted uncertainly, wringing his hands together.

"Okay," he whispered, "but are you certain that we have to have this discussion alone?"

Scott narrowed his eyes at him, arms crossed over his chest.

"I would prefer to be alone, yes."

"You're upset with me," Jaal noted, but was he right?

Yes, no, maybe. Scott didn't know, but he wasn't going to have this conversation out in the open.

"Come on," Scott grumbled, dragging Jaal into his quarters alongside him. Once they were inside, Scott sealed the doors. "In you go."

"Scott—"

"Not. A. Word." Jaal snapped his mouth shut, and Scott jabbed a finger into his chest. "You are so—" Reckless, stupid, careless... There was so much he wanted to say, but it was near impossible to settle on one word alone. "—infuriating!"

It was nowhere near enough, but it would have to do for the moment.

Without thinking, Scott kicked at a nearby box. He didn't notice until it was too late that his body was thrumming with biotic energy, his frame enveloped in a bluish light. He sent the box flying into a nearby wall, where it shattered into little pieces.

Scott watched it fall apart, but he didn't feel much satisfaction from the act. Instead, he felt numb. Numb and drained.

Turning back to Jaal, Scott let his biotics fizzle out.

His face crumpled.

"I could have lost you," Scott whispered distantly, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I almost lost you."

Repeating it didn't help any. Reality refused to set in entirely. He still struggled to comprehend everything that happened at the Forge.

In the blink of an eye, Jaal had Scott wrapped up in his arms. Scott choked on a sob, burying his face into the crook of Jaal's neck.

He took a deep breath, Jaal's sweet, warm scent a constant reminder that he was still there. That he was alive.

"I don't have many people left that I care about," Scott whispered, finally giving voice to those feelings that had been bottled up for so long. "My mom and dad are both gone. There's no telling when Sara will wake up." He swallowed thickly past the lump in his throat. "You and the crew... You're all that I have left. My friends, my family, my colleagues."

He pulled away, just enough to stare pointedly into Jaal's bright blue eyes.

"And so much more," he breathed.

Carefully, he traced his fingers along the underside of Jaal's latest wound. At first, he flinched, but Jaal grabbed Scott’s hand and held it there before he could pull away.

If anything, he leaned even further into his touch, and Scott melted.

"I'm sorry to make you worry so," Jaal said, "but I'm grateful that you trusted me enough to refrain from bringing harm to Akksul. I know that it had to be a difficult decision, but acting against him would have only strengthened the Roekaar's cause. You did the right thing."

"Perhaps," Scott grunted, "but that doesn't make me feel any less like shit."

Jaal chuckled.

Tightening his arms around him, his rofjinn draped over Scott’s shoulders like a warm blanket, safe and secure.

Scott snuggled in close.

"Doing the right thing won't always feel fulfilling," Jaal said, "but thank you. Not only for that."

Scott furrowed his brow.

"What else do you have to thank me for?"

Jaal beamed.

Truth be told, he had no right to look that happy, not when Scott was mad at him. Sort of.

"For being honest with me." He shrugged. "I've noticed that you've been opening up more and more lately, at least compared to when we first met. It means a lot."

"Well, uh..." Scott trailed off, clearing his throat. "No problem. My family were never really the touchy-feely types. It's definitely new territory for me."

"Yet you take to it so well. Even when you're enraged, you're radiant."

Scott sputtered, then unraveled himself from Jaal's embrace, keeping a hold on his hand.

"Alright, on that note, it's time to go."

As he pulled Jaal along, Jaal grumbled in protest.

"Hey!" They exited the room together. "Where are we going?"

"To have Lexi properly clean and disinfect your wound before I kiss you, and neither of us want that." Before Jaal could get too hurt by that statement, Scott clarified. "Not until I've showered and brushed my teeth, at least. I'm a mess."

"Oh!" Understanding dawned on Jaal, but he decided to take a risk. "And after that? Will you kiss me then?"

Of course, about half the crew decided then —of all times— to emerge from the Crew Quarters, all of them stopping short when they heard Jaal's exclamation.

They tossed Scott teasing glances.

"Yeah, Scott," Vetra called out, "when are you going to give Jaal a kiss?"

"It would be rude not to," Peebee said.

With his cheeks lit aflame, Scott gaped like a fish out of water, opening and closing his mouth as he struggled for words.

Why did he suddenly feel like it should be against the rules to bully the Pathfinder?!

Eventually, he said, "I should go."

And he hurried back to his quarters, tripping on his feet as their laughter chased him off.

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 66

Title & Song: Your Sins Will Find You out

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Word Count: 6100+

Summary:  ****IF YOU WOULD BE OFFENDED BY BLASPHEMY WITH CHRISTIANITY AND/OR CATHOLICISM...DO NOT READ THIS.**** Because this is all about a former Catholic letting out her pent up rage for it and her father by fucking her Jewish boyfriend in a confessional and having a nasty mouth while he role plays as a priest. Alfie and Gen are naughty. Let us never forget that. Amen.

Warnings/Tags: Explicit Sexual Content: Vaginal and anal play. Dirty Talk. Sex in a confessional. Role Play as a Priest. So, blasphemous if you’re into that sort of thing. A giant fuck you to her Catholic upbringing and dad. FLUFF. Talk of marriage. They’re so twisted I adore them. 

**Chapter song is Your Sins Will Find You Out by Eli Paperboy Reed.**

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.)

You meet him at the church, a large and old cathedral that apparently matched the importance of the man who had passed. You hadn't known him but knew he was a big deal in the jewelry quarter, and if he was important enough for Alfie to feel the need to be seen at the funeral you figured it was important enough to dress up for. 

Granted, it certainly felt correct to walking into a Catholic church in all black for the first time in over thirteen years. As was your intention, heads turn when you walk in and you feel a tingling sense of naughtiness pass over you. Perhaps it was that Catholic guilt that had been beaten into you over the years through corporal punishment. The wild years you'd spent beating that guilt away with the same actions that put it into in the first place come to mind, you slink about the stone and stained glass in the entryway, looking for Alfie.

You watch his face change when he sees you, and it does more for you than endless heads turning in any room could. Your dress, a high necked, long sleeved and floor-length black gown. Sheer coverage over a solid black bodice and skirt clung to your filled out feminine form, your jeweled handbag clutched in your grasp as you sauntered over towards him, his eyes looking over you as the men he's speaking to turn to see what's caused an uncharacteristic silence from Alfie.

You looked like an angel of death, walking into the room the way you did. Your hair plaited and pulled around to one side, a jeweled clasp containing the soft mass of it. Your earrings sparkled, catching the light from the stained glass windows in their multitude of colors. He clears his throat as you approach, outstretching his hand to place on your back in a subtle statement of possession. "'Ello darling," he says softly with a mutual nod as you stand like a statue by his side as he introduces you. "Gentlemen, this is my lovely Miss Genevieve Durand," he spoke smoothly, you loved the pride you could hear in it in its gruffness.  "This is Mr. Doyle, Mr. Callahan. Jewelers both and Doyle is an old school mate of mine." he elaborates as you extend your hand to eldest first.

"Mr. Callahan." you give a polite nod and curtsy to them both as they shake your hand, seemingly unsure of the boldness of the gesture from a woman, and possibly hesitant to touch something seemingly owned by Alfie. "Mr. Doyle. Lovely to meet you both."

"Miss." they both respond politely.

"Might I say your jewels are pristine, Miss Durand." Mr. Callahan says.

"You may." you give him a friendly smile to break the tension. "And thank you. I take great pride in them." you return your hands to your purse in front of you.

"Would you excuse us?" Alfie says, a hand lightly on your elbow to pull you towards the large, daunting wooden doors that led into the arched peaks of the cathedral.

"Something the matter?" you whisper, recognizing the acoustics of the room would be awe-inspiring.

"No, no," he says with a shake of his head. "Just wanted a moment with you before..." he gestures vaguely with his hand to the pulpit. "...all this begins." he huffs out. You walk leisurely past statues and towering examples of art in the room as you speak softly, moving among the attendees with polite nods. "I must say you look stunning." he expresses closely to your ear.

"Thank you darling." you bat your lashes at him. "You look handsome as always. Did you trim your beard?" you ask, refraining from running your fingers through it.

"I did, ever the observant one." he chuckles. "You look like the angel sent down to retrieve the man in question today from his final resting place. A portrait of the angel of dark and light, love." he muses.

"You speaking of beauty in such a macabre way will do things to me Alfie, you know this." you smirk at him.

"As it should. Perhaps if death had looked like this I wouldn't have fought so hard to stay alive during the wars, eh?" he gives a cheeky grin and the thrill of the discussion in such a morbid way was causing your face to blush. "You've been paintin' me as deities but if I were a painter, yeah? I'd be paintin' you exactly like 'is. Like a female Abaddon, dripping in all black, joining with the abyss. Oh, what fire and destruction you could bring, my love." he whispers. "Never full so the eyes of man are never satisfied." he recites and you blush deeper shades as those soft lips seduce you with their silver tongue accomplice.

"If you keep charming me in such a way we both very well may burst into flames in this church." you hold back a giggle that threatened to break the solemn silence of the dark atmosphere. "Trying to seduce me at a funeral. My word, Alfie." you playfully scold, a gentle smack to his chest. "Have my lurid curiosities started rubbing off on you?" you question.

"More interesting in rubbin' off on you, love." he says without making eye contact, an entirely casual delivery that makes you cover your mouth to stifle the laugh.

"Alfie Solomons." you hiss with wide eyes and pursed lips to hide your smile.

"Wot?" he grins and it charms you entirely.

"You should stop enabling me, who knows what'll happen if you keep talking like that."

"I know what'll happen." he nods and leans in close. "And it has been nearly two weeks since I've been with you and I have to say I welcome whatever that aberrant brain of yours can come up with." he gives you cocky nod of his head.

"Is that a challenge?" you ask with raised brows.

"It's whatever you want it to be love." he coos.

You sit through the lengthy service and behave, the smoke and costume bringing back flashes of your childhood. Alfie quirks his eyebrow at you when you recite the readings, you ignore him, you couldn't help that they'd been engraved into your psyche by cold and brutal nuns that would lash at your hands if you didn't recite them properly. Your hands started to ache just at the thought. This all led you back to your father and thinking about the man that had spoken to you fills you with a deep annoyance you try to keep from turning into red hot anger. But the lingering effects of Alfie's cheeky words stay with you, you can feel it every time you shift your thighs. It brings back an old and familiar feeling, that naughtiness you felt so often when you were younger that couldn't be contained. That want to rebel, to be bad and revel in it. You let your anger fuel it, planning what you might do to indulge in it. It'd been so long since you'd gotten up to some good old fashioned naughtiness, perhaps it was time to get back in touch with your sexually adventurous side again since you had a singular man to cater to your whims now. And he certainly seemed enthusiastic to do so.

Alfie can see the tension around your eyes, the way they looked out far past the priest who was speaking. He wasn't sure what the cause of it was, but when he reaches out to put his hand on your thigh your eyes flutter out of their trance and you take a deep breath and smile at him softly. You scoot closer, he puts his arm over your shoulders and your cross your legs towards him. You let your hand rest on his thigh to plant the seed in his head that you might do more. But you resist. You rest against him, your thumb moving back and forth slightly on occasion, leaving him wondering about your motive.

It is announced the cemetery that the man will be taken to and it is asked for everyone to clear out, with instructions given on who to follow to get there. As the front moves out first, once the procession gets back to you, you reach out and takes his arm gently to keep him close and before you reach the doors, you step to the side and grip his arm, he looks to you and moves out of the stream of people. You say nothing and neither does he, nodding and waiting as the others filed out. Soon the room was empty.

"You alright, love?" he whispers, leaning into your side.

You shake your head, but your eyes don't read as upset and he lets out a low groan before a mischievous smile comes across your lips. You wait until you hear the front doors close, peaking around the doorway to see only one person left, a very elderly woman who was  making her way up the stairs.

"Gen," he whispers, getting your attention. "What are you doin'?" he narrow his eyes at you.

"Having a little fun." you say turning and letting a purposely seductive smile comes across your face. You walk up to him, hands sliding under his coat. "You want to have some fun with me Alfie?" you ask, batting your lashes at him, raising your chin to meet his face.

"What ya got in mind?" a deep, masculine chuckle escapes him.

"I'm feeling rather naughty." you begin with a pout. "Rather lustful. Sinful really." you purr. "You want to play a bit of pretend with me? I've never fucked in a church and I find myself feeling a bit devilish in here..." you grin. "Father." you let out a deep giggle and your tongue peaks out from between your teeth.

"Ah, child." he nods, catching on immediately, but of course he would. "What can I help you with?" he takes your face into his hands, speaking low and slow to you.

"I need to make a confession," you say, pulling away and walking towards the confessional booth that lay in a secluded hallway in a wing off of the main, highly decorated cathedral. "Would you hear me out, Father?" you ask, opening the door to what would be his side of the wooden booth, your back arched and pressed against the door.

"That I would." he says with that deep velvet tone that touches you in your most intimate places.

You move to the other side of the booth and sit, hands in your lap, the space smaller than you remember, the lights filtering in from the tinted glass top, a suited red wash over the cubicle. "Forgive me Father. For I have sinned. It has been... thirteen years since my last confession." you let out a chuckle that is purely you and not part of the role-playing you were partaking in.

He slides open the barrier, the lattice separating the two of you. You can see his intimidating silhouette also bathed in red light. He leans back against the wall. Trying to recall everything he knew about Catholicism. “Please tell me of your sins." He begins with simply.

“I accuse myself of lust, Father.” Your voice quiet and breathy, making the hairs on his arms prickle up at attention. “You see... there is this man.” He feels the corner of his mouth pull back into a smile. “He does things to me. Makes me feels things. Gives me the most perverse thoughts. Sinful and adulterous things, Father.” You whisper.

"What thoughts, I must know the nature of your sins." you can tell by his low and breathy tone that you're having an effect on him.

"Sodomy," you whisper. "I want him everywhere, Father. All the time. In the most unnatural of ways." your words and low tone travel over his skin and make his cock twitch to attention. "I get so turned on thinking about him wasting the gift of life in my mouth just so I can taste him that I pleasure myself to the thought." you run your hands down your chest, stimulating your hard nipples, listening to his heavy breathing just a short distance away. “I know it is wrong, Father. I know I should stay away from a man that makes me lose control the way he does. But I cannot. I know he’s bad. Not only for my salvation but he is a criminal, Father as well. Bad for me because he inspires such lustful yearning. Bad for himself for what he does. And oh... does it makes me wet thinking of the evil he does.” you practically moan, hearing him shift next to you.

“Why would you associate with a man like this, child?” an almost dopey smile on his face, he grunts and move his hips to undo the button on his trousers.

“Because I like being bad.” You purr. “I like that he’s a criminal. A thief. A liar. A murderer. All these things are sins I must also ask for forgiveness for. But none as much as my sins of the flesh. I’ve never met a man like him. When he touches me it makes me so hot it’s as if his fingers were the licking flames of hell come up to devour us both in our sin. I find myself at worship of him instead of Christ." you bite your lip and start the pull your skirt up your thighs with a low hum.

“A man who inspires blasphemy is no man to be with.”  he groans, his hand moving under his clothes to rub at himself.

“But that is what makes it so delicious, Father. I am a filthy sinner and I’ve come to confess it. I love him and I love how he possesses me. He makes me his whore,  Father. And I must confess these sins because they consume me mind, body, and soul just as he has.”

“And you are looking to be cleansed of your sins?” his head rests back, eyes closed as his hand moves slowly up and down his hard cock.

“Yes, Father. Cleanse me of my lustful sins.” you whine, your hand rubbing yourself over your knickers.

“You know I have the power to absolve you. And your sins are grave, child.” he says through gritted teeth, the filthy words still floating around his lust hazed mind.

“They are Father. I feel I must be punished for them.” you hear him grunt and you slip your fingers under your pants, sliding them down your legs.

“You must repent. Then I will forgive you and you will be cleansed.” he smirks, his tongue flicking out over his open lips, hand unintentionally tighter now around himself.

“What must I do Father?” You play up, a wicked smile on your face as you spread the growing wetness up and down your soft slit.

“You must kneel.” he says in a demanding tone that makes you whimper

“To pray Father?” you ask innocently.

“To worship.” He states certainly and you shut your eyes with a heavy exhale. “You must come here, child. Your sins are so grave I must lay my hands on you to see the proof of your sin myself.” you let out a low growl of pleasure for the demand.

“Anything you say, Father.” You slip out of the booth, a quick look around to find no one around before you slowly back into his side of the confessional.

He sits with his cock out, hand loose and teasing around it. You turn and act surprised and he is smitten with by your acting once again.

“Father!” You say with an accusation, your lips and tongue moving slowly, eyes fixated on his hand, shaking his cock at you.

“You’ve told me of what a whore you can be. I want you to embrace it, purge it all here and now. Show me what a whore you are so I will know what punishment will serve you.”

You drop to your knees and take his cock out of his grasp. ”Will this grant me forgiveness?” you whisper licking your lips only a breath away from him, looking into his dark eyes, mouth set in a wicked smile.

“Only I have the power to make that decision.  And if you truly wish to be absolved, I will know through your actions." his eyes stare into yours as you ghost your lips across the underside of his cock. "So show me."

"What a whore I am for him?" you ask, lips moving back down his length.

"Yes." he nods and rests his hands at his sides, a challenging look on his face.

You close your eyes and stick out your tongue, a broad lick across his balls as his nostrils flare. You do as he asks, the thrill of the crude words, the power he was holding over you in this scenario all drove you forward. You take his balls into your mouth, humming as your lips suck at the soft flesh. You return your gaze to him, a long open-mouthed lap up his cock before taking him down and into your throat. He releases a noise that tells you you're doing well. He brushes a few fallen pieces of hair from your face, his hand waiting, resting lightly on your head. You keep quiet as best you can, knowing the door was latched, but that was all the protection you had against any intrusion. You bob on him deeply, lips gripping and tongue swirling, the wet sucking noises, and your gasping breaths as you popped off him the only sounds. The heat started to build in the small location, you could feel the sweat starting to form on your spine and between your legs as they were pushed together in the small space.

He grips you by your braid at the base of your head, pulling your head back and tapping his cock against your lips that were set in a wicked smile before extending out your tongue and panting for him. "If you want my forgiveness and my absolution, you must do what I ask of you." his tone was deep and dark, eyes giving you no reason to be drawn out of the fantasy.

"Am I not proving what a whore I am?" you ask with batting lashes, such a juxtaposition to how you were gagging on his cock just moments before. "Forgive me," you whisper, taking his hands and placing them on either side of your face. "Use me." you ask of him, "Fuck my face. I want you to." you say with pouted lips before your long lashes flutter shut, casting shadows as you take him down again, shaking your head once you reach the base of him.

"Fuck." you hear him groan out, trying to stay quiet. He grabs your head, fingers in your pulled back hair, as his hips begin to move himself in and out of your mouth, feet pushing hard into the floor as he picks up speed. You welcome it, keeping your lips taut and your throat relaxed, still sucking at him, breathing through your nose and making gagging noises as he ventured far into you. He stops as he feels the saliva follow a hard gag, lifting your head up to make sure he wasn't hurting you.

"Don't stop." you say with the tip of his cock in your mouth and he growls, you moan as he goes right back to it, swearing under his breath. He doesn't want to finish in your mouth, even if you'd confessed to loving it. He wants to give you something more, up close and personal to thank you for what was one of the more twisted fucks he'd ever had. He pulls you off of him again, this time one handed with a fist full of hair.

You look a mess and you know it, your eye makeup smudged with watery eyes, lipstick nowhere to be seen now except at the base of his cock. With spit strung from your mouth to his cock, hanging from your chin he swears at the sight. "You shouldn't swear, Father." you say through heavy panting and he gives your cheek a firm but not even stinging slap. "Am I being punished?" you ask with half lidded eyes and a smile that makes his balls tighten in its naughtiness.

"Not yet." he snarls out, moving you both in the small space. "Up." he says, hand still on your hair and pulling you to your feet. You both circle, switching spots in the booth as he reaches behind you to grab the chair he'd been sitting in after peaking outside to the body of the church to check for anyone being around. He knew with what he planned to do to you, that you wouldn't be keeping quiet on your own.

He shut and latches the heavy wooden door behind him with a daunting and echoing sound. He presses you against the back wall, the sturdiest and most quiet of the four offered to you. He presses himself against you, holding you tight by the chin. "Do you believe yourself to have repented enough, child?" he gruffs out, nose grazing your jaw as you hum in excitement as you lick your lips.

"I do not." you shake your head and give him the largest and most innocent eyes you can afford given the state you were in.

"And do you think you have shown me the extent of your lustful sins?"

"I do not." you answer the same.

"Then lift up the lovely dress." you gather it in your hands, fisting handfuls of black fabric to your hips. "Such a modest thing only a lady would wear. And you are no lady." He shakes his head and hums in a low register "I think your sins deserve more punishment." he grunts, yanking your leg up around his hip hard, a rough grasp on your thigh.

"Yes." you breathily whisper. "I still feel the lust controlling me." you purr.

"Is it? You're being awfully well contained." he whispers back, judgmental and scolding, the back of is hand running up your thigh to your hip.

"Then I will act upon it," you state clearly. "I'm aching for your cock. This little cunt is dripping for you, Alfie. I want your hands on me to be bruising, to show me how naughty I've been. To mark me as your property. I'm here to serve your lust and be shamed for mine, aren't I? Then treat me like some little strumpet. Use me. I'm your little whore, Alfie. Treat me as such." you whimper and whine, your lips ghosting against his. You reach down and stroke his cock, pushing the head against your soft wet folds.

His nostrils flare, a bull emerging with broad shoulders and punishing hands to wrap around your neck, giving it a squeeze as you play up trouble breathing. "I love that filthy mouth you have Genevieve. You dirty girl." he groans. "The things you make me want to do to you, love. Worth going to hell for." he rasps. "You make me more beast than man." he huffs air out of his nostrils and you feel the heat of it across your skin.

"Show me." you rasp out, beckoning him with wet, parted lips.

A sharp slap to your cheek surprises you. "You aren't the one making demands here," he whispers sharply. "You are here to receive me. Receive my forgiveness."

"Fill me with your love and light. Cleanse me with your forgiveness, please." you ask of him, lashed batting at him with innocence to the motion, but the way your tongue flicked across your lips show it to be anything but. "Free me." you whisper, rocking your hips against the head of his rock that had been teasing at your clit. "Show me what bliss your forgiveness grants."

"What a debauched creature you are." he moans, giving in to a harsh kiss. You feel him move fast, a sharp slap to your lips before grabbing your hips and pushing your front against the wall. You hear a brief rustling of your dress before you feel him hard and hot between your cheeks. He gives you a few stern slaps with his cock, a single run down your folds before pushing into you. He groans at the feeling, being able to sense how much you were enjoying this taboo romp as well, as he slid inside you with hardly any resistance.

Of course, you moan and it as always one of the most gorgeous sounds he'll ever hear but he slaps his hand over your mouth, the other hard on your hip, keeping them pulled away from the wall with your back arched as he pumped into you. "Gotta keep quiet, can't have the other's knowing of what a sinner you are, can we little lamb?" he hisses before a sharp slap to your arse. You let out little whimpers against his palm with each thrust, your tongue lapping at the hot skin. "Can't have one bad girl lead the rest of the flock astray can we?" he whispers before taking your earlobe between his lips, looming over you.

You murmur a response against his hand, but it doesn't matter now. He scolds you for making noise, grunting with every pound into you. He hits hard, only breaking to pull you apart, your mouth gaping open from the release, both his hands on your arse and wobbling it, watching himself move in and out of you, seeing himself slick with your wetness. "Oh fuck." you whisper, pressing your hand flat against the stable wall.

"No swearing from you, Genevieve. Naughty girl. Else I'll have to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours again." You respond with a noise of want, his fingers tighter now into the bouncing flesh of your lower half. Your tongue lolls out, the pressure building inside you, this angle always fulfilling you, especially with his adept hands and mouth to accompany it. "That what you want? Wash that hot, pink mouth out with my spunk, eh?"

"Want you to-oh, please come inside me." you whine and his eyes roll back in his head.

"That what she wants?" he lets out a devilish deep chuckle. "Full this little cunny up with me? Make your take all 'a me? Eh?" he spanks you hard and you tense and squeal, his mouth open and panting. "Leave you drippin' with it like the little whore you are for me, yeah? Gettin' fucked like this... by a man like me. You are fuckin' filthy and fuckin' love you for it." he rushes out, pushing his hips out. "Could watch me cock fuck you like this all fuckin' day love. Fuckin' perfect little flower innit ya? And this tight... little... arse of yours." He swipes his thumbs over the tensing hole and you shudder. "Fuckin' dirty girl." he whispers. He leans over you, teeth on your earlobe as he pants hot and heavy against your skin, his fingers pushing into your mouth to silence you, but you moan and starting sucking away and spanks you again. "You were askin' for it, Genny. What kinda woman would you be, eh? Gettin' buggered like this? Ought to just to teach ya a fuckin' lesson." his thumb presses against your arsehole again and your thighs shudder, moaning around his fingers again. "And you want it? Fuck me..." he rasps out, picking up speed and making you whimper, wet swollen lips around his fingers as he held your chin. Thumb circling, spreading your abundant wetness to allow his thumb to slide into you.

"Oh fuck." you moan out against his fingers.

"I 'eard that one, yeah?" he lets out a deep groan into your ear, you hear him huff into it, voice growing rougher. "All your holes filled little one." he taunts. "Showin' me what a whore you are for me... good fuckin' girl. Ya tight as fuck 'round me Genny, you gonna come, yeah?" he whispers, still hitting into you, as you hold yourself off the wall to receive as much of him as you could. "Come hard all over this cock, Gen, all fuckin' over it." he groans through gritted teeth. "You've got me so fuckin' hard, love, jesus christ." his voice cracks with the inflection. "Want you fuckin' drippin' down me fuckin' bollocks Genevieve. My lovely little whore innit ya? Just for me. A missus and a whore. Lucky. Fuckin'. Me." he snarls pressing his nose into your ear.

As it always did, his filthy mouth takes you where you need to go. He watches your eyes flutter and roll back, your hips buck, stuttering against his and it only fuels him to fuck into you harder. He wanted to have to muffle your screams, wanted to make you his by making you come so hard you cried out for him.

"Alfie." you murmur with his fingers in your mouth. He presses them farther in still.

"Don't you fuckin shout now. Else I'll have to gag you won't I?" he threatens and you moan. He thinks he hears a please to his threat and he growls, pressing his thumb in deeper, bending his knees to go as hard and fast as his body would let him.

If he didn't know your body, he would've thought something was wrong. You let your face push against the wall, drool running down his hand as he held your tongue, dripping down your chin, past those pinked lips as you made inhuman noises when he'd leave you with space to breathe. Your knees give, he presses you flat against the wall, still thrusting into you as you shake and convulse. He can feel your rings of muscle so tight around him he whines, feeling your cunt soaked for him, another wave of slick now running down his shaft and over his balls, making him throw his head back and grit his teeth to control himself. He feels your orgasm through every bit of you, your stomach spasms, thighs shivering, cunt seizing and your hands trembling against the wood they rested on. "Fuckin' 'ell Genny, yes, fuck, ya make me so fuckin' greedy for it love. Give me every last drop before I fill you back up." he pants out into your back before he can't hold back any longer. His hand moves from your mouth with a wet slick pop, a gasp from you as you bubble spit through your lips with clenched teeth to not cry out for him. He holds your hips roughly. A string on swears, you can make out "Gimme... ya... fuckin'... cunt." hissed out as he finishes inside you, a hard hit and grunt with each spasm.

You keep your noises minimal, your breathing the only loud thing in the confines of the wooden booth. Your eyes blink open with new clarity, the lust no longer blurring your vision. The red wash over your skin felt appropriate. As he came down, forehead pressing into your back, you feel him lose his tension against you, you can feel the small twitch of him inside you and you hum contently. You're hit with a moment of artistic inspiration. You envision bodies with a red wash over them, limbs against the dark grain of the wood, crosses between heavy breasts, the ends being sucked on by wet and swollen lips. Hands in prayer, pressed to bare breasts, a strong hand wrapped around the praying neck. It'd been a while since inspiration had struck you in such a way. Alfie interrupts your thoughts by clearing his throat.

"Ya okay love?" he asks, as considerate afterward as ever.

"Yes just, help me turn." you let out a huff of a laugh. He does, putting himself back into his trousers and straightening your skirt. He studies your face, licking his thumb, and wiping away the running mascara, using his handkerchief to finish the job and clear the drool from your chin.

"You look glorious in this light, Genevieve." he whispers, gentle fingers trailing down your jaw.

"You look so villainous and... beastly." you smile, tilting your head and pushing the stray strands of hair behind his ears, evening out his collar and vest. "But handsome all the same." you say with a pucker of your lips and he meets them without hesitation.

"You are a fuckin' wonder, my love." he whispers against them, now tending to your hair. "I'm the luckiest bastard alive. I know that for certain." he nods. "You are bloody brilliant. You look so fuckin'....absolutely sweet and then the things you do... oi vey Gen they're gonna kill me and I'll die with a fuckin' smile on me face." he chuckles and kisses you again.

"As long as it's me that kills you." you grin and stroke his beard. "No one else gets to kill you but me." you say with a playfully scolding tone and he lets out a deep rumbling, deeply content sound.

"No one but you, love. No one else but you." he exhales in a happy sigh.

"Because you are mine to do with as I please aren't you darling?'

"Fit to call me your whore instead." he gives a boyish chuckle.

"As long as we're only whores for each other." you nod and return the contented sound.

"Only for you." he kisses you softly. "If you feel absolved, I believe I can give a look out and see what trouble we're in." he laughs and nods his head to the door.

"Forgiven," you say with a nod. "Let's face it shall we?" you ask with a tilted head.

He opens the door and holds out his hand to you, getting a good look at each other to make sure you don't seem too disheveled. You take a deep breath and leave the confessional booth open so the smell of sex isn't so obvious. He walks quietly behind you and you stand by the pulpit, looking around and considering how you'd thought about marriage before. Within walls like these, under all that Catholic guilt you'd never wanted marriage. It was ownership to you, a cage and a sentence of servitude. But now, finding yourself, your heritage and religion all crossing paths to point you to the man in front of you, you felt so entirely the opposite about it.

"Ya alright love?" he asks, taking both your hands. "You gettin' the spirit?" he chuckles, looking up at the stained glass windows.

"I feel... yes... yes I believe I feel Christ's love." you nod and look up and he let's out a laugh.

"Well 'at's a problem for a Jew there innit?" he snorts, shaking his head at you.

"We'll just have to see how I feel after fucking in another religious place won't we?" you say with a smile.

"Genevieve..." he scolds. "I can't rightly agree to goin' at it in such a way at Temple." he scoffs.

"Not even for our Yichud?" you ask with a sparkle of innocence in your eyes and his heart melts at the mention of it.

"Ah!" he says, taking your face into his hands. "There is my sweet little Chanah again at last." he grins and kisses you softly. "Of course we will for our Yichud, my love." he hums against your lips. "But I wouldn't refer to such a thing as fuckin'." he shakes his head and you feel a flutter in your stomach for the sentiment.

"Do you plan on making love to your darling wife Alfie?" you coo, your hands on his wrists that held your face.

"I do. You will be my most precious jewel, little Chanah." he lets the romantic sentiments fall out of his mouth and into yours as he kisses you softly. It was fitting how you both felt soft after such perverse things, it opened you both up, let you feel things and inevitably it lead to romantic notions. A breaking down of one wall to push on through to another. It reflected your dual natures and he found it comforting in an odd way; knowing he had both a devil and an angel.

"Then what of the wedding night?" you ask playfully.

"I'll be so tired I'm guessing you'll be on ya own on that one." he lets out a loud laugh that you can't help but join him in. You watching his face laugh, and at his own joke nonetheless, corners of his eyes crinkled, his laugh lines deep as you smile warmly at him. Even if it did turn out that way, you didn't even mind. What a hopeless romantic you'd turned out to be.

@fangirlfreakingout @jaegeeeeer @cosettewinchester @lookuptheskyisfalling-blog @brianaisasongbird @cry5t4l-w4rri0r @iliveonchocolateandnetflix @jess2464 @hardygal69 @thegarrisonpublichouse @a-flock-of-angry-pigeons @pootle @negansdirtygirl22 @musingsby-night @wtf-is-wrong-with-this @shine-dont-shadow @inkinterrupted @vale0413 @lafayettes-baguettes-1 @sxlomons @aphnxrising @emerald-bijou @elaenom @give-jack-a-lightsaber @anrm1 @ultrablackwidower @tinastarkandco @arrowswithwifi   @marvelgirl7 @they-are-not-just-stories   @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes

[flowerfan2]

Somewhere Only We Know - 2/4

Bruce/Bucky, M, A03

It’s a rare pair... give it a try! 

Chapter Two

They develop a bit of a routine over the next week.  Bucky is apparently in remarkably good shape for someone who hasn't moved in five years.  He refrains from pointing out that if he hadn't been able to retain muscle mass during previous cryo periods, he wouldn't have been much good to Hydra.  But every day he goes along with physical therapy anyway, then spends a few hours in the gym sparring with T'challa's people.  If nothing else, he's getting used to moving with only one arm.  It's challenging, but not as bad as he had imagined.  

By mid-afternoon he showers and changes, pulls his hair back into a bun, and waits for Bruce to stick his head around the door from the living area they share.  While  Bucky was in cryo T'challa had converted a whole section of the compound for the otherwise homeless Avengers.  There's a good sized room with couches and a table, with six bedrooms surrounding it in a half circle.  It's even got a little kitchen.  The room that Steve had used is almost empty, but there's a framed street map of Brooklyn on the wall, and a folder in a drawer with some sketches - of the Wakandan skyline, and of Bucky in the cryo chamber.  Bucky stops looking after he sees that one.

Most days Bucky goes go for a walk with Bruce before dinner.  Wakanda is beautiful, and Bruce has found all sorts of places he eagerly shares with Bucky, from corners of the noisy and modern city to peaceful clearings in the forest.

Bucky's been awake for a few weeks when he finally gets up the nerve to move beyond small talk and ask Bruce about something real.  They're sitting next to a shining pond, right where a waterfall runs into it, and the sound of the water striking the pond's surface is soothing, like rain falling on a roof.  

Bucky looks at Bruce, who is staring into the falling water, and taps his knee to get his attention.  "Bruce?  Can I ask you something?"

Bruce turns to him, raising an eyebrow.  "You mean, in addition to what you just asked?"

"Ha ha."  Bucky nudges him with his leg.  "You're a riot."

"That's what people say."  Bruce shrugs.  "Sorry.  Can't help it.  Go ahead, ask."

"Why are you here?"  Bucky asks.

Bruce doesn't seem surprised at the question.  "Do you mean cosmically, or...?"

Bucky laughs.  "Does Steve know you've got sass?  He likes people with sass."

Now Bruce's expression falters.  "Steve... well..."  He rubs the back of his neck.  "He's part of the reason, I guess."

 Bucky's stomach clenches.  "Did he ask you to - to babysit me?"

 "What?  No.  Definitely not.  It, um, it actually took some convincing for him to let me stay."

 "Why?"

 Bruce looks uncomfortable.  "He, um, wanted to make sure I was safe."

 "Oh.  Guess he's right.  I'm pretty much the worst, when it comes to pissing people off.  And if you get pissed off, I guess that's bad."  Danger to everyone, it might as well be Bucky's tag line.

 "I think it was the other way around, actually."

 Bucky shifts, moving to catch Bruce's gaze.  "What do you mean?"

 Bruce sighs.  "I had been hiding out for four years.  I didn't help with the whole accords mess.  I didn't help get Natasha and everyone out of the raft.  Steve was a little suspicious of me.  Wasn't sure of my motives.  He didn't want anyone that might hurt you getting too close."

 "He thought you'd hurt me?"

 "He's a little protective of you, you may have noticed?"  Bruce hazards a grin, which disappears as quickly as it came.  "Anyway, Steve came around.  We talked a lot.  And Steve saw how I was able to make a lot of progress with the other guy while I was away.  We're on better terms now.  No surprise visits."

 Bucky huffs and shakes his head.

 "What?  You don't believe me?"

 "No, um - until this conversation, right now, I had, um, forgotten."

 "Forgotten?"

 Bucky feels like an idiot, but it's true.  "About the - other guy."  Bruce looks sort of stunned, and Bucky rushes to explain.  "Not like brain washed forgot, just, you know... you're not like him at all."

 Bruce's expression has shifted from stunned to simply mildly dazed.  "I am him.  That's part of what I figured out."

 "Well then he's obviously not so bad, either."

 It might be the sunset, but Bucky thinks Bruce's cheeks go just a little pink.

 They're back at T'challa's compound, saying goodnight in the hallway outside Bucky's room, when Bucky realizes it.  "You never answered my question."

 Bruce frowns.  "Yeah.  Sorry."  He wraps his arms around his waist.  "Rain check?"

 Bucky doesn't like the troubled look on Bruce's face.  "Of course.  Hey -"

 Bruce turns back to him, still nervous.  

 "You don't need to tell me," Bucky says, searching for the right words.  "It's obviously... personal?  You don't need to tell me anything."

 "It's not that big a deal, it's just-"

 "Bruce.  You don't have to tell me."

 Bruce's whole body relaxes, his hands falling to his sides.  "Thanks."

 They say their good nights, again, and Bucky goes into his bedroom.  He may not be the poster boy for tact, but he understands privacy.  He's not going to push.  If Bruce has his own reasons for wanting to hang out in Wakandan wonderland with the the misfit toys of Cap's team, that's his right.  Bucky's just glad he gets to enjoy his company in the meantime.

 And before he can think about how sad he will be when Bruce leaves - because everyone leaves, eventually - he closes his eyes and counts backwards from a thousand in Swahili until he falls asleep.

 *****

 A few weeks later, Bucky comes back from the gym to find Sam and Natasha are there, sitting in the living area with Bruce.  Sam gets up from the couch and bounds right over to him, a warm smile splitting his handsome face.

 Bucky tenses as he gets close, nervous all of a sudden, and Sam slows to a stop.  "I'll give you a hug when you're not so sweaty," he says lightly, obviously seeing Bucky's discomfort but not wanting to draw attention to it.

 Natasha doesn't notice, though, or maybe she just doesn't care.  "Hey there, soldier," she says, giving his cheek a quick peck.  "Nice to see you up and about."

 They all settle back down, urging Bucky to hurry up and shower so that they can go get dinner.  Sam has a favorite place in the city he insists Bucky will love, although Natasha rolls her eyes at his exuberance.  "He just likes it because it has a jukebox," she drawls.  "The man would eat frozen dinners if he could listen to crappy hits from the 60's at the same time."

 Bucky sighs a breath of relief as he closes the bathroom door behind him.  Despite himself, he wonders how long they'll be staying.  He's gotten used to his quiet time alone with Bruce in the evenings.  Bruce has this air of calm about him that works its way into Bucky's skin just by being nearby.  And Bruce, for whatever reason, seems to like being around Bucky, too.  His eyes lose their hint of sadness when he sees Bucky.  Making him drop that serious demeanor and laugh... well, it feels pretty nice.

 He puts on some of his new clothes - a pair of slim fitting jeans and a dark blue button up.  The shirt doesn't look quite the way he had hoped it would, with the left sleeve rolled and pinned, so he tugs it off and dons a more familiar black t-shirt.  At least his ass looks good, he thinks, giving himself a once over in the mirror before going back out to join the group.  

 Bucky catches Bruce giving him a look as they head out - Bruce apparently thinks his ass looks good too.  Bruce is dressed up a bit as well, wearing a tweedy blazer over a blue shirt, with gray slacks.  Bucky smiles at him, straightening the collar of his blazer as they get into the car.  Bruce gives him a shy smile back.  It's almost enough to take Bucky's mind off the fact that he has to get through the rest of the night with Sam and Natasha.  

 It's not that they're bad people.  He knows they're not only more than decent, they've both risked their lives to help him - or help Steve, and as a result help him.  But they're still strangers.  Bucky's used to most people feeling like strangers, but that doesn't mean he likes it.  Somehow Bruce managed to slip right through and become a friend.  Bucky knows, logically, that this can happen with Sam and Nat, too.  He's just not all that thrilled about the process.

 The restaurant does indeed have a little jukebox at every table.  They slide into a booth, Sam and Natasha on one side and Bruce and Bucky on the other.  Bucky winds up on the inside, which makes him a little claustrophobic, but has the advantage of being next to the jukebox.  He messes with Sam, racing to program random songs that they are forced to listen to before they get to Sam's picks, and it cracks everyone up.

 After their food comes and Sam finally stops pouting, Natasha asks the question Bucky has been dreading all night.  "So, Bucky.  Any plans?"

 Natasha winces, and from the frown on Sam's face, Bucky's pretty sure it's because Sam kicked her under the table.

 "It's only been a little while, Nat," Sam says.  "Geez.  Give the guy a break."

 Bucky feels Bruce's hand land lightly on his thigh, a reassuring presence he hadn't known he would welcome as much as he does.  "No plans yet."

 "Gonna go join Steve on his mission to save the universe?"  Nat asks, undeterred.

 "Don't think I'm invited."

 That silences the group.  Not even the arrival of their oversized desserts can completely lighten the mood.

 Walking back to their car, Sam falls into step next to Bucky.  "Steve cares a lot about you."

 Bucky huffs out a laugh.  "I know, Sam."

 "He just..."  Sam pauses, struggling for words.  

 "I know, believe me, I do."  Bucky's been through this a million times.  "Steve's gotta go where the bullies are.  He needs to fight the good fight.  If things were getting cloudy here, if he wasn't sure which way was up, I'm not surprised he went looking for a less abstract big bad."

 "Even if it means leaving you?"

 Bucky looks at Sam, a little surprised.  "Despite what that Smithsonian exhibit said, we're not actually attached at the hip.  I'm not in mortal danger, he's not in mortal danger... we can probably stumble on without each other for a while."

 Bucky knows the next question Sam's going to ask before it comes out of his mouth.  "You mean... You and Steve aren't... together?"

 It's funny the way things have changed.  Back in the forties, it would have been shocking to confess that he and his best friend were banging - now everyone is more surprised that they're not.  "Nope.  Never were. Not like that."

 Bucky stops as they reach the car, and Natasha almost crashes into him from behind.  Bruce is next to her, looking shamefaced.

 "Eavesdrop much?"  Bucky asks.

 Bruce starts to apologize, but Bucky interrupts him.  "Nah, don't sweat it.  It's no secret."  He looks around the group.  "All this time, if you were curious, why didn't you guys just ask Steve?"

 Sam sighs.  "We did.  He told us you weren't together, but we just thought he was being shy, or respecting your privacy."

 "Or still closeted," Natasha adds.  "Even though we kept telling him it was okay."

 "And showed him every LGBTQ-friendly show on the planet," says Sam.  "Have you seen Queer as Folk?  It's a little outdated, but it's awesome."

 "How about we continue this conversation back home?"  Bruce asks, shepherding them into the car.

 Sam keeps talking about Queer as Folk on the way back, and some musical called Hedwig that he starts playing the music from, but Bucky tunes him out.  He's watching Bruce, who is twisting his hands together, staring unhappily at his lap.

 He leans over and bumps his shoulder against Bruce.  "Hey.  You okay?"

 Bruce nods.  "Yeah."

 Bucky wasn't born yesterday, he thinks, then laughs internally at his own joke.  "Bruce?  Don't stress.  I'm not upset."

 "That wasn't right, they shouldn't have..."

 "What?  Asked about me and Steve?  I'm kind of surprised you haven't asked."

 Bruce's head snaps up and he stares at Bucky, eyes wide in the dim light of the back seat.  "Wh-why would you say that?"

 But before Bucky can answer - and he has no idea what he would have said, so it's just as well - Natasha is twisting around in her seat talking about plans for the next day, and the moment, whatever it was, is gone.

[our-umair-mehry-stuff]

The United States of Guns By Jason Kottke

Like many of you, I read the news of a single person killing at least 10 people in Santa Fe, Texas today. While this is an outrageous and horrifying event, it isn’t surprising or shocking in any way in a country where more than 33,000 people die from gun violence each year.

America is a stuck in a Groundhog Day loop of gun violence. We’ll keep waking up, stuck in the same reality of oppression, carnage, and ruined lives until we can figure out how to effect meaningful change. I’ve collected some articles here about America’s dysfunctional relationship with guns, most of which I’ve shared before. Change is possible — there are good reasons to control the ownership of guns and control has a high likelihood of success — but how will our country find the political will to make it happen?

An armed society is not a free society:

Arendt offers two points that are salient to our thinking about guns: for one, they insert a hierarchy of some kind, but fundamental nonetheless, and thereby undermine equality. But furthermore, guns pose a monumental challenge to freedom, and particular, the liberty that is the hallmark of any democracy worthy of the name — that is, freedom of speech. Guns do communicate, after all, but in a way that is contrary to free speech aspirations: for, guns chasten speech.

This becomes clear if only you pry a little more deeply into the N.R.A.’s logic behind an armed society. An armed society is polite, by their thinking, precisely because guns would compel everyone to tamp down eccentric behavior, and refrain from actions that might seem threatening. The suggestion is that guns liberally interspersed throughout society would cause us all to walk gingerly — not make any sudden, unexpected moves — and watch what we say, how we act, whom we might offend.

We’re sacrificing America’s children to “our great god Gun”:

Read again those lines, with recent images seared into our brains — “besmeared with blood” and “parents’ tears.” They give the real meaning of what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School Friday morning. That horror cannot be blamed just on one unhinged person. It was the sacrifice we as a culture made, and continually make, to our demonic god. We guarantee that crazed man after crazed man will have a flood of killing power readily supplied him. We have to make that offering, out of devotion to our Moloch, our god. The gun is our Moloch. We sacrifice children to him daily — sometimes, as at Sandy Hook, by directly throwing them into the fire-hose of bullets from our protected private killing machines, sometimes by blighting our children’s lives by the death of a parent, a schoolmate, a teacher, a protector. Sometimes this is done by mass killings (eight this year), sometimes by private offerings to the god (thousands this year).

The gun is not a mere tool, a bit of technology, a political issue, a point of debate. It is an object of reverence. Devotion to it precludes interruption with the sacrifices it entails. Like most gods, it does what it will, and cannot be questioned. Its acolytes think it is capable only of good things. It guarantees life and safety and freedom. It even guarantees law. Law grows from it. Then how can law question it?

Roger Ebert on the media’s coverage of mass shootings:

Let me tell you a story. The day after Columbine, I was interviewed for the Tom Brokaw news program. The reporter had been assigned a theory and was seeking sound bites to support it. “Wouldn’t you say,” she asked, “that killings like this are influenced by violent movies?” No, I said, I wouldn’t say that. “But what about ‘Basketball Diaries’?” she asked. “Doesn’t that have a scene of a boy walking into a school with a machine gun?” The obscure 1995 Leonardo Di Caprio movie did indeed have a brief fantasy scene of that nature, I said, but the movie failed at the box office (it grossed only $2.5 million), and it’s unlikely the Columbine killers saw it.

The reporter looked disappointed, so I offered her my theory. “Events like this,” I said, “if they are influenced by anything, are influenced by news programs like your own. When an unbalanced kid walks into a school and starts shooting, it becomes a major media event. Cable news drops ordinary programming and goes around the clock with it. The story is assigned a logo and a theme song; these two kids were packaged as the Trench Coat Mafia. The message is clear to other disturbed kids around the country: If I shoot up my school, I can be famous. The TV will talk about nothing else but me. Experts will try to figure out what I was thinking. The kids and teachers at school will see they shouldn’t have messed with me. I’ll go out in a blaze of glory.”

In short, I said, events like Columbine are influenced far less by violent movies than by CNN, the NBC Nightly News and all the other news media, who glorify the killers in the guise of “explaining” them. I commended the policy at the Sun-Times, where our editor said the paper would no longer feature school killings on Page 1. The reporter thanked me and turned off the camera. Of course the interview was never used. They found plenty of talking heads to condemn violent movies, and everybody was happy.

Jill Lepore on the United States of Guns:

There are nearly three hundred million privately owned firearms in the United States: a hundred and six million handguns, a hundred and five million rifles, and eighty-three million shotguns. That works out to about one gun for every American. The gun that T. J. Lane brought to Chardon High School belonged to his uncle, who had bought it in 2010, at a gun shop. Both of Lane’s parents had been arrested on charges of domestic violence over the years. Lane found the gun in his grandfather’s barn.

The United States is the country with the highest rate of civilian gun ownership in the world. (The second highest is Yemen, where the rate is nevertheless only half that of the U.S.) No civilian population is more powerfully armed. Most Americans do not, however, own guns, because three-quarters of people with guns own two or more. According to the General Social Survey, conducted by the National Policy Opinion Center at the University of Chicago, the prevalence of gun ownership has declined steadily in the past few decades. In 1973, there were guns in roughly one in two households in the United States; in 2010, one in three. In 1980, nearly one in three Americans owned a gun; in 2010, that figure had dropped to one in five.

A Land Without Guns: How Japan Has Virtually Eliminated Shooting Deaths:

The only guns that Japanese citizens can legally buy and use are shotguns and air rifles, and it’s not easy to do. The process is detailed in David Kopel’s landmark study on Japanese gun control, published in the 1993 Asia Pacific Law Review, still cited as current. (Kopel, no left-wing loony, is a member of the National Rifle Association and once wrote in National Review that looser gun control laws could have stopped Adolf Hitler.)

To get a gun in Japan, first, you have to attend an all-day class and pass a written test, which are held only once per month. You also must take and pass a shooting range class. Then, head over to a hospital for a mental test and drug test (Japan is unusual in that potential gun owners must affirmatively prove their mental fitness), which you’ll file with the police. Finally, pass a rigorous background check for any criminal record or association with criminal or extremist groups, and you will be the proud new owner of your shotgun or air rifle. Just don’t forget to provide police with documentation on the specific location of the gun in your home, as well as the ammo, both of which must be locked and stored separately. And remember to have the police inspect the gun once per year and to re-take the class and exam every three years.

Australia’s gun laws stopped mass shootings and reduced homicides, study finds:

From 1979 to 1996, the average annual rate of total non-firearm suicide and homicide deaths was rising at 2.1% per year. Since then, the average annual rate of total non-firearm suicide and homicide deaths has been declining by 1.4%, with the researchers concluding there was no evidence of murderers moving to other methods, and that the same was true for suicide.

The average decline in total firearm deaths accelerated significantly, from a 3% decline annually before the reforms to a 5% decline afterwards, the study found.

In the 18 years to 1996, Australia experienced 13 fatal mass shootings in which 104 victims were killed and at least another 52 were wounded. There have been no fatal mass shootings since that time, with the study defining a mass shooting as having at least five victims.

From The Onion, ‘No Way To Prevent This,’ Says Only Nation Where This Regularly Happens:

At press time, residents of the only economically advanced nation in the world where roughly two mass shootings have occurred every month for the past eight years were referring to themselves and their situation as “helpless.”

But America is not Australia or Japan. Dan Hodges said on Twitter a few years ago:

In retrospect Sandy Hook marked the end of the US gun control debate. Once America decided killing children was bearable, it was over.

This can’t be the last word on guns in America. We have to do better than this for our children and everyone else whose lives are torn apart by guns. But right now, we are failing them miserably, and Hodges’ words ring with the awful truth that all those lives and our diminished freedom & equality are somehow worth it to the United States as a society.

Tags: guns   USA May 19, 2018 at 02:31AM via kottke.org https://ift.tt/2IT7cMO