#when I say 'has to' about restraint I mean on account of Sam being so grabbable and so close all the time and Bucky needing to focus

[samuelwilsonbarnes]

my love for bucky's obsession/devotion over sam is just like. I really think it's beautiful for bucky to have a partner he gets/has to practice his rather newfound ability for restraint with that also fully trusts him and even encourages him to let go and be weird and intense and kind of fucked up with how deep his love and desire goes in equal measure. Who knows exactly what he is and wants him exactly as he comes. I think it makes him feel so alive which only makes his love deeper

i think its equally beautiful for sam to have someone capable of both grounding him and matching his freak, someone insatiable, but especially someone who sees sam, who's devoted to seeing sam and is hungry for him even when he's not "showing" himself. someone devoted to offering him the world instead of more weight to carry, I think it makes him feel so at peace which only makes his love deeper

something something freedom in ultimate fidelity. love a healthy wholesome relationship but I swear they become a next tier duo when they're just Not Normal about each other <3

[p-redux]

Gloating about being an insider during a time of sadness is DISGUSTING

I'm not gloating, I'm posting INFO and FACTS like I always do...and showing restraint and discretion in not posting it sooner, and not posting the details, which I haven’t and won’t.

But you know what IS disgusting? Here’s a LONG list, and by no means, a comprehensive one, of what Extreme Shippers, Former Extreme Shippers, and Assorted Haters have done that is VERY DISGUSTING. I’ll write it stream of consciousness-like and not in order. Put your feet up and grab a tall drink. Here we go...

Click on Keep Reading

Extreme Shippers found Cait’s condo when she used to live in Los Angeles and sat outside for hours waiting to see if they saw her with Sam. ES blackmailed and coerced a minor, a 14 year old girl who was a super fan of Abbie’s sister, Charlotte Salt, into giving them info regarding Abbie and Sam. The girl was following Abbie’s locked Instagram account and could see the Sam related stuff Abbie was posting. ES won her trust, she gave them info about Abbie and Sam, they then told her if she didn’t screencap and give them the Sam related pics on Abbie’s IG account, they would tell Abbie and Charlotte that she had been giving them info. Sick doesn’t begin to describe it. ES tried to dox and did dox anyone and everyone who got in the way of their SamCait ship. Doxed, as in PUBLICLY posted, the names, addresses, pictures of their houses, professions, husbands’ and children’s names, employer names of ANYONE and EVERYONE who posted something to contradict the ship. They even posted pictures of their children. Again, messing with minors is a big no no, and usually a crime. ES created fake Ashley Madison accounts (that’s the website for married people who want to meet people to cheat on their spouses with) and pretended to be non-shippers’ husbands to try to make it seem like the husband was cheating. It got so bad, that in some cases, non-shippers had to get restraining orders, cease and desist orders, get the police, lawyers, and in TWO cases, the F B I involved. Yes, the F B I has come a knocking on a couple of Extreme Shipper’s doors because of their ILLEGAL actions. ES lured some of Sam’s girlfriends into believing they had their best interest at heart, gained their trust, and they PUBLICLY posted their PRIVATE messages. Luckily, in the case of one Sam’s ex, Abbie Salt, she later did confirm she and Sam dated, which totally negated everything that shipper had said Abbie told her.  ES directly BULLIED and HARASSED fans, Outlander cast, crew, journalists, reporters, family and friends of Sam and Cait. ES contacted people’s employers to try to get them fired...literally messed with people’s livelihoods. They tried to get the Outlander drivers fired because they started posting stuff against shippers AFTER shippers turned on them. ES waited outside Sam and Cait’s residences in whatever location they were in to try to “catch them together.” Taking pics at someone’s private residence is very different than getting pics or video in PUBLIC places. For years, ES have manipulated pictures, gifs, video to sell the SamCait LIE to their gullible shipper friends. They’ve made money off selling these lies. ES have ostracized and banished any shipper friends who acknowledged the ship wasn’t real. They sent their best friend to Tony’s bar in London to try to prove he and Cait weren’t together, and when she unwittingly found out they were, they then bullied her and kicked her out of shipperville. ES created multiple hate sock accounts for the SOLE purpose of CYBERBULLYING Sam’s girlfriends and dates. Any time Sam dates a woman, ES follow the same pattern. They contact the women’s employers, parents, siblings, other family members, friends, ex-boyfriends trying to malign the women. Some examples: They pretended to have gone to high school with Mackenzie Mauzy and spread lies that she had a bad reputation in high school. They spread lies that Gia was a paid escort. ES contacted social media outlets to spread LIES about Sam and Cait and their significant others. Contacted anyone associated with Cait and Tony’s wedding trying to intimidate them into saying there was no wedding. They posted the picture of a waiter at one of the Outlander premieres and tried to pass him off as Tony to prove Tony didn’t go with Cait. ES have continuously posted pics of Cait with her naturally poochy belly trying to prove that she’s been pregnant with Sam’s children for the last 7 years. ES publicly questioned her if she was pregnant. Sam haters and disgruntled ex-shippers have spread rumors that Sam is gay. Nothing wrong with being gay, but what is wrong is spreading LIES. ES have badmouthed Cait’s HUSBAND, Tony McGill saying he was: her assistant, gay, her gay assistant, a loser, broke, boring, ugly, her purse holder, etc. And trust me, what I’ve posted above is the SHORT list.

And that’s not even mentioning what they’ve done to ME. Ever since I committed the unforgivable sin of posting source info CONFIRMING Sam and Cait were never a couple, and Cait was dating Tony, way back in 2014, this is what SamCait Extreme Shippers have done to me. Tagged me endlessly when I had my Twitter account telling me things like “Die, b*tch,” “Die, c*nt,” “You should be gang rap*d,” “Drop a house on her,” “You’re worse than AIDS,” and those are the “nice” comments. They literally BULLIED me every day, all day for YEARS. They also created hate accounts on Twitter and Instagram to mock me, parody me, and post lies about me. They were convinced they’d found my real identity (based on circumstantial evidence, which I’ve countered and can counter with the actual truth), and proceeded to post THAT woman’s FULL NAME, city where she lived, profession, reported her to her licensing board, and created a fake Twitter account pretending to be her. She got a lawyer and was able to get everything taken down, but they basically tried to ruin her life. They’ve spread LIES about me being the one harassing THEM and managed to convince over 60 dopes with disposable incomes to give them money for a GoFundMe campaign where they hired a Private Investigator to try to find me. They started a witchhunt letter writing campaign, hashtagged it on Twitter, #takebackourfandom, or some such bullsh*t, tagged everyone in Outlander cast and crew “telling” on me and even sent letters and e-mails to Starz and Sony executives trying to...I don’t know what. Hahahaha. It’s so ridiculous, my brain is scrambling as I write this. They told their followers not to believe anything I say and that I’m evil personified. ALL of that and more because they couldn’t face the FACT that their SamCait ship NEVER EXISTED and I was the one that confirmed it. When I think about it, I can’t believe I lived through all that. But I stayed because I knew I had the TRUTH on my side and that eventually it would all come out, which of course it did. And because I’m a bad bitch who doesn’t scare easily.  EVERYTHING I’m referring to here is well DOCUMENTED with screencap proof. Or just ask anyone who’s been in the fandom long enough, they’ll attest that what I’m saying did actually happen, and that Extreme Shippers, Former Shippers, and Haters did do all of that.

So, Anon, when you come at me with “disgusting” things in this fandom, please refer to the above before you start pointing fingers at me. 

PS. “Anon,” I’ve got your Los Angeles/Anaheim Samsung Galaxy S10e IP address tagged. So, send me another hate Ask and you’ll get blocked. And don’t bother using a VPN...once the tag is on, it follows the user no matter what IP they use. Now you know. 

[theverybestpencilsoftuscaloosa]

Hey, cool, narrative writing! 

Or, to be more explicative, I’m finally posting something I wrote. It’s a piece of Discworld fanfiction, based off of a prompt by the tremendous and inimitable @obsle! Starring Commander Vimes and Captain Angua, it’s a lovely little piece (if I may say so) about the succession of leadership in the Watch. If you read it already in the Exchange, do consider giving it a second blush -- now it has footnotes!

It was a fine Ankh-Morpork summer day. The flies buzzed, the river limped, and the sun sat in the sky like a sticky butterscotch disc freshly dropped from a child’s mouth. From time to time, a breeze dared to disturb the oppressive heat before being clubbed down again. It was the sort of day a copper treasured and despised: hot enough to keep any would-be troublemakers skulking indoors, leaving the city’s lawful protectors to dutifully and honourably swelter in their breastplates where they stood.

Captain Angua was not currently sweltering, although it was a near thing. She was stood in the corner of Commander Vimes’ office, staring carefully at the opposite wall while she listened to Inspector A.E. Pessimal’s weekly report. It was... a thing of beauty, really, if only in the eye of a very particular beholder.*

*Specifically, one who was keenly aware of the intricacies of all special kinds of arithmetic used to hide money from the authorities, and who also was keen on the authorities.

“...whereupon, Mister Vimes, I pulled out my copy of Tax Regulatory Document Three Cee Aye, and asked him if he could point out the differences from his copy! Which, of course, he could, on account of having moved a decimal two places over!! He thereupon attempted to fox me, Mister Vimes, by pulling out a crossbow, whereupon I…” 

It was remarkable. The man was full of coppering; in fact he was overfull. You simply had to wonder where it all fit: the sheer civic pride and dogged determination of at least 0.6 Carrots, compressed down into a man only a few inches taller and a few feet thinner than a dwarf. His reputation preceded him all through the halls of finance unsanctioned by the law, and more pressingly, through the ones that were for now but very well might not be if A.E. Pessimal were to set one size-six-boot-clad foot inside. His persistence had even earned him a nickname: the Terrier’s terrier. Or, if people were feeling particularly brave, two drinks down in the neat grey bars frequented by the neat grey men of the Accountant’s Guild: the second bitch in the Watch.

Solidarity, Angua thought, came sometimes from the strangest places.

“...Thereupon which I wrote him a receipt for his crossbow, fragments A through Q, and his teeth, items A through E, and Constable Detritus escorted him to the Cable Street watch house, sir!” Inspector Pessimal came to a neat stop, nearly vibrating with enthusiasm, like a knife thrown hard at a wall.

His Grace, The Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes sat behind his desk, solid composure ever so slightly cracked like a wall with a knife thrown hard at it. For a brief moment his mouth opened, soundless, and then just as A.E. leaned forward to begin again Vimes clapped a hand down on the desk sharply.

“Right! Well. Thank you for the report, Special Inspector. Very good stuff, er -- this was… Boggis’ man? Mr. Lipwig’s?”

“No, sir. Mr. Lipwig is always very honest with his accounts.” Vimes’ lip twitched at that, and Captain Angua recalled one of his little maxims, that some men were too honest to trust -- but A.E. Pessimal shook his head. “He was employed indirectly by Lord Rust, Mister Vimes.”

A glint came to the commander’s eye. “Ah. Ah, yes. One of Ronnie’s? Well, then. Leave me the written report, Special Inspector, there’s a good chap…” 

Special Inspector Pessimal slid the report across the desk (with some difficulty, as it was about four inches high) and then stood, firing off a salute so smart it had creases. Commander Vimes nodded in response, and A.E. turned on his heel and strode out of the office.

Vimes left it about half a minute for the special inspector’s footsteps to recede down the stairs before slumping into his chair with a deep sigh. Angua held her gaze steady on the opposite wall, face intentionally left blank. There was another half-minute or so of silence, and then Vimes leaned forward, resting his elbows on the scarred and pitted desk.

“Eager little fellow, isn’t he?” 

Angua coughed. “You hired him for a reason, right, sir?”

“Hm.” Vimes grinned. “Damn right, Captain.” He sat up, and slapped the stack of papers. “One of Lord Rust’s boys, eh? The little bastards have been running rings around us. And then in walks Mister Pessimal -” He snorted. “Vetinari told me his clerks had nothing on the man. Vetinari! And his clerks keep their books so tight you couldn’t slip a wasp’s pri-- whisker inside! Our Mister Pessimal’s a valuable one, isn’t he?” 

“If you say so, Commander.”

Vimes’ gaze fell on Angua. “Something wrong, Captain?”

“Not at all, Commander.” Angua’s eyes held steady, examining the wall behind Vimes as if it were being held suspect for murder. “Just wondering why you called me in to talk.”

And, in her head: I didn’t slip the garlic into Um’s* locker, if that’s what this is about. I’m not a sergeant anymore, and even when I was I didn’t go in for that sort of thing. Not to mention Sally would have some serious words with me if I did, and I’m not stupid, commander; I’m not looking for a fight with a vampire, who also happens to be a close friend! 

*Umberto Carlislo del Sylvanius Tenebrum Vittorio di Corlusca Maggitorio Arluxa von Conveyans, a recent Watch recruit and vampire. Being barely of-age for a vampire (34), he hadn’t developed a full page of names yet, but he had still been ruthlessly nicknamed mere moments after taking the oath. 

A smaller, quieter, and… hairier voice added: Even though I would win.

“Am I getting old, Angua?” Vimes asked thoughtfully.

Angua’s calm cracked slightly, but decisively. An eyebrow snapped up. Vimes thoughtfully declined to notice.

“...Old, sir?” 

Vimes’ eyes stayed fixed on the door as he stepped around his desk, and Angua’s nose twitched. It was an embarrassing habit, but, well, the instincts never really left you. In this case, she hardly needed it. She��d known Commander Vimes for years now. It was quite easy to see when he was embarrassed.

“If I may, Mister Vimes… why are you asking me?” Angua paused. “I mean, I haven’t -- there are some who’ve been here longer --”

“Like who?” Vimes asked. “Fred? Nobby? Carrot?” 

Angua considered the list. Fred Colon had, a short few months ago, received the penultimate promotion, as it were: from deskbody to homebody. He still came round the station almost every day -- but less often now than when he’d first retired; in fact, he’d slept at his old desk the first few nights, and right now she couldn’t recall seeing him in a day and a half. After decades of marriage he and Mrs. Colon were getting to know one another, which by all accounts was proceeding better than expected. But… no, probably not Fred. If anything, he’d have been asking Mister Vimes for tips on how to acquaint oneself with civilian life. At least Sybil made sure Vimes took a day off every month or two.

And Nobby… well, the thing about Nobby was… well, he… he just…

No. Not Nobby.

And that left…

“You could talk to Carrot, Mister Vimes,” Angua suggested.

Vimes shook his head slowly. “No. Not him. Captain Carrot’s a good man- er, dwarf- er, copper. But you know what he’d say, don’t you?”

Angua considered this. Bit by bit, she came to the realization that she did. Vimes could ask Carrot what he thought, and he’d get an answer -- well-considered, gently phrased, encouraging and pleasant. A classic Carrot. It would be just what he wanted to hear. To a man like Sam Vimes, that was always the last thing he wanted to hear.

“So… you’d like my honest opinion, sir?”

“Well, I don’t want you lying to your commander, Captain.”

Angua considered it. She gave refusal a moment’s thought, but… but this was Sam Vimes. The same Sam Vimes who hated undead, everyone knew, but had chanced on her as the first in the Watch. The Sam Vimes who had followed her to Klatch with Carrot (although technically all three of them had simply been following the same suspect at wildly varying distances). The same Sam Vimes who had faced down a werewolf -- her brother -- and made it his, er… 

Well. It was Sam Vimes.

Angua looked at her commanding officer, Sam Vimes, and for a moment peered past the armor, the helmet, the face like granite - like thunder - like a really disgruntled face. She narrowed her eyes and looked clear through to the greying hair which had, in point of fact, largely greyed almost to white, and to the muscles which weren’t… smaller, no, but a good deal wirier, and to the granite face, which seemed, if you looked at it just right, like there might be the inklings of a crack…

And, oh, hell, nothing for it. Angua closed her eyes and sniffed.

Almost immediately, her muscles tensed to spring.

She restrained them, hardly registering more than a twitch. But… damn! It had been months since she’d even had a thought like that. It was embarrassing. Honestly, it was worse than that, because this was Sam, but the wolf didn’t care; the wolf didn’t think much of a reasonable explanation for why its behavior was unreasonable, or even think much at all. The wolf just smelled (Angua mentally cursed herself for even thinking it) weakness.

With only a mild effort, Angua opened her eyes and smiled with a mostly appropriate amount of tooth. Vimes was leaning against his desk. He met her gaze evenly, and Angua suddenly was doubly glad for her restraint. Vimes wouldn’t raise a hand to one of his men, everyone knew. There was a respect that ran two ways, and that was the foundation of the Watch. 

It was only that the wolf hardly had any respect at all, and Angua had personally seen what remained of the last werewolf who jumped Sam Vimes.

Vimes’ eyes softened, and he stepped forward. “There, er…” He trailed off, and Angua saw him searching for what passed between coppers as tact. “There aren’t many old wolves, are there?”

Angua shrugged. “Wolves? Yes. They take care of their own. For the most part, when the leader starts to… slow down, one of the younger ones will step up and face him. It’s a sort of test, you see. If the old one wins, the challenger isn’t ready. If he loses, the young one becomes the leader. Werewolves are different.” 

“How so?”

“Well, sir, I suppose in a way you could say the leader becomes the young one.”

“Gods!”

“Sorry, sir.” Angua inclined her head deferentially. “No one said werewolves were nice.”

“No,” Vimes agreed. “But no one said coppers were either.”

“Oh?” said Angua. You eat each other when you start getting up in years? She didn’t say.

“Nothing like what you said, only… Well. Used to be you didn’t retire. Maybe you run out your luck on patrol. If you don’t… you get a little older, you slow down, and one day the lads come round with a gold watch and say good job sir, you made it!” Vimes’ brow knitted itself closer. “And then the next day… the next day you come in, just to keep an eye on things, and the day after that, and the day after that too, and then one day you don’t come in at all, and if you’re lucky one of the lads notices and they have you in the ground before too long.

Vimes paused. Then his eyes focused on Angua. He shook his head, as if to dislodge the dark and sticky waters of memory, and cleared his throat. “‘Course, it’s not like that nowadays. I mean, look at Fred. If he can retire, anyone can, right?”

Angua nodded. “Makes sense to me, sir.”

After a moment, when it became clear Vimes was offering no response, she stepped forward. “Something else on your mind, Mister Vimes?”

He sighed. He stepped around his desk again to the window, leaning on the windowsill to look out over the yard. “Yes. I suppose so. It’s, well… Fred, of course, was irreplaceable, but there are other sergeants. Me, though… Someone’s going to have to step up, and, well, I’ve been thinking, and I suppose it’s about time I told my successor they’re succeeding, isn’t it? I’ve just been looking for the right way.”

And internally Angua thought, I see. He’s going to ask me to tell him, isn’t he? Well, I think I can deal with that… I’ll have to get him away from the watch house, but if I ask him to take the night off for dinner he’ll probably say yes. I wonder if Cheery would…

Vimes coughed. “So,” he asked, “how about it?”

Angua blinked, train of thought suddenly interrupted. “How about what, sir?”

A moment passed. They stared cautiously at each other. Vimes broke first.

“Oh, hell,” he said. “About the job. Will you accept?”

Angua stared at him.

“What?”

Vimes cleared his throat. “Ah… I thought I made it obvious.” He paused. Angua was still staring. “Er… is something the matter, Angua?”

Still staring, Angua shook her head. At last, pulling her jaw back up, she asked “Why?”

Vimes’ head tilted in surprise. “Why? You’re a damn good captain, that’s why. Isn’t that enough?”

“But… but…” Angua searched for the right way to phrase the protest and failed. “But I’m not Carrot, sir!” 

“Ah.” Understanding dawned on Vimes’ face. “That’s it, is it? You assumed he’d be the one?”

“Well… I think everyone did, commander!” Angua gestured helplessly. “I mean, no one in the city’s a more enthusiastic copper than him. He knows every law by heart! He asks people if they’re up to anything they shouldn’t be and they tell him! I mean, for gods’ sakes, he’s… he’s…”

The words died on her lips under Vimes’ gaze.

“Go on,” he said. “I know. He’s the king. Right?”

Angua made another vague gesture. “Well. He could be, sir. If he wanted to.” And then, feeling a sudden need to defend him, “Not that he does.”

Vimes sighed. “Angua, can you think of any possible reason I would want the one man everyone agrees is the rightful king in charge of the City Watch?” 

“Well… I suppose you might--”

“There isn’t one,” Vimes said firmly. “Carrot is a good captain and a good watchman. People like him. They want to talk to him, even though he’s a copper. They trust him. Even the nobs think he’s all right. And what do people say about me when I’m not around?”

Angua again weighed honesty and kindness.

“Well, sir… they do occasionally say something to the effect of ‘That Vimes, what a complete and utter bastard.’”

“And you know what they say about you?”

Angua pursed her lips.

“Well.” Sam Vimes sighed. “For what it’s worth, Captain…”

“Yes?”

“I think you’re just as much of a bastard as I am.”

“Sir!”

“What?” Vimes raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a bad thing to know, Angua. It’s not a bad thing to be, coming to that. You work a bit different from other people, yes? Nothing wrong with that.” He leaned forward, staring at her intently. “Let me tell you, Captain. The world needs its Carrots, right? That’s what you’re thinking. But it doesn’t only need Carrots. Honest men, good men… smart men and good coppers, yes, but sometimes you need a right bastard. 

“It’s like… Like… Like, say someone walks in and reports a stolen cow, right? What do you do first? Look for hoof marks? Start interviewing known cow thieves? Work your way through every farm animal in the city?”

Angua thought about it for a moment.

“Well, Mister Vimes, I think what I’d do is walk down the complainant’s street and see whose house smelled of steak.”

Vimes smiled. “And that’s a commander talking-- Oh, damn.” Vimes jerked back from the window, ducking against the wall.

“Sir?”

“It’s Rust! Damn fool! He hasn’t even hired Slant yet! He can’t have! What the hell’s he doing here?”

“Probably asking about items A through E, Mister Vimes.”

“Not now,” moaned Vimes. “I haven’t even read the damn report yet! Why the hell’s he coming in all half-cocked?”

“Tactically speaking, Mister Vimes? Coming from a position of mutual ill preparation, ignorance always has the advantage.”

That earned a smirk, even as Vimes hazarded a peek out the window into the yard. “Oh, gods, he’s inside…” A moment later, the beginning of a ruckus from below proved him right. Vimes froze.

Then, slowly, he turned to Angua. There was a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Captain,” he said evenly, portioning the syllables out in an almost Vetinarian drawl, “how do you feel about a little test?”

Moments later, Lord Rust burst into the room, accompanied by two burly suited thugs and a badly bruised accountant.

“Vimes!” he hollered. It took until the sound echoed back from the stairwell beyond the open door for him to realize he was incorrect.

“Lord Rust,” Angua said, leaning forward in the commander’s chair. “Can I help you?”

The man’s eyes narrowed, searching his memory for Angua’s identity. He must have come up empty, because there is simply no other way to explain the utterly stupid thing he was about fifteen seconds away from saying.

“Yes,” Lord Rust said in what he probably thought was a snarl, “you can. Stop sitting there and go fetch your commander.”

Angua shrugged. “Can’t help you there, sir.”

Lord Rust stepped forward. The stress of the day was written in his face. “Did you hear me?” He asked in a slightly trembling voice.”

“I think so, sir. Can’t help you. Sorry.” 

One refusal was bad enough. Two was too much. Something, some small important tenet of good breeding and nobility, snapped behind Lord Rust’s eyes.

“Listen to me! Listen to me right now! Get out of that chair and go get your master or else you won’t work another day in this city, you bitch!” 

The key to a really good snarl is not the set of your jaw, or the way you hold your throat, or the positioning of your lips. It isn’t in the vocal quality or in the breathing. It is definitely not (as Lord Rust seemed to think) about communicating just how long the stick up your bottom is. A really good snarl is genetic.

Angua snarled, and the four men standing before her went white.

“Now then,” she said, once they stopped trembling too hard to hear, “let’s try this again, shouldn’t we? You said you wanted to talk to Mister Vimes, right? Now, would you talk to the commander like that, Lord Rust? Would you?”

Lord Rust’s jaw snapped shut. “N-n-- well, no--”

“Then why did you, you little rat?”

Now Rust froze. The strain showed on his face as mental gears clashed with information that simply did not fit. At last in a halting voice he managed “No… have to speak with Vimes. He’s… he’s the commander.” And, gaining steam: “And I will tell him about that little insult, you --”

“Insult?”

Rust turned slowly. Sam Vimes was standing in the door… unarmored.

“Sorry, Angua. Was just on my way out, realized I almost forgot this.” All eyes followed Vimes as his hand dipped to his belt and removed the truncheon of office. They stayed on the truncheon as he hefted it and tossed it lightly to Angua, who caught it deftly out of the air in one hand. Lord Rust and his accomplices watched as she held it thoughtfully, then placed it on the official stand.

Then she smiled wide.

The door shut with a soft and definite click.

As one, the four men turned to look. Sam Vimes was gone.

Angua was not.

“Now, gentlemen…” She leaned forward. “Shall we talk?”

Down in the kitchen, Sam Vimes fixed himself a cup of tea. He drank it down, nodding genially to the officers passing through, and fixed himself another. Sitting in just the right corner, he could faintly hear voices from upstairs. It was going alright, he thought. It probably would be fine, so long as neither of those hulking suited muscles got stupid enough to put a hand on Angua…

Just as he thought it, he heard a muffled crash.

Well. That was all right, then. The other one would at least know better now…

Crash.

Oh, well. Disappointments are everywhere.

As he sipped his third cup, Vimes listened to Rust vacating the building, complaining reedily all the while, and to the two enforcers being dragged downstairs to the cells for some first aid, and to the twitchy accountant being gently but firmly apprehended by a few of the constables who had read Inspector Pessimal’s report, who were very curious about some things and wondered if he could just come this way, just a few questions…

The paper would be coming soon, Vimes knew. Probably a photographer as well. Rust would already be complaining, and by the time he got home the gossip would have raced around to Sybil, who would have questions of her own,* and he knew Vetinari would have something to say as well. It was probably about time he put his armor back on, picked the truncheon back up, and got to smoothing things over…

*If only as to how fast Lord Rust had run out, and if he still waddled when he was really frightened.

And then from the main office he heard Angua speaking loudly, clearly, and authoritatively: “...threatened him? I’m very sorry to hear that, Miss Cripslock. No, I’m not sure why. Wolf? No, Miss Cripslock, we don’t keep wolves in the watch houses. No, none of them. I believe there’s a regulation against it. No, no thank you. No photographs, please. Um is very particular about his hair, aren’t you, Um? And Sally considers it very undignified, having to be swept up… Yes, thank you for understanding…”

Or maybe, Vimes thought, he’d go for a walk.

[ikenbar]

Mr. Love: Ike’s Choice Ch2 Pt 1

Warnings: Guns being shot (but no death I assure you), threats, Slight cursing? but nothing too bad... unless you really hate the word ‘hell’, sassy Ike and Sam, and cliffhangers!

(Chapter One parts one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and chapter two’s prologue here :))

((Please read the author’s note on part one if you’re new here :D))

As a slight heads up: Ike’s opinions don’t reflect my own. That being said, enjoy! :D

Chapter two:

Part one:

“Fired?!” Dylan shouted loudly, “Y-you’re firing me?!”

“Yes.” I dictated, keeping my composure as I played the bad guy again.

“Why?!”

“You know why. Your performance is lacking as an accountant. Though small, you have made far too many mistakes in your paperwork. It’s only a matter of time until those small mistakes become big ones, and I’m not going to risk my company going under in order for you to get a fiftieth chance. Bart agrees. We’re done here.” I motioned outside the large windows beside the door to my office. The security guard standing outside nodded and opened the door.

“I’ve worked here for two years!!” Dylan protested, standing to avoid the hands of the officer, “You can’t fire someone who has been here since the beginning of the company!”

“Just because you have been here a while, doesn’t mean your job is secure.” My voice rose out of impatience, “You should have thought of the time you put into the company when you were turning in your paperwork. Dismissed.” The security guard finally caught hold of Dylan and started ushering him out of the office. Dylan fought and screamed behind him.

“TWO YEARS! I WASTED TWO YEARS ON THIS COMPANY!! AND I’M GONE BECAUSE OF A FEW MEASLY MISTAKES!! I WON’T LET YOU FORGET THIS!”

I waved my hand at the door and rubbed the bridge of my nose, annoyed. It had only been Tuesday and the week had already lasted forever. My day had been filled with complaining employees, missing reports, and panic about the new show. Not to mention I had to write a report before my meeting next week with LFG. I had no time to babysit my employees as they failed to do their jobs right. A second security guard walked into the room as the screaming child left it. He approached my desk and cleared his throat. “Would you like to charge him?” He asked kindly, “A threat like that should be taken to the police.”

“No.” I sighed looking at the paperwork on my desk, “That’s just more paperwork to do. Plus, I’d have to go to the police station on a weekday.” Before the officer could ask any more questions, I looked up at him and nodded, “I knew that wouldn’t go down very easily and you guys handled it well. Thank you.” I ended the sentence in a way that dismissed the officer. He took the hint and nodded. He turned and walked to the door but stopped before closing it. “Is there a problem, officer?” I half-heartedly asked. He was silent for a second before turning to me.

“Feeling scared is not a sign of weakness,” He said with courage, “If you ever feel unsafe, please, feel free to tell us. We will come to your aid. Any time. Any day.” I opened my mouth defiantly but I saw the look of sincerity in his eyes. I closed my mouth and nodded.

“I will.” I acknowledged, “Thank you.” The officer nodded and shut the door behind him. I rolled my eyes. Ugh, police. I thought as I tapped my desk with annoyance, Thinking that I can’t handle myself. I can handle myself just fine. I’d like to see them try to handle me. I’d take them down in a matter of seconds and still be ready for round two.

I took a deep breath and sighed. I reached for my stack of paperwork but my eyes grazed the clock. 2:45. I cursed and stood up. Ashton had therapy after school that Maria took him to so it was up to me to help Sam with his ride home. A ride that I was late for since that meeting ran longer than expected. I sent Sam a quick apology text and grabbed my coat from it’s hanger. If I hurried, I could pick him up from the bus stop.

I skimmed through my phone as I leaned on my bike, waiting for the bus. I parked a little further from the bus, so as to not get in the way of the kids coming off of it. As I waited, I looked through my social media, which was full of people congratulating me for getting the funding from LFG. I begged Bart not to say anything until my meeting on friday concluded but he insisted. Our page grew wildly overnight and our email exploded with potential sponsors. Which, I was put in charge of answering because I worked in the office. I needed a drink…

A honking horn pulled my attention away from my phone. The bus had pulled up to the stop. The doors opened and a flood of students came pouring out of it, Sam amongst those students. He walked out of the bus and checked his watch. Then looked around curiously. I stood up from my bike and prepared to wave at him but he pulled out his phone and started walking the other way. Curious, I took my keys from the bike and followed him.

He was walking the all too familiar path we used to take before I got my bike. It seemed he had memorized it as he dodged all of the small cracks and uneven asphalt that littered the ground. It reminded me of old times when he would cling to my arm and skip over those places to protect Maria’s back from breaking. Sam played with his phone for a little bit before he brought it to his ear. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was him.

“Speaking.” I answered nonchalauntly.

“Hey, you forgetting something?”

“... Happy birthday?”

“No. It’s three fifteen… on a school day?.. Ringing any bells?”

“I’m supposed to pick you up from school.”

“Ding ding ding! We have a winner.” I could almost taste the salt pouring from Sam’s mouth.

“My meeting ran long today. I sent you a text.”

“I didn’t get a text.”

I lowered my phone from my ear and pulled up my messages. The message I wrote was still in the text box. I cursed under my breath and brought the phone back up to my ear, “I forgot to press send. Listen, kiddo, I’m-”

“Forget it.” Sam sighed, “I’m already walking home.” I could tell he had a bad day from the sound of restraint in his voice. My stomach turned. I made his day worse. I opened my mouth to apologize but closed it as I watched Sam walk down an alley.

“Which path are you taking to get home?” My guilt was replaced with anxiety as I quickened my pace slightly.

“The way we normally went.”

“Oh really? You sure you’re not taking that shortcut that goes down the alleyway? You know, the one I told you to stop using?”

“No.”

“Oh really?”

“Come on! Do you really think that I would ignore a blatant order?”

“I don’t know,” I said, standing right behind Sam, “Would you?” Sam stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned around to face my tense glare.

“Heyyyy!” He said, trying to mask his shock with happiness, “You came!” He jumped happily into my stomach and hugged me tightly.

“Save it.” I rolled my eyes and pushed him away from me, “What were you thinking?”

“We used to go down this way all the time! What’s the problem?”

“The problem?! The problem is that you’re alone! We always took this path because I was there with you! Do you have any idea what would have-...” Something moved behind a dumpster. I grabbed Sam’s arm and dragged him behind me. “Who’s there?!” I called. There was silence but I didn’t drop my guard. After some more silence in a tense atmosphere, the dumpster moved again. A figure rose from behind it and walked in front of us. A man in dark clothes stood in front of us with a gun tightly clenched in his hands. He had a hood pulled over his head and a bandana covering his mouth. His eyes were a bright blue but they were dark and empty. I glared menacingly at him, hoping that would be enough for him to leave.

“You’re coming with me.” His voice sounded as if he smoked a pack of cigarettes everyday.

“And what makes you think we are going to comply?” I asked, holding my menacing attitude. The man cocked his gun. I moved slightly to cover Sam. The man’s eye twitched as he moved closer to us. I moved back, pushing Sam with me. My heart rate started picking up. Normally I could handle this guy like nothing but now Sam was involved. What if he got hurt? What if the man fired the gun? What if-

I felt Sam’s hand on my back. He gripped at my jacket. Every thought I had in my head cleared away. There was only one left. I need to protect Sam at all costs. I stopped walking backward. The man saw that and stopped as well. “Decide to comply?” His eyes squinted in a way that proved he was grinning.

“Not on my life.” I glared back. Turning my head slightly, still maintaining my eye contact with the man, I whispered, “Sam, run.” Sam’s grip tightened even further.

“What?” He gasped.

“Go. I’ll handle this.” My harsh whispers made Sam’s hands tremble slightly.

“Oh? Is that so?” The man laughed, fixating the gun to my chest. I pushed Sam backward.

“Sam-” I started, trying to pry his hand off of me but keeping my eyes on the man.

“N-no!” Sam pulled closer to me, “I’m not going anywhere! This is my fault! I’m not leaving your side.”

“Sam!” I demanded, finally turning my head to look at him.

Bang!

The force of the bullet was enough to throw me back a couple of steps. I held Sam close to me so he wouldn’t see what happened but he was forceful in prying himself away. He looked at me with eyes wide and flooding with tears. “Ikamara!” His voice cracked, “Y-you’ve been…” I quickly turned to look at the man, gun smoking in his hand. I looked down at my shirt. There was a burnt hole where my heart was. My eyes drifted to the ground. A flattened bullet was laying there.

“Well there goes that shirt.” I scoffed, pulling at my button up shirt to get a better look at the hole, “First Victor and now you? What is it with men and destroying my closet?” I locked eyes with the man. The gun in his hands shook slightly. He shot the gun again, hitting my shoulder this time. My shoulder flew backward but the bullet fell to the ground, clattering next to the other bullet. He shot once last time hitting in the same spot as the other one, burning a hole in my leather jacket. “Would you quit it!” I gave the man a look of disgust, “If it didn’t work the first time it isn’t going to work the other two times!” The man finally dropped his gun as he slowly started backing up. I rolled my eyes and advanced on him, finally losing Sam’s grip in the process. The man halted in his steps and, after a solid hit with my right hook, hit the ground hard and didn’t get back up.

I sighed and looked at my jacket. The hole was wide and it smelled of burnt steak. There was no way I was going to be able to fix that. I looked up at Sam, whose mouth was open wide with shock. I searched for something to say.

“Maria is going to kill me when she finds out her leather jacket has a hole in it.” I said nonchalantly, trying to lighten the blow of the situation at hand, “This is a secret just between us, got it, Kiddo?”

“I-Ike,” His voice was hoarse and quiet, “What happened? Why… why aren’t you…?” I sighed again and approached him.

“I have a good explanation.”

“Man I hope so because I... I sure can’t think of one.” Humor was a way Sam coped with difficult situations. It was a trait that got him into trouble a lot, but it was also something that I envied to have.

“And I will tell you what it is in due time.”  I looked down at the man and grimaced, “But right now we have to get this crook to the police station before he wakes up.” Something was off about the person laying before me but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I walked back to him, bent down, and pulled down his bandana. He was raggedy looking. His face was unshaven, teeth were yellow and crooked, spots all over his face, but he didn’t look familiar to me. Then why-

“Fine!” Sam said, grabbing my shirt again and tugging it, “Let’s go!”

“Let’s?” I asked looking up at him, “I’m taking him on my bike! You need to walk home.” I quickly stood up as Sam huffed in protest, “And don’t even think of taking the shortcut, mister! I won’t be there to stop any more bullets.”

“I’m not going home!” Sam protested, “I am not leaving your side until you explain to me what happened!”

“How on Earth am I going to take you and this punk to the police station?!” My voice reflected my impatience, “My bike can only hold two people!”

“My squad car can hold four.” A voice came from behind us.

My body tensed. I knew that voice.

(Next)

[yfere]

Shipping Calculus! Live Updates from C2E54!

………..In which Matt saw our horny tieflings, and raised us actual sex demons. He must be feeling really grateful to the fanbase over something……I wonder what……………..

+5 to Matt/ghost peppers. He’s all right with dying, so long as the death is……hot. Spicy. If you know what I mean.

+0 to Nott/Jester There was very nearly something there, with the Premium Fake Dating Content………which was abruptly ripped away from us with their argument over Nott encouraging Mr. No Patience No Self-Restraint to throw himself into a demon-infested well.

-5 to Caleb/Cat shaped creatures because in an effort to prevent Mr. No Patience No Self Restraint from throwing himself into the first well, Caleb dropped his precious cat in. Frumpkin is Not Happy.

+10 to Beau/Jester. I haven’t gotten too close, is what Beau tells Dairon, right before launching into a glowing description of how Jester should totally name Dairon’s animals, Jester is wonderful don’t you know, and that ferret weasel of hers has survived through potential drowning and cloudkill spells alike—it’s indestructible, you know? By the end of this even Dairon has cottoned onto the ship and advocated for Protecting Jester Above All Others. Also: Jester as always leaping to Beau’s defense and reassuring her it’s definitely not her fault that the others got lost between the tavern and the storage shed.

+15 to Fjord/Detective Work if the Detective Agency isn’t careful, Fjord just might fashion himself into a formidable competitor, between his stellar interrogation of Umadon and pinpointing the location in the well from whence the demon-flavored trouble is wafting.

+500 to Umadon/Those Sexy Fiends It’s almost as if Matt knew that we wanted some bugbear sexytimes… bonus points for dumbass bisexual energy. One of the few ships to be ah, consecrated, as Vex might put it.

-30 to Caduceus/Those Sexy Fiends Caduceus’ general immunity to The Hanky Panky and cockblocking superpowers were in top form tonight, saving both Caleb and Yasha from having a real good (?) time

+0 to Fjord/Jester Fuck were these two all over the place! We should be grateful not to be in negatives after that rollercoaster, between Fjord’s colossal chivalry flub, and Jester’s vehement, angry denial of It Being Like That and insisting on getting separate rooms. But then, during battle the next day, she turned it around by promising to keep Fjord safe, so we know all is good between them. Jester is still there to push Fjord’s Pooh-bear ass into uh……holes he needs to enter.

+5 to Fjord/Fjoot in Mouth This poor man. We may know that Fjord is just being his usual worrywart self, checking in as he does with everyone at all times whenever something even vaguely Upsetting or Potentially Dangerous occurs, but you have to understand the implications of saying that to a group of women who are splitting off for the evening! Phrasing!

+3 to Caduceus/Wells Well, I for one know that this is a fantastic ship. I also know, for a fact, that Caduceus has done his own private performance of the Snow White Singing by the Well scene at least once in his life. He’s just waiting for the one he loves to find him and sing dramatically behind his ear.

+2 to Caduceus/Caleb Caleb is really keen on asking Caduceus all about his childhood and why he loves wells. Continuing to grin like a fool at all things Caduceus Clay. Also makes sure to coordinate his outfit with Caduceus’ by throwing mud all over our dear firbolg.

+1 to Caduceus/Fjord Fjord also looking out for Caduceus’ safety and fjucking with him at the same time by asking him to adopt a ridiculous expression. Looking out for his well-being by aggressively nixing the idea of morning calisthenics when it’s cold outside.

+2 to Jester/Caleb as Jester is the Most Supportive of Caleb’s terrible attempts to mimic her and Caduceus, and trying to save his relationship with his cat. Caleb’s expert mediation and deescalation of the Jester&Nott argument, and Caleb pointing out Jester could punch Fjord through a wall--really she should be more worried about their weak asses than the other way around.

+14 to Fjord/Caleb as Caleb has decided that his Fjord impression is his absolute favorite (+2 added to score for each time he repeats Aeltritch Blaeeeest) and for Fjord’s pride legitimately being punctured a bit by Caleb’s lighthearted teasing—Fjord cares about his opinion, okay. More points, all the points for Fjord defaulting to the “Caleb Widogast works for me” lie (Caleb upgraded from accountant to servant for maximum Fjord-projecting-his-kinks), valuing Caleb at a shit ton of gold while still trying to sound semi reasonable, asking if Caleb is sure he’s okay really, defending his actions, and telling Caleb he absolutely did think he could just throw the pair of orcs down the square if he wanted. Caleb realizing just a beat too late that he really does want to look cool to Fjord—yeah, he could have thrown them around! Totally!

-6 to Dairon/Birds When the bird lady, the bird widow is forced to give up her bird spy shenanigans, it is a dark day. A dark day indeed.

-20 to Sam Riegel/Anatomy If he makes this a running gag, so help me……..I might actually break my laptop, just to make sure I never have to see that again.

[coffee-obsessed-writer]

The Pact - Chapter 1

Sam Winchester, Gothic AU

A/N: This idea was a long time coming. My first true AU, so please be gentle. This will be a slow burn, multi-chapter fic. A HUGE thank you to one of my besties @kazosa for continuing to remind me of this idea we had been planning for a long time now and for suggesting I finally start it. Hope you enjoy!!

Summary: Lord Samuel Winchester has lost the love of his life due to the actions of the Demon King, Crowley. As he plots a secret revenge, his father, the King of Lawrence, decrees that Sam will wed Crowley’s daughter in order to unite the two families to protect the sacred ground the Winchester’s Kingdom is built upon. 

Eventual Pairing: Sam Winchester x Crowley’s Daughter!Reader

Other Players: John Winchester, Crowley, Rowena, Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Jessica Moore (deceased)

Warnings: None, yet.

Words: 4K

Everything Tags:

@sorenmarie87​ //  @lefthologramdeer​ // @rockyhorrorpictureshowstyle​ // @his-paradox​// @letsby​

SUPERNATURAL TAGS:

@wings-of-a-raven​ // @kazosa​ // @negans-wife​ // @grace-for-sale​ // @geeksareunique​ // @tiquismiquis​ // @mrsbarnes-rogers​  // @teller258316​ // @spnhollis​ // @sweet-things-4-life​ // @hobby27​ // @sweetlythoughtfulbird​ // @theoriginalvicki​ // @dreamchester67​ // @xxwarhawk​ // @babykalika2001​ // @superwhovianfangirl81​ // @toobusynerdfighting​ // @missihart23​  // @hyphymanatee​ // @idreamofplaid​ // @thewinchesterchronicles​  // @wayward-gypsy​  // @closetspngirl​ // @fatestemptress​ // @rebelminxy​  // @22sarah08​ // @witch-of-letters​ // @cole-winchester​ // @rainflowermoon​ // @adoptdontshoppets​ // @foreverwayward​ // @waywardvalkyrie​// @fandomoniumflurry​ // @gnrfanfic​ // @blackcherrywhiskey​ // @jessieray98​  // @lyoly​  // @a--1--1--3 // @31shadesofbrown // @whereismyangel-damnitdeanshare

The caretaker shoveled the last bit of dirt on her grave. It wasn’t until Samuel heard the last grain drop, did his wounded hip finally give out and he fell to his knees. Silent tears punished his cheeks with a relentless assault of grief for his lost love. There was no stone for her yet, the mason promised it would be complete in a matter of days. Until then, the Winchester Prince laid a garland of her favorite wildflowers atop the mound of damp, dark soil that marked her final resting place.

All the mourners had since left, for which he was eternally grateful. He needed time alone, to say goodbye to Jessica. Sam wanted to remember how soft her blonde curls felt, like locks of silk as they trailed between his fingers; how blue her eyes could be, and just how her smile had become the sun in his sky.

From above, a clap of thunder shook the ground and warned of the storm’s arrival that had been threatening all day. Samuel Winchester did not care. He refused to leave until he remembered every bit of her—her melodious voice, the way she laughed, but mostly, the way she kissed him. No one would ever be able to kiss him the way Jessica had. She was an angel that walked the Earth, and for a short time, he was blessed enough to love her.

Until Crowley took her away for good.

Now, he’d never see her face again. Never touch her or smell her skin. He would be alone for eternity, until he took his last breath and could be reunited with her in the afterlife. No one could ever capture his heart again; for now, it was just as black as the eyes of the demon who took her life.

A guttural scream wanted to burst from his mouth, but from the depths of his soul he found the restraint to shove it back down.

“Save it,” he mumbled to himself, “you’re going to need it.”

As the rain started to fall, Sam used his cane that lay beside him to boost himself back up to his feet. He closed his eyes, turned his face up to the clouds and let their showers cleanse him of the dirt and despair that had enveloped him. When he looked back down at the wildflowers, his long hair hung wet around his face. He closed his eyes and the last, happy image, he held of Jessica lingered behind them.

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched into a smile. His cheek dimpled, something she loved so much about him.

“For you, my love,” he whispered. “One last smile for you. I am going to leave you at peace. I have things to do and when they’re done, if I’m lucky enough, I will get to see you in Heaven. Then we will never be separated again.”

His voice cracked, and he stifled the tears that once again threated to fall. Leaving his despair, along with the wildflowers, he turned and hobbled his way back towards his father’s estate. Sam had many plans to make and no time to spare in making them.

  The MacLeod Castle sat high above the jagged cliffs and raging sea. It was a fitting place for a ruler such as Crowley and his dark reputation. No one could ever really recount as to when he came to power, it was a debate that raged in all the local taverns for many years, and still there was never a definitive answer.

Crowley always just, was. He was a presence that the people in the Kingdom of Lawrence just accepted, for fear of what repercussions would come if they didn’t. It was more rumor and inuendoes about the horrors that took place in his dungeons, but it was always a story told by word of mouth, never a real, first-hand account. That didn’t stop the mysterious figure from playing the type. Crowley reveled in the way people moved aside when he came down into town, and even bowed their heads slightly in respect. Ask them, ‘respect for what?’, and none would be able to answer. They just knew that it was how you behaved when the Red King graced the streets of Lawrence.

Just on the other side of the river, lands were ruled by the Winchesters, and their long line of peacekeepers. King Henry had been beloved for the wisdom and protection he offered those living under his rule, and when he died, the throne was taken by his only son, John, at a very young age. John Winchester was a different kind of King all together. He ran the lands and governed the people with a bit of an iron fist. Keeping the peace and defending the sacred lands they farmed was, in his eyes, of utmost importance. When his wife bore him two sons, he tried to raise them in his own image and mindset. Defenders of the land before anything else; even themselves.

The first time the Winchesters had a confrontation with Crowley and the demons known as the ‘Minions of MacLeod’, the Winchesters were able to stave them off. For a good chunk of years, Crowley had made it his mission to take the fertile lands, piece by piece. But the Winchesters, for all their superior weaponry and intelligence, were able to fend them off every time. Eventually, Crowley grew tired of losing and a tentative peace fell between the two kingdoms.

The people of Lawrence feared that one day, Crowley and his Minions would once again storm the gates of the Winchester’s Castle. If that happened, the defenders would have to burn the lands to the ground to purify them of Crowley’s plague, subsequently destroying what made them so valuable in the first place. The magic that lived in the lands was highly coveted, this was no secret. The secret was in how to obtain them, and people feared when Crowley figured that out, the War to end all Wars would come and wipe them all out.

  Growing up in this place had been different, but for the most part, your life was fine. The castle your father settled into when you were younger had been your playground; his minions, your playthings. Learning to work with herbs and forest elementals, you were able to keep yourself amused by concocting a variety of potions and spells that would be tested on the people Crowley kept in service. Nothing painful or devastating by any means but adding a love potion to the soup at dinner made for an entertaining and educational evening.

Crowley was hardly ever around. Your father made sure, however, that you were watched over and the figurative leash around your neck was short. Teachers and craftsmen were brought into to teach you what Crowley deemed important for you to know, and when he discovered your penchant for spells, he summoned his own mother to come and teach you the ways of her craft.

A centuries old witch, Rowena MacLeod looked not a day older than her own son. You knew that magic ran deep within your veins, on your mother’s side as well, but you were never told much about her. Over the years, Rowena would come and go, and you always enjoyed her stay for however long it lasted. She became a reluctant confidant, and by the time you were a grown woman, you felt comfortable disclosing feelings you were having about leaving the castle to explore what lived beyond its walls.

Rowena would always warn you against it, explaining how you needed to adhere to Crowley’s rules and stay safe.

“The abilities you have, my dear, will be sought-after by many. Going out beyond the walls of this place is only askin’ for trouble,” she’d say, then pinch your chin between her small fingers. “Be sure to heed me, love. You don’ want to be going against your father now. But I shall have a word with him when he returns, see if I can’t get him to loosen the reigns a bit.”

True to her word, Rowena pulled Crowley aside, and pleaded a case for you to spread your wings beyond his control. There were a lot of raised voice that night reverberating through the castle walls, none of which sounded promising for you. Being an adult should mean you could come and go as you pleased, but Crowley had refused your request every time. The arguing that radiated from his chambers didn’t give you much hope that Rowena was going to have more luck.

The knock at your bedroom door came well into the night. You had been in bed for hours but sleep never did come. Pulling your robe tight around your waist, you opened the door enough to see Crowley standing just beyond it.

“May I?” he asked with a sweeping gesture of his hand.

“Of course,” you replied flatly and opened the door further.

“Did I wake you, pet?”

“No, and please don’t call me that. I hate it.”

“As you wish. I guess you can assume why I’m here. I imagine you heard your grandmother and I discussing you.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to where you had been laying in bed. “She hates being called that.”

“I’m aware. Why do you think I do it?” he smirked and clasped his hands behind his back as he slowly explored your room.

“You’re a delight, you know that?”

“So, I’ve been told. Look, (Y/N) I know that being kept here has made you bitter and cold towards me. Though I have my reasons for keeping you close, I suppose that maybe I’ve been a trifle bit unfair. I’m willing to discuss terms of a deal that will give you some freedom, maybe satisfy your need to leave the grounds and explore what’s out there in this small, sad little world.”

“Boy, you make that sound enticing,” you groaned as you delicately crawled onto the bed and drew your knees up into your chest.

“Would you rather I lie?”

“You always lie. Its who you are,” you scoffed and averted your gaze. Normally that would earn you a glare of intense anger from him. This time, he simply waved you off.

“You’re just angry right now, but if you hear me out, it may vastly improve your mood, pet.”

“Father. Please, stop.”

“Daughter, please listen. Because I offer this once and only once.”

“Fine, what are your terms?”

“Your freedom…” he mused, holding out his hands as though he was weighing your options for you.

“For?”

“One, very small, favor.”

“Please don’t make me drag it out of you,” you moaned, already feeling tired from the conversation.

“I need you to marry the youngest Lord Winchester.”

“You, what?!” you exclaimed, jumping up from the bed. “I will do no such thing!”

“If you want out of this castle, or even this room, you will. Do you know why I’ve kept you so sheltered all these years? Hmm?”

You subtly shook your head, almost fearing the answer he was finally willing to give.

“Its because I knew this day would come. You were going to be the key to everything. You and the overbearingly tall muppet are going to wed and produce an heir for both families to fawn over. Then, you and our linage will have just as much right to their lands, as they do. I won’t have to try and steal them, they won’t burn them to the ground. It’s a win-win, really.”

“I doubt His Highness Winchester will agree. Father, you’ve tried and failed far too many times, the Winchesters will never trust you to—” You froze as the expression contorted on Crowley’s face. Your stomach bottomed out at the realization that he knew that the Winchesters would indeed agree, because they already had.

“John Winchester sent a messenger this morning. He’s agreed to allow you to marry his youngest son. Apparently, he’s not found a new wife since his fiancé died last year. Imagine that giant, just shuffling around that enormous castle all alone with his little cane, no one to talk to but his servants. Poor, muppet,” he said with a dramatic sigh.

“You’re cruel,” you glared.

“I am. It’s a gift.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you walked towards the solitary window in your chambers. Leaning against the ledge of stone, you looked out over the sea and watched the moon’s glow dance on the waves that were crashing on the cliffs below. You briefly wondered how many times you had imagined stealing a boat and just setting sail to a brand-new place, leaving Crowley and his wretched castle behind. That view had granted you many a day dreams in your life, and now here was a chance at maybe bringing some of them to fruition. All you had to do….

“I would live there? If I said yes, I could live there and be away from you?” you turned your head sharply to gauge his reaction, venom dripping from your words. There was a moment where you thought he may have been hurt, and that internally made you smile.

“Yes, you’d live there. That was part of Winchester’s conditions.”

“And what do you get out of this? Other than, hopefully, a grandchild that you will most likely ruin and that will inherent the Winchester’s lands. I can’t imagine any of them agreeing to it for solely that reason.”

Crowley sat on the edge of the trunk that lived at the foot of your bed. He leaned back on his elbows, resting against the footboard and crossed one leg over the other. Turning his hands up and shrugging he sighed. “That, my dearest daughter, is not your concern.”

“But it is. How do I know I am walking into a safe environment? Yes, there is a nervous peace between you and John Winchester, but how can I be certain that I won’t be hung immediately once I walk inside? They don’t have a reputation of kindness towards witches.”

“Is that what you are, now? Taking after grammy, I see,” he chuckled darkly.

“Better her than you,” you spat, glaring at his smug expression. “I may be your daughter, but I will never be anything like you.”

“Aw, come now, darling. You are more like me than you will ever know,” he replied absently, while examining his cuticles.

Crowley finally sat up from his place on the chest and sauntered over to the window. “I know you’re not thrilled that you were born of these loins,” he paused at your disgusted expression and stifled a grin, “however, you are of my blood. No matter how much of your mother was left in you, the part of you that I contributed to making, will always rise to the top.” He took your cheek gently by his palm and lifted your eyes to his face. “YOU will always me my daughter, love me or hate me, you will always be a MacLeod; even when you’re being bedded by a Winchester. Remember that, my pet. Remember it.”

The glare of his eyes flashed red, instilling you with a quick streak of fear. You’d only seem him enact this trick a few times in your life, and it always unnerved you to no end. Realizing that going along with his plans was the only way to get what you wanted as well, you closed your eyes in resignation.

“Yes, father. I will.”

“Is that a yes to the deal? Will you marry Samuel?”

“Yes, I will marry Lord Winchester.”

  “I will do NO such thing!” Samuel raged, slamming his fist against the hardwood dining table.

On the other end, John Winchester sat in his high-backed chair, the scowl nearly permanent on his face. He exhaled deeply, trying to maintain some composure in the face of his very angry son.

Sam pushed back from the table, leaving his cane resting against it and limped with a stalking anger towards John.

“How dare you even ask me to do something like that!”

“Son, if you’ll just hear me out—”

“I’ve heard what you had to say, and I can’t believe you would honestly suggest something so vile! First of all, to marry anyone else would be a disgrace to Jessica’s memory! Then, to have it be a Minion of MacLeod! It’s finally happened, you’ve lost your mind.”

Towering over his father, John sat up straighter in the chair and gazed up at his youngest son.

“Samuel, I am sorry for your loss, I am, but at some point, you need to move on and accept that you have a responsibility to this family. You chose not to go and fight on the battlefields against the purgatory creatures, like your brother did. I agreed to let you stay here and help rule this Kingdom. But with that came certain responsibilities. One of which—”

“Yeah, I know, an heir. You and your damned blood line,” he mumbled and turned to head back to his seat. When he finally reached it, he slumped down and pushed his plate far from his face. Reaching for the silver goblet, he slugged back the remainder of his wine and immediately filled it.

“Its important, son. More important than many things. After me, you are set to rule should Dean not return from the war. After you, there needs to be someone. These lands cannot fall out of the hands of our family. What we defend here is too important. Your mother died defending them and I’ll be damned if I let them fall into the wrong hands.”

“And including the MacLeod’s is a good move? You might as well just hand Crowley the match and step back to watch them burn.”

“No,” he said, pushing back from the table, standing up to his full height. A knuckled fist slammed to the table, rattling the china plates and glass decanters, “that’s where you’re wrong. Crowley wants these lands because he understands how pure and fertile, they truly are. There’s no other place in the realm where the land is as rich as it is here. After the Great Angel War, everything was tarnished. But not Lawrence. The magic here kept it void of the blackness that seems to infest everywhere else.”

Sam had heard all these stories before. It was far before his time, and even John’s, but Henry was alive to have seen the world how it had been before the angels reigned hellfire down on Earth.

“Sam,” John paused, trying to find the right words to convince his son that his plan was the only way for a successful future. Too much was riding on his compliance. “Crowley needs them to fuel his magic. If this marriage is successful, we save Lawrence from another attack, and it gets that old demon off our backs. Then, we can get from them what we need.”

Sam sighed. “And what would that be?”

“An Army.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, a deep furrow of concerned resting between his brows. He slowly sat forward in his chair, his mouth hovering open in shock.

“You want the Minions. Those… creatures,” the word spat from his mouth as if it were poison, “For an army. Why? To what end?”

“End the War in Purgatory and bring your brother home. To strength our numbers and our men. Less and less of the people are pledging to fight for our causes. We need to reinforce—”

“No! We don’t!” Sam stood once again from his chair. This time grabbing the cane he needed more frequently than ever before. “You claim to be a peace keeper, but really, you’re power hungry. You’re no better than Crowley! You want revenge for mom, and I can relate to that. I want nothing more to find who killed Jessica and make them suffer. But even I wouldn’t put an entire Kingdom in jeopardy to do it. Not because I couldn’t, but because she wouldn’t want me too.”

John stood silently, not agreeing or denying what Sam claimed to be true. He simply exhaled and steadied his quaking anger.

“This is not the conversation that needs having at the moment, Samuel!” John roared, his deep echo bouncing across the stone walls of the cavernous room. “The only conversation that we should be having, is deciding when and where you will marry (Y/N) MacLeod. That, my son, is your priority, not dictating to me how to maintain and run my kingdom.”

John stood up straighter, pushing his shoulders back and taking several deep breaths, to calm the tension that ran through him. “If I could send you off to the battlefield, Samuel. I would. But clearly, that isn’t your place anymore.” John’s eyes glanced down at Sam’s hobbled hip briefly, before meeting his son’s gaze again. “You’re going to help this family protect the lands, and anything good and pure left in this realm. If that means marrying the enemy, then so be it.”

Sam stood quietly, internalizing everything his father was laying on him. He hated John for making him do this, and even more for what he had planned in partnership with Crowley. Deep down though, he knew that he would go along with it, and maybe, if he was lucky, everything could still work out in his favor.

“I’ll do what you ask, I won’t fight you on it. But rest assured of one thing. All that was left good and pure in this world, died with Jessica. If you think for one second that me doing this supports your plans in any way, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Sam took a final few steps closer to his father. For the first time Sam noticed the lines and age in his father’s face, how the streaks of gray ran rampant through his once jet black hair. The weariness in John Winchester’s eyes was not lost on his son, either.

Sam snickered. “One day, you’ll be gone, and I will be the one to rule in Lawrence. The first thing I am going to do is erase anything that reminds me of you and the terrible decisions you made while in power. But rest assured, old man, I’ll be sure that when the drunks down in the taverns sing songs written about you, they’ll say how you nearly ruined one entire Kingdom because you were too much of a coward to say no to a demon.”

Satisfaction danced in his eyes as John once against straightened his back, trying to stand taller against his son. Sam turned on his heel and began walking towards the corridor. Just before he left, he turned back to John. “The wedding will happen in our hidden chapel the night after next. I won’t have anyone in the town see this farce take place. So, it should only be you, Crowley, the girl and the Maester. Tell Robert I want him to bless the union--.”

“First, only a day’s notice isn’t much time. Besides, Robert isn’t yours to use, Samuel. He’s my Maester—”

“He’s the Winchester’s family Maester. As you so often tell me, I am a Winchester, am I not?” Sam turned back and went down the corridor. Before he disappeared into the depths of his family’s castle, he called back, “night after next, or not at all!”

Despite the deal he just made, which made him feel dirty and soiled, Sam smiled to himself. The idea of marrying Crowley’s daughter made his blood run cold, but if it helped in his own mission of revenge, he would bare it for as long as he had to. Not revealing his hand to his father, John unknowingly gave him just what he needed to make a strong move against Crowley. Sam knew by then, with complete certainty, that it was MacLeod himself responsible for Jessica’s death. Getting close to Crowley, however, wasn’t going to be easy. Without his brother around to help him, Sam needed to find another way.

Marrying the demon’s daughter, was just the diversion he needed.

SPN tags are open if you want to be added!

[jrubalcaba]

Evie Saves the Day - Part 1

So, @suz-123 and I were talking one day and realized that after the Accords and the bombing in Vienna and the fight in Siberia, we never really addressed how everyone on the Team was able to come and go as they pleased without worrying about being fugitives. Luckily, my brain hatched an idea and thus, The Hearing was born. I am not a legal professional, so do not message me going ‘this would happen like this’ and whatnot, cause I don’t care. This is how I felt that the Team was cleared and if you don’t like it, don’t read it. There are 3 parts to this, all of which I will be posting today before going on a hiatus. So, without further ado, here is part one of ‘Evie Saves the Day.’

“FRIDAY, call a Team meeting, immediately,” Evie commanded as she exited the elevator.

“Certainly, Dr. Collins,” the AI replied. “Is everything alright?” Evie stopped and looked up at the ceiling.

“No. Things are about to get very bad for everyone.” She headed to the common room and waited as everyone slowly trickled in.

“Evie, what's wrong?” Steve asked in his Captain voice as he walked in behind Bucky and Alice. “You've never called a meeting before.” She turned to him and sighed.

“Yeah, because shit’s about to hit the fan.” Everyone looked around uneasily.

“Alright Doc, spill. What's got you so spooked?” Tony asked, any and all traces of humor gone from his tone. Evie wrung her hands a bit before taking a deep breath.

“There's a hearing coming up. A hearing regarding whether or not the Avengers are a danger to the people of the world.” You could hear a pin drop, even without enhanced hearing, the room was so quiet.

“That's….” Tony trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“Yeah, and guess who has been subpoenaed to testify on your behalf?” she asked the room. When no one answered, she pointed at herself. “Yours truly.” Everyone exchanged a look at this.

“Why you?” Natasha asked, murmurs of ‘yeah’ echoing through the Team.

“Because I'm the only person who knows you and knows you. I've worked closely with the Avengers for years, and I've lived with you guys for years. I'm the only person who can be unbiased enough to testify.” Evie started to tear up as she thought of what to say next. “My testimony is the only thing that will keep you out of prison.”

“Wait. Why can't they call Pepper or Fury?” Clint interjected angrily. She shook her head at him.

“Pepper is currently in a relationship with Iron Man, so she can't be unbiased. Fury is technically dead. They can't call Jane either, because she was with Thor. Coulson is off limits due to the whole ‘did he or didn't he die’ thing. Hill is in D.C. now, so she can't do anything because it would be a conflict of interest for her. She is, by the way, the person who tipped me off about all this.” The Team all swallowed nervously as they came to realize that their freedom was in Evie's hands.

“So what happens now?” Bucky asked, pulling Alice closer to him.

“This is what Maria told me: in three days I will leave for D.C. The moment I leave the building, you will be on lockdown. All of you except Vision and Miss Winters. They don't consider him a living person and she's a complete mystery, so I don’t have to do shit on them,” Evie started to explain. Alice looked relieved, but Evie could tell she was still worried.

“We literally can't leave? What if we have to?” he argued, his meaning clear.

“You leave the safety of the Tower and your ass is in cuffs and carted off to prison.” They all tensed at her words. “The moment I leave, government agents will surround the building, to prevent you from leaving. And before you say anything, there are….special restraints that have been custom made for each of you.”

“How do you know that?” Bruce asked shakily.

“That's where I've been all morning. Watching the demonstrations and giving my medical advice on them.” She turned to Steve, as she knew he would listen to her and make the others understand. “Steve, these things have been designed to be the most inhumane way to subdue you. All of the subjects died upon testing. My guess is that you will be a drooling mess on the floor, but that's on the hopeful side.” Evie began to tear up again as the thought of seeing any of them incapacitated like that.

“Hey, it's alright,” he cooed as he pulled her in for a hug, letting her cry into his chest. “We've had worse.” Evie pushed back against him angrily.

“That's not the point Steve! I don't want to see any of you like that, and that's why I'm asking, no begging, you all to not fight back.” She wiped her face and looked to all of them. “If I am unsuccessful in clearing you, those government agents will storm the building and haul you off. They will slap those cuffs on you and if you go quietly, it won't hurt a bit. If you resist, if you fight back, they will turn those monstrosities on, and some of you will die.” Evie sniffled before going on. “And I, as your doctor, will have to sign your death certificate. That is not something I want to do, so please, for the love of all that is holy, when they come for you, get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head.” Steve handed her a handkerchief (1940s bastard is smooth) and she dried her face.

“How are you so sure that they'll come for us? Do you doubt yourself that much?” Nat asked skeptically.

“Nat, this isn't something that I can do over if I fuck it up. Your freedom is at stake, and it all rests on me, and how convincing of a liar I can be under oath.” At this, everyone grew shocked. Evie was gonna lie?

“No, you can't do that. Not for us,” Steve said, shaking his head. Evie rolled her eyes at him.

“I have to give testimony on Bucky, whom I've only known for a month. That's not enough evidence to clear him, so how else do I do it?” she snapped at him. Steve stared at her, knowing she was right.

“So after they arrest us, what happens then?” Scott asked. Evie turned to him with a frown, both not wanting to tell them and wanting to warn them.

“You and Clint, the only ones with families, will get a full day to see them, say your goodbyes. The rest of you, will be processed and then sent to your cells, followed by you two.” She paused, knowing this next bit was going to terrify them.

“And then?” Nat asked, entirely too calm.

“You spend the rest of your natural lives in an 8x8 cell, never seeing the light of day again.” Alice and Wanda gasped, whilst everyone else looked sick. “Thor, Wanda, Bruce, Steve and Bucky have special cells that can and will contain them, by any means necessary. You three,” she pointed at Thor, Steve and Bucky. “However long you live doesn't matter. You will never see anything but your cell walls until you finally die.” The Asgardian actually looked worried for once.

“But, they can't do that,” he argued. Evie huffed out a laugh at him.

“Yes they can, and they will. Solitary confinement. Scott and Clint might get to see their families once a year, if that. But the rest of you won't get visitors, nor will you see each other ever again.” She looked around the room, seeing Vision and Bucky pull Wanda and Alice closer, while Steve looked at Bucky.

“So, that's our future if you fail?” Tony asked her.

“Yes.” They all sighed, knowing this could be the end. “And don't expect any special treatment because of who you are. You three,” Evie said, looking at Rhodey, Steve and Bucky. “It's a dishonorable discharge from the military, ‘cause rank doesn't matter where you're going. Tony? You can't buy your way out. Oh, that's another thing, your accounts have all be frozen.” There were sounds of outrage from everyone. “You're all flight risks, some of you quite literally.” They all grew silent at this as she looked to Thor, Rhodey, Tony and Sam. “Look, I know this is scary, having to put all your faith in me. Trust me, I'm terrified at the thought of failing you when you've never failed me.” Bruce strode over and hugged her tightly.

“Evie, you could never fail us. All you can do is your best.” Though he said it to her, everyone murmured their agreement.

“Another thing,” she said as they broke apart. “If there are any transgressions you've committed, no matter when or where, I must know about them. Otherwise, if the committee springs something on me that I have no clue about, my testimony is null and void. They'll take that as ‘oh, she must not know them very well’ and the hearing will be over and you guys will be gone before I even leave the building. I won't willingly give out secrets, but in this case, I need to know them. It could mean the difference between waking up in the Tower or in a prison cell for the rest of your life.” Tony nodded with her.

“Yeah, I guess it's time to confess our sins. We've got three days people, so get to it.”

************

The next three days went by so fast, it was like Pietro had run them all there. Evie walked out into the common room with her suitcase, sighing at the sight of everyone there to see her off.

“Alright everyone, gather round,” Tony said aloud, bringing everyone in close. “This is it. The last time we could see Evie, although I have absolute and complete faith that she will give the committee a thorough spanking and clear our names.” They all chuckled.

“Faith in me, misplaced may be,” Evie replied with a wink. “It's my word against theirs, albeit mine’s legit and not fabricated in any way.” More chuckles as they knew she was gonna lie through her teeth for them.

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” he shot back. They were both Star Wars nerds, and he knew she'd try to Yoda her way out of this.

“Alright, alright, let's stop with the Star Trek crap,” Steve interjected. They all looked to him in disbelief.

“First off, its Star Wars. Secondly, I pull this off? You will learn the ways of the Force, my young Padawan,” Evie threatened with a predatory smile. Steve swallowed thickly, entirely too turned on to respond. Bucky slapped him in the chest.

“Dude, you better hope she pulls this off, or you're gonna die with the biggest set of blu-” he began before Steve punched him.

“Shut the fuck up, Bucky.” Evie was puzzled by the whole exchange, but Sam and Alice sniggered behind their hands.

“Alrighty then. The helicopter should be here soon, so I guess I better go,” Evie said to cover the awkward moment. Everyone took turns hugging her extra tight, as this could be the last time they ever saw her. Bruce hugged her for a good five minutes, not wanting to let her go. Steve was last, hugging her just as long as Bruce had, wishing he could find the words to tell her-

“Love you, Evie.” The words left his mouth before he could stop them. She pulled back and smiled.

“Love you too, Steve. Love you all,” she said, turning to the rest. He hung his head as he realized she only meant it in a friendly way. There was a chorus of ‘love you too, Evie,’ before she grabbed her suitcase and headed to the elevator. She pulled out her phone and snapped one last picture of them before the doors shut.

“Well, at least you tried, dude,” Bucky said, clapping Steve on the back. Sam and Alice chuckled at the blonde’s blush. Everyone sat down on the couches, the TV on so they could watch the live stream of the hearing.

A couple hours later, and Evie was brought onto screen and sworn in.

“That should be Dr. Evelyn Rogers, huh Steve?” Sam asked slyly. Steve glared at him but remained silent. “In your wildest dreams, right?” General Ross came on the screen, and everyone went silent.

Ross already had Bruce in his sights, and now Steve due to the fight over the Sokovia Accords, so making Evie testify on their behalf? Well, that wasn't the smartest move he’s made.

After introductions were made, Evie's testimony began. The committee started with Tony, and Evie did not disappoint. As the day went on, she argued over the lesser known members of the Team. Rhodey, Clint, Scott, and Sam were easy, as they weren't as popular. Six hours had gone by, and only five members of the team had been discussed. Three of those hours were spent on Tony alone.

“You know, for such a tiny little thing, she's got a lot of fight in her,” Clint mused out loud.

“Yeah, Ross definitely didn't think it through when he selected her,” Nat agreed before going silent. Her name had just been said aloud, so it was her turn on the chopping block. None of them have ever seen Natasha look so worried, but she need not worry. Evie defended the former Russian spy, and by the end of it, a few committee members looked thoroughly convinced of Nat's good nature.

Natasha Romanoff shed tears over the fact that someone cared about her so much that they spent three hours arguing her case.

“Wow. Evie is amazing,” Scott said as the first day of the hearing came to a close. There was a huge round of agreement before everyone retired to their rooms for the night.

***********

The next day, the hearing started bright and early. Thor was first up on the docket, and Evie spent almost four hours defending him. He grew proud when her argument was over, as she did an amazing job.

Bruce leaned forward and stared intently at the screen as his name had just mentioned by Ross. The Team all watched as Evie began to smirk, and they knew that she wasn't going down

without a fight. What happened over the next five hours was quite literally the best verbal sparring match between two people any of them had ever seen. Evie met Ross’ vivitrol equally and more enthusiastically as the argument went on, culminating in the smoothest line ever.

“Dr. Collins, might I remind you that you are under oath, just like the rest of us,” Ross snapped at her, much like a petulant child who was used to getting his way. She was answering all of his questions perfectly, along with giving more than enough evidence to back her claims and, furthermore, making his look incomplete and farfetched. Her answering smirk was enough to make even the Devil blush.

“Oh, I know that. Do you?” she said. The look of utter befuddlement that came over the General's face was absolutely priceless. There were a few committee members who had to turn and hide their smiles and stifle the laughs that threatened to come out. Those reactions were nothing, however, compared to the Team's.

Evie may not have enhanced hearing, but she swore she could hear their collective gasp followed by Sam's shout of ‘ohhhhhh shit!’.

After a few moments of silence, Ross cleared his throat and ended their session for the day, reminding her that her testimonies for Wanda, Steve and Bucky were for tomorrow. As Evie left the chamber, the live stream picked up the Cheshire Cat grin she had before it cut away.

“She destroyed him. Oh God, I can't wait for tomorrow. She's closest to Steve after Bruce, so this will be interesting to say the least,” Nat said with a wicked grin. Everyone agreed.

“Oh yeah. Tomorrow is also the last day of testimony before they go into deliberations, so Evie will be giving it her all for sure,” Sam agreed.

Everyone drifted off to their rooms, eager to wake up the next morning to see Evie in action yet again.

*********

The Team woke up the next morning, and when they turned the TV on, it was just in time to hear Wanda’s name being mentioned.

“Oh God. Looks like they’re saving Steve and Bucky for last,” Sam noted. The two super soldiers shared a look, not knowing if that was a good or bad thing.

Evie spent three hours defending Wanda, giving more than enough insight into just how well-adjusted the young woman had become since joining the Team after the Ultron incident. Ross repeated the same questions and statements over and over, wording them differently each time, to try and trip her up. Evie, seeing this from a mile away, replied the same each time, and before long, committee members were calling Ross out on it. Begrudgingly, he ended the debate over Wanda.

“Now, for the final discussion, we figured it would be easier to do them together, so Doctor Collins, we need your testimony on Captain Steven Grant Rogers and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.” The General leaned forward, staring her down. The camera caught a glimpse of her face, and she was full on smiling.

“I’ve seen that look before. Oh, this is going to be incredible to witness,” Bruce said gleefully.

And incredible it was.

For four hours straight, Evie painstakingly went over every good deed both men had done, completely skipping over their time on ice and Bucky’s time as the Winter Soldier. She knew that would be brought up eventually, but felt it better to see how it was brought up by the committee to see how they viewed him.

“With all due respect, Doctor, but why are you ignoring the fact that Sergeant Barnes was, in fact, a murderer? Do you have a soft spot for him?” General Ross taunted. Evie’s face, which had been blank, suddenly broke into a smile.

“A murderer? Is that what you would be called if you were forced to carry out those deeds?” she snapped back at him. “And no I don’t have a soft spot for him. My heart belongs to someone else, thank you very much.” The man looked at her, disgust plain as day in his face.

“I wouldn’t be called a murderer.” Evie smiled, as he had said exactly what she wanted him to say.

“Then what’s the difference between you and him? Oh, I know. If it was you, it would be considered ‘terrible’ and ‘being forced against your will’, but because it’s not, it’s considered ‘murder’ and ‘doing it willingly’.” Ross’ jaw dropped at her audacity. Most of the committee members looked to him with the same questioning look, wondering how he would disagree with her. After a few moments, his face clouded over with anger.

“You would do well to mind your attitude, Doctor, and treat me with respect.” At this, Evie stood from her chair so quickly it tipped over.

“I’ll treat you with respect when you fucking earn it,” she growled at him. The entire committee, excluding Ross, all looked to her with the utmost shock, some bordering on admiration for her boldness.

At the Tower?

“Holy fuck. That was hot,” Sam quipped. Scott and Tony nodded in agreement.

“Even I have a hard-on for Evie right now,” Wanda said with a giggle. Steve turned and shot her a glare that said ‘back off she’s mine’, which made her laugh even more.

“Not even I have the balls to cuss on Capitol Hill. That woman is a fucking goddess,” Nat sighed, awe dripping from every word.

“Quiet, they’re talking again,” Bruce noted as he pointed at the screen.

“Gentlemen, I do apologize for my outburst. Please, that is not how I conduct myself day to day.” Everyone in the common room burst out laughing as Evie had the filthiest mouth of them out, even worse than Steve.

“Doctor Collins, we understand that everyone loses their cool once in a while, but, this is a legal hearing that is being televised, so we ask that you please watch your language.” Everyone turned to Steve and grinned, remembering the time he scolded Tony for his ‘language’. “We would now like to move to end General Ross’ questioning, especially since he is not the one who called this hearing in the first place.” The look of outrage on the General’s face was worth everything Tony had in his bank account, and more.

“You’ll hear no arguments from me over that,” Evie replied with a sweet smile. The questioning began again, this time, moving in a much more positive light.

“Now, Doctor Collins, when Captain Rogers contacted you and asked for help, why did you lend your assistance?” They all tensed up, as they knew this would end badly.

“What do you mean he ‘asked for help?’ Steve did no such thing.” When all that met her was disbelief, she scoffed. “Does Steve, does Captain America, look like the kind of man that asks for help? No, he doesn’t. He’d much rather punch his way out of a fight alone than to ask for help.” Bucky and Sam burst out laughing, as she hit the nail right on the head.

“Well, you can’t expect us to believe that he had Clint Barton, Scott Lang and Wanda Maximoff sent to him for moral support.” Evie tilted her head in confusion, much like a dog does.

“He didn’t send for them. I sent them myself.” Her admission was met with gasps all around.

“Then you must realize that you violated the Sokovia Accords, and therefore must be reprimanded.” The committee members all agreed with General Ross’ outburst. Evie raised an eyebrow at him.

“General, the Sokovia Accords don’t apply to me. I’m not an Avenger. And I didn’t send them on a mission, that’s Steve’s job. All I can do is tell them that they cannot go on a mission due to an injury,” she explained. The Team all held their breath, as they realized that she was right.

“Well, then how did you know that Captain Rogers needed them?” Ross was back in control, as the Sokovia Accords had been his project.

“I didn’t. The last time I had spoken to Steve was when I had texted him while he was in a meeting with you, General. You had met with the Team about the Accords, but I wasn’t invited as I’m not an Avenger, just their physician. I didn’t even discuss the Team or the Accords at all. I, rather stupidly, felt that texting and telling him that Agent Peggy Carter had died in her sleep was better than calling him.” Evie had said the magic words. Mentioning Peggy Carter in relation to Steve Rogers was akin to talking to Jesus in some people’s eyes. Most of the committee members nodded, understanding clear as day on their faces.

Ross was losing, badly.

“Well, then, why did you send them?” Even the Team, 204 miles away, could tell that Ross was getting desperate.

“If you must know, there’s a monument in what remains of Sokovia that Wanda wanted to visit, since she lost her country and brother in the same day. Clint, who has become close to Wanda over the fact that her twin brother, Pietro, gave his life to save Clint, volunteered to go with her. Scott, wanting to support Wanda during a tough time, also volunteered. I spent my own money and hired a plane for them. I hired a plane because, as I am not Tony Stark nor Pepper Potts, I didn’t feel comfortable using their private jet. And, seeing that it wasn’t a mission and that I’m not Captain Rogers, I had no authority to send them in a quinjet.” Evie looked so proud of herself, and the Team was too. Ross had obviously planned to blame the Accords failing on Steve, but for her to take the blame blew his plan up in his face.

And the committee members knew it.

“Thank you, Doctor Collins, for coming here and giving your testimony over the Avengers. I hereby dismiss you from the chamber as we deliberate. We will have the bailiff collect you once we are done.” Evie nodded before exiting the room.

“Well, this is it. Whatever the outcome is, we can’t blame Evie. She did amazing,” Rhodey said as everyone got up and stretched.

“Hell yeah she did,” Wanda exclaimed in agreement, everyone else joining in.

The next couple of hours seemed to drag on before finally, Evie was brought back into the room.

“We would like to thank you again, Doctor Collins, for coming here over the past few days to give testimony for the Avengers. Now, before I read the verdicts, I must notify you that we went with a majority vote, although some were unanimous.” The Team all squeezed into one couch, not wanting to be apart.

“I understand.” You could hear a pin drop with how quiet the Tower was.

“In the case of Anthony Edward Stark, it is this committee’s majority vote that he is not a danger to society.” Tony began to breathe again as he realized he was a free man.

“In the case of Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, it is this committee’s unanimous decision that he is not a danger to society.” Rhodey looked at Tony and grinned, glad to know neither of them were going to prison.

“In the case of Clinton Francis Barton, it is this committee’s unanimous decision that he is not a danger to society.” Clint sank to his knees, overjoyed that he would be able to watch his children grow up.

“In the case of Scott Edward Harris Lang, it is this committee’s unanimous decision that he is not a danger to society.” Scott jumped up and began to dance, happy to not be going back to prison.

“In the case of Samuel Thomas Wilson, it is this committee’s unanimous decision that he is not a danger to society.” Sam sat in shock, not believing that he was free.

“In the case of Natasha Alianova Romanoff, it is this committee’s majority vote that she is not a danger to society.” Nat burst into tears over hearing her name be cleared.

“In the case of Thor Odinson, it is this committee’s majority vote that he is not a danger to society.” The God of Thunder stood and began to laugh.

“That’s our girl!” he bellowed, pulling Natasha and Tony into a hug.

“In the case of Doctor Robert Bruce Banner, it is this committee’s majority vote that he is not a danger to society.” Bruce was frozen like Sam, not wanting to move in case it was all a dream.

“In the case of Wanda Maximoff, it is this committee’s majority vote that she is not a danger to society.” Wanda fell to her knees as well, murmuring in Sokovian. Evie’s name was mentioned, and everyone figured she was more than likely worshipping the ground that the doctor walked on.

“In the case of Captain Steven Grant Rogers, it is this committee’s majority vote that he is not a danger to society.” Steve felt Sam clap him on the back, but he couldn’t move he was so surprised.

“In the case of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, it is this committee’s majority vote that he is not a danger to society.” Bucky jumped up with Alice and swung her around in joy.

“We’re free! We’re all free!” he yelled before kissing Alice deeply. Steve finally stood and grabbed them both in a hug, not giving a damn that the kiss was progressing in his arms.

“Quiet! They’re speaking again!” Scott yelled, and everyone fell silent.

“Doctor Collins, I know you most likely have a celebration to get to, but I must warn you. Should any of the Avengers commit any acts of terrorism or break any laws from here on out, there will be no second chances. For any of you. Yes, as you have cleared them, your word is their bond. They go away and so do you.”  The Team exchanged a worried look.

“I understand sir. They want nothing more than to save the world, so I highly doubt they will do anything to put it in harm’s way.” Evie looked ecstatic over freeing them all, and it didn’t seem to phase her that if they did something wrong, she would go away too.

“Thank you. This hearing is now adjourned.” The gavel sounded and it was all over.

Evie had single-handedly cleared all of the Avengers.

The Team all hugged each other, over the moon that they were free.

“That woman is, without a doubt, fucking royalty and shall be treated as such,” Scott exclaimed to everyone's amusement.

“Oh, absolutely. Now, if you excuse me, I have a family I need to go see.” Clint waved as he headed to the elevator, not stopping for anyone.

“Hey, I'm coming too. I'll drop you on my way to California,” Scott called as he followed him.

“I'm gonna take a page outta their books and go enjoy my freedom. Anyone wanna come with?” Nat asked. The remaining members all looked around, torn between wanting to get outside and waiting for Evie to come back.

“You guys go. I'll stay here and wait for her,” Bruce said. Everyone else nodded before booking it out the door.

@suz-123 @avenger-nerd-mom @aglarelen @amaranthuspetals @amillionfandoms-onlyoneme @bad-wolf87 @bolontiku @brighterlightss @buckybarnesappreciationsociety @buckyywiththegoodhair @caplansteverogers @captainradicalpassion @caramell0w @celeb-fess @delicatecapnerd @doloreschanal @donnaintx @earinafae @etts21 @ghostssss @girlbehindthecameraposts @gramaeryebard @jhangelface0523 @kimistry27 @liz-pbnz @loki-god-of-my-life @magellan-88 @marvel-trash07 @pegasusdragontiger @punkfrog @ruinerofcheese @ryverpenrad @sarahp879 @silver-starburst @the-real-kellymonster @4theluvofall  @jamesbarnesappreciationsociety  @stars8melanin  @getinmelanin011  @honey-bee-holly   @lostinspace33  @dustycelt  @avengedqueen26 @amandarosemire  @diinofayce  @sillinessinseattle @lookwhatyoumademequeue  @jewels2876

[slamsams-blog]

Casino Royale - #24WeeksofBond

The year was 2006, 4 years after what would be the great Pierce Brosnan’s final performance as James Bond.  We (nor Pierce) knew it was going to be his last.  After Die Another Day, Pierce actually publicly stated that he was going to return for another film...but Michael G. Wilson and Barbara Broccoli had different plans.  Plans to shake things up a bit, start anew, wipe the slate clean, or whatever euphemism you can think of.  The Bond series was starting to grow stale...the cheesy lines, the over sexualized female characters, the over the top gadgets, the aging leading man.  It was all running against a new action series that would change the way Bond would be presented, that series was “The Bourne Identity”.  

The Bourne films had somewhat of a stripped down package when it came to spectacle.  They were able to capture the intensity and thrill of an action film without the use of CGI or big dramatic action scenes.  Instead, the camera was hand held to give it a jittery cinematic quality, the fights were hard hitting and raw, the characters were dirty and unpolished, and the viewers loved it.  It was fresh - unlike James Bond.  Things needed to change, the market was shifting, the storytelling was getting more real and up close.  The call was made to unceremoniously dump Pierce Brosnan for a young upstart named Daniel Craig. 

Little was known about this man, he had just come off an independent action film called Layer Cake and had starred in big box office hits such as Steven Spielbergs “Munich” and Sam Mendez’s “Road to Perdition”.  Still, he wasn’t widely known, the only thing people knew about him was that he was...gasp...BLONDE!  Man oh man, did people raise a stink about this.  Bond is supposed to have jet black hair, this is BULLS*#%!  I didn’t care at the time, but I just had no idea who the man was, and the reveal to me was a bit anti-climactic.  But they sure made all the nay sayers eat their words as Daniel Craig has widely been considered the best Bond of all time.  He has certainly become my favorite.

The plan was to start from square one, retell the story of Bond.  How did Bond get to be 007?  The only way they could retell the story of Bond, was to go back to the very first novel written by Ian Fleming, a novel that had only been filmed as a farce decades prior.  It was time to make Casino Royale as it should be told.  I was pretty pumped about this, I always knew of Casino Royale but only as a movie that wasn’t to be taken seriously.  It was nice to finally be introduced to the story and to be able to erase whatever legacy Casino Royale had before.

I love this movie.  It is just so beautifully done and it does what it is supposed to do, which is tell the story of how Bond becomes 007.  Breaking from tradition, (much to my dismay) we do not open with the famous gun barrel sequence.  Something we wouldn’t get until Craig’s fourth Bond film.  Instead we open up on Bond in a mans office who is betraying MI6.  The guy says “you’re not a double 0 because you’ve got no kills, dawg.”  We then get flashes of the guys contact Bond is ruthlessly fighting (in very Bourne fashion).  Apparently it only takes 2 kill to become a double 0.  Bond kills the guy in the office, and his contact...Bond is now 007 - but he’s not QUITE 007 yet.

The best part about the first few Craig movies is that, yes his status is 007 now, but there is much more to learn about being an agent than getting your kills and finishing a job.  There is finesse, there is restraint, there is an uncompromising dedication to the job and to your country, that Bond still has yet to learn and right now - Bond is as sloppy as Manwich.

This movie is about an accountant named Le Chiffre (Mads Mikkelsen) who invests terrorists money in the stock market.  Le Chiffre’s plans for making an airlines stock plummet get mucked up by James Bond who, on his own, has followed a trail that led right to him.  So Le Chiffre attempts to recoup the funds by hosting a high stakes poker game with a 10 million dollar buy in.  Le Chiffre is a math wizard which makes him almost unbeatable at poker, but Bond is sent to get a spot in the game to make sure Le Chiffre does not win.  Mads is absolutely perfect in this role.  He plays Le Chiffre with such class and has such a wonderfully menacing look to him.

While Bond is en route to Montenegro for the Poker game, Vesper Lynd (Eva Green) comes to the table to introduce herself as the money.  Vesper works for MI6 and is the one in charge of handling the dough.  Vesper has a bit of distain for this plan as she sees it as a risk, because if Le Chiffre wins, MI6 will have directly financed terrorism.  Bond and Vesper trade barbs and VERBALLY dress each other down, showing how good Bond is at reading people - which makes him a good card player.  Vesper is still not sold.  The relationship between Bond and Vesper is so unique because we are seeing an unpolished Bond who still has feelings and is starting to have feelings for Vesper.  Although it starts getting a little over the top when he sets his password to “Vesper” and names a drink after “Vesper” - it’s like ok, maybe one of those would’ve sufficed. 

The best part about this movie besides all the amazing action sequences, is the card game.  Somehow, they have managed to turn a game of poker into an intense and thrilling sequence where we see Bond trip and fall, almost die, put on a new jacket, and get back on the horse.  I love the way we are taken on the journey to where Bond is figuring out Le Chiffre’s tell, so much so that Bond goes all in on Le Chiffre because Bond THINKS he knows what’s up, but we find out the Le Chiffre was playing Bond.  Bond loses everything.  Bond then suddenly grabs a knife and is in last ditch attempt mode, but suddenly one of the card players stops him...ITS FELIX, WITH TWO LEGS!!

We haven’t seen Felix since License To Kill, so this was a treat.  I love Jeffery Wright as Felix, and I hope he sticks around after Craig leaves.  Anyway, Felix helps Bond get back in, and then Bond gets poisoned and goes into cardiac arrest, only to be saved by Vesper.  Bond eventually beats Le Chiffre with a royal flush and Le Chiffre’s days are numbered.  What a beautiful sequence this whole thing is.  It’s one of my favorite acts in all of Bond history.  Just a quiet, but absolutely thrilling game of high stakes poker.  

I could go on and on, but Bond ends up quitting MI6 because he wants to be with Vesper for the rest of his life.  Bond is in love.  Little would we know that Vesper has actually betrayed Bond by giving an account number that only she has access too so that she can withdraw the money and deliver it to the people who are ordering her to get it.  Vesper’s back story is that she had a boyfriend who got kidnapped and Vesper was being blackmailed.  Unfortunately for Vesper, she started falling for Bond as well, but she had a job to do.  Vesper was definitely one of the ones to remember, it’s a real pity that she ends up being a baddie.

This whole movie we are seeing all of Bond’s actions, and consequences of those actions, shape who Bond will eventually become come “Spectre”.  While it had bothered me that they decided to connect the Craig films with some over arching of characters and stories - I’m now finding myself appreciating the fact that they didn’t give it all to us right away.  They didn’t turn Bond into Bond in one movie, it’s takes 3 movies to get the Bond we love.  While we tend to live in a short term world these days with the need for instant gratification, it’s nice to get some long term storytelling.  And now that we are a few years removed from it, I can really sit back now and respect the risk it took to break from all the tradition and give us a Bond that had some depth, meaning, and art.

I also love the song “You know My Name” by the late, great Chris Cornell who rocks that song.  One of my favorite Bond themes ever with an artistic title sequence incorporating the playing card aspect of the film into it.

All of everyone’s worries about Daniel Craig being Bond quickly evaporated with Casino Royale, and it became an instant favorite.  It’s in my top four for sure...EDIT: After watching this tonight, I have decided that I like this film better than Skyfall - top 3 for sure.  And because this film had the novel behind it, there is just a little more meat to the story than your typical fresh idea Bond films.  Casino Royale gave us a fresh start with James Bond, a fresh start we didn’t really know we wanted until we got it - and I am so ready for the journey to continue.  I will be so sad when Craig is gone, but I’m so lucky I got to be here for it!

That’s it for me, what did you all think? 

24 Weeks of Bond will return next Monday with - 

The Living Daylights

[jojuarez26]

We fell in love in a hopeless place part10

Divergent fanfiction: Eric/OC

Mature content and strong language

I don't own any part of Divergent

@pathybo @tigpooh67 @lunaschild2016 @beautifulramblingbrains @clublulu333 @ericdauntless @emmysrandomthoughts @jaihardy @frecklefaceb @sparklemichele @captstefanbrandt @ariwolff14 @mom2reesie @iammarylastar @kenzieam @kiiiimberlyriiiicker1995 @scorpio2009 @badassbaker

I was riding the train to Erudite when a notification went off on my tablet. It was the lab results from my personal case. I debated opening it. I probably shouldn't know the answers before I am in front of Jeanine. I struggled with a decision to open the email or not.

I took a deep breath and hit the icon. I just new I would regret my decision. And I did. In front of me in black and white was the answers I had been dreading.

How much more damage was this bitch going to do to my life? I probably didn't want to know. But what I do know is for the last three years a very critical piece of information had been with held from me. Who knew what damage and how much was done.

A fought back the sick feeling in my stomach. This can't be happening. How did I not see this coming? I had to hang my head out the train as I emptied the contents of my stomach.

I wasn't sure how to go about righting this situation. The real question was did I even want to? No, I absofuckinglutely did NOT want to even acknowledge it. But I had too. It was the right thing to do. However now was not the time. I had to shove this shit back down and concentrate on fixing the current problems on my plate. Fuck my life.

I sat stock still glaring at Jeanine's assistant Lucinda. I knew her from when I was in school. She was actually the first person I kissed and the lunatic stalked me for the next four years.

Lucinda was batting her creepy eyes at me when the office door finally opened. There stood April. Another if my past indiscretion I would love to forget. What the fuck. What was this bitch playing at?

"Jeanine will see you now," April smiled maliciously.

I stood and walked towards the doorway she was oh so conveniently was post in the middle of. April made no attempt to move. They wanted to play games? Fine let's play. I made sure to shoulder check her, hard as I squeeze past her. I heard the squeak she let out and smiled.

"Dick," she muttered under her breath.

"Whore," I muttered back.

There sat the ultimate queen of destruction in all her arrogant glory. I hadn't been in here since I had just been appointed leader. Nothing had changed. It still felt cold, clinical and uninviting as ever. Most people weren't privy to the knowledge of my intense hatred for Jeanine.

She had carried on a very illicit affair with my father for five years. The year I turned eighteen, just months before my choosing ceremony, he tried to end it for good. That did not go well with Jeanine. It was oh so convenient timing my father was killed in a lab explosion three weeks later. Mother and I are still convinced she had him murdered.

"Eric. How lovely to see you," Jeanine's voiced dripped with sarcasm, her face in her trademark sneer.

"Cut the shit Jeanine. We both know there is no love lost between and would rather stick ourselves in the eyes with hot pokers," I replied lazily.

"Always such crude language. I suppose Dauntless really does suite you. Pity, such a brilliant mind."

Rolling my eyes I handed her the folder I had brought with me. I wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible. I didn't know how long I was capable of reigning in my temper.

"Let's get to the point shall we. Care to explain how one would get their hands on an Erudite use only serum and manage to get it into Dauntless."

Jeanine skimmed the papers in the folder frowning. I could tell she was slightly irritated, about which part I didn't know.

"I'm sorry Eric but I have no clear answer for you. According to the lab report the woman was indeed inoculated with a serum that is specific to Erudite use. However it should be near impossible for a non-Erudite member to procure such a serum. I do not recognize the woman in the photo and all documented serums made in our labs are accounted for."

She in turn handed me an inventory list to back up her claim.

"We both know these inventory sheets are far to easy to manipulate to be accurate. For arguements sake let's say this is accurate. Who else could have the means and know how to produce this particular serum?"

Jeanine took on first an offended, then angry look. She hated being challenged when she thought she made herself clear.

"Still think you have the superior intellect I see. There is no other way for a person to reproduce or have access to the material to complete such a serum. How is your mother by the way? She has become quite the recluse in the last year " she gave a smile that would frighten the dead. It just pissed me off.

"Obviously somebody was smarter than you than. How the fuck else did Samantha Miller end up with it in her system?" I all but growled at her.

Jeanine never even skipped a beat before her next dig at me flew out of her poisonous mouth.

"Why are you wasting your time and effort on the likes of a lost cause. Would not your time better be spent observing someone like say, Dara? Now that is someone worth loosing sleep over. Would you not agree?"

I froze. Of course she would know I was close to catching Dara in her lies. How much or what exactly she knew was a whole nother story.

"I will be back with a warrant and a team. Make no mistake, I will tear Erudite to the ground in order to find ALL the answers I need." With that I abruptly stood and marched for the door.

"Eric. Becareful what mysteries you go poking around in. You may not like all the answers you find," she called out as I left.

April once again stood in my way. This time I out right shoved her ass. Who was she going to complain to? Her husband that she constantly used as a door mat? Jeanine? Whatever. I stormed out the front door and towards the train tracks.

I would get to the bottom of this one way or another. Even if I had to start beating answers out of people. Instincts told me that this was a combined joint effort between the Millers and the Matthews. I also believe Candor was covering it up. Whatever this was all about, it was big. It was also something that would most likely rock Chicago as a whole to it's core.

As I landed on the roof top of Dauntless my cell began to ring. Looking down to see it was Dr.Marx made me feel uneasy.

"Coulter," I snapped into the phone.

"Eric. I need your permission to give Samantha a heavy sedative." He sounded distressed.

"Why? What the fuck is the problem?" I growled into the phone.

"She woke from a nightmare and I have not been able to calm her down or get her to comprehend that she is safe and awake. That was over an hour ago.'

"Shit. I'll be there in ten. I will make a decision from there." I hung up and sprinted the rest of the way to the infirmary.

Sam once again was restrained to the bed. Sobbing uncontrollably calling out for her mother to please not leave her. The sight of her in such distress made me angry and overwhelmed.

Carefully I appoarched her. She looked up at me and cried out for her mother again.

"Will you find my mom please. Tell her I'm sorry and I won't do it again. I just want to go home please!!"

"Sam sweetheart, it's Eric. Do you remember me."

This had her suddenly pause and look into my eyes. I could see she was struggling to try to make sense of it.

"Eric? I-I don't think I know you. Do you know where my mom is."

I took a deep breath and sat down on the bed. I took her face in my hands and looked deep into her eyes. A flash of recognition registered in her eyes.

"You have the most beautiful gray eyes. They make me feel safe," she whispered.

"That's right. We are in this together and I am going to keep you safe," I smiled reassuring her.

"You promised to not leave me and you didn't. Your that man aren't you?" She now seemed to relax and quit trying to fight the restraints.

"Yes Sam that is right. I'm here to protect you and I have promised not to leave." I started to stroke her face.

Sam's eyes fluttered shut and she leaned into my touch. She inhaled deeply and evened out her breathing before opening her eyes again. Slowly it seemed like her vision was starting to focus.

"Will you untie my hands and lay down with me for a few minutes?" Her voice had turned small and child like.

"Will you let the doctor give you some medicine first? If you do I will untie your hands and lie down with you for a few minutes. Is that ok?"

She thought for a moment before nodding her head yes. I stood up and waved the doctor in.

"Just her regular meds and a mild sedative," I instructed before turning around to untie the restraints.

"Samantha. I'm glad you seem to like Eric. He is a good friend of yours. I have your medicine and I'm going to give you a shot. It's going to make you a little sleepy, but you should feel better when you wake up." The doctor spoke to her in a gentle but authoritative voice.

"Eric makes me feel safe. I'm not sure why but I trust him," Sam sounded a little unsure of herself.

After she took her meds and received the sedative I laid down next to her and she instantly curled up next to me. After less then five minutes she was asleep at which point the doctor pulled up a chair and sat down.

"What makes her detach from reality like that," I wanted to know.

"Mostly fear. Some of it is from the trauma of reliving Gina's death. Her mind can't handle it, shuts itself down. I must say I have never come across anyone who can calm her down like that. Until you that is. I've also never seen so relaxed and comfortable with touching someone or allowing herself to be touched. She has alot of trust and faith in you."

I wasn't sure how I felt about that revelation. Part of me was glad that she trusted me, I wanted her to feel safe and be able to feel like she could trust someone. The other part of me was apprehensive and uncomfortable. I don't want let her down. I don't want to be another one of life's disappointments for her. Then I reminded myself that I am not meant to be her happy ending. I didn't want to be anyone's happy ending. Or did I?

[reomanet]

Andrew Sullivan: America’s New Religions

Andrew Sullivan: America’s New Religions

Political cults are filling the space left by the decline of organized faiths. Photo: Loren Elliott/Getty Images Everyone has a religion. It is, in fact, impossible not to have a religion if you are a human being. It’s in our genes and has expressed itself in every culture, in every age, including our own secularized husk of a society. By religion, I mean something quite specific: a practice not a theory; a way of life that gives meaning, a meaning that cannot really be defended without recourse to some transcendent value, undying “Truth” or God (or gods). Which is to say, even today’s atheists are expressing an attenuated form of religion. Their denial of any God is as absolute as others’ faith in God, and entails just as much a set of values to live by — including, for some, daily rituals like meditation, a form of prayer. (There’s a reason, I suspect, that many brilliant atheists, like my friends Bob Wright and Sam Harris are so influenced by Buddhism and practice Vipassana meditation and mindfulness. Buddhism’s genius is that it is a religion without God.) In his highly entertaining book, The Seven Types of Atheism , released in October in the U.S., philosopher John Gray puts it this way: “Religion is an attempt to find meaning in events, not a theory that tries to explain the universe.” It exists because we humans are the only species, so far as we can know, who have evolved to know explicitly that, one day in the future, we will die. And this existential fact requires some way of reconciling us to it while we are alive. This is why science cannot replace it. Science does not tell you how to live, or what life is about; it can provide hypotheses and tentative explanations, but no ultimate meaning. Art can provide an escape from the deadliness of our daily doing, but, again, appreciating great art or music is ultimately an act of wonder and contemplation, and has almost nothing to say about morality and life. Ditto history. My late friend, Christopher Hitchens, with a certain glee, gave me a copy of his book, God Is Not Great , a fabulous grab bag of religious insanity and evil over time, which I enjoyed immensely and agreed with almost entirely. But the fact that religion has been so often abused for nefarious purposes — from burning people at the stake to enabling child rape to crashing airplanes into towers — does not resolve the question of whether the meaning of that religion is true. It is perfectly possible to see and record the absurdities and abuses of man-made institutions and rituals, especially religious ones, while embracing a way of life that these evil or deluded people preached but didn’t practice. Fanaticism is not synonymous with faith; it is merely faith at its worst. That’s what I told Hitch: great book, made no difference to my understanding of my own faith or anyone else’s. Sorry, old bean, but try again. Seduced by scientism, distracted by materialism, insulated, like no humans before us, from the vicissitudes of sickness and the ubiquity of early death, the post-Christian West believes instead in something we have called progress — a gradual ascent of mankind toward reason, peace, and prosperity — as a substitute in many ways for our previous monotheism. We have constructed a capitalist system that turns individual selfishness into a collective asset and showers us with earthly goods; we have leveraged science for our own health and comfort. Our ability to extend this material bonanza to more and more people is how we define progress; and progress is what we call meaning. In this respect, Steven Pinker is one of the most religious writers I’ve ever admired. His faith in reason is as complete as any fundamentalist’s belief in God. But none of this material progress beckons humans to a way of life beyond mere satisfaction of our wants and needs. And this matters. We are a meaning-seeking species. Gray recounts the experiences of two extraordinarily brilliant nonbelievers, John Stuart Mill and Bertrand Russell, who grappled with this deep problem. Here’s Mill describing the nature of what he called “ A Crisis in My Mental History ”: “I had what might truly be called an object in life: to be a reformer of the world. … This did very well for several years, during which the general improvement going on in the world and the idea of myself as engaged with others in struggling to promote it, seemed enough to fill up an interesting and animated existence. But the time came when I awakened from this as from a dream … In this frame of mind it occurred to me to put the question directly to myself: ‘Suppose that all your objects in life were realized; that all the changes in institutions and opinions that you are looking forward to, could be completely effected at this very instant; would this be a great joy and happiness to you?’ And an irrepressible self-consciousness distinctly answered: ‘No!’” At that point, this architect of our liberal order, this most penetrating of minds, came to the conclusion: “I seemed to have nothing left to live for.” It took a while for him to recover. Russell, for his part, abandoned Christianity at the age of 18, for the usual modern reasons, but the question of ultimate meaning still nagged at him. One day, while visiting the sick wife of a colleague, he described what happened: “Suddenly the ground seemed to give away beneath me, and I found myself in quite another region. Within five minutes I went through some such reflections as the following: the loneliness of the human soul is unendurable; nothing can penetrate it except the highest intensity of the sort of love that religious teachers have preached; whatever does not spring from this motive is harmful, or at best useless.” I suspect that most thinking beings end up with this notion of intense love as a form of salvation and solace as a kind of instinct . Those whose minds have been opened by psychedelics affirm this truth even further. I saw a bumper sticker the other day. It said “Loving kindness is my religion.” But the salient question is: why? Our modern world tries extremely hard to protect us from the sort of existential moments experienced by Mill and Russell. Netflix, air-conditioning, sex apps, Alexa, kale, Pilates, Spotify, Twitter … they’re all designed to create a world in which we rarely get a second to confront ultimate meaning — until a tragedy occurs, a death happens, or a diagnosis strikes. Unlike any humans before us, we take those who are much closer to death than we are and sequester them in nursing homes, where they cannot remind us of our own fate in our daily lives. And if you pressed, say, the liberal elites to explain what they really believe in — and you have to look at what they do most fervently — you discover, in John Gray’s mordant view of Mill , that they do, in fact, have “an orthodoxy — the belief in improvement that is the unthinking faith of people who think they have no religion.” But the banality of the god of progress, the idea that the best life is writing explainers for Vox in order to make the world a better place, never quite slakes the thirst for something deeper. Liberalism is a set of procedures, with an empty center, not a manifestation of truth, let alone a reconciliation to mortality. But, critically, it has long been complemented and supported in America by a religion distinctly separate from politics, a tamed Christianity that rests, in Jesus’ formulation, on a distinction between God and Caesar. And this separation is vital for liberalism, because if your ultimate meaning is derived from religion, you have less need of deriving it from politics or ideology or trusting entirely in a single, secular leader. It’s only when your meaning has been secured that you can allow politics to be merely procedural. So what happens when this religious rampart of the entire system is removed? I think what happens is illiberal politics. The need for meaning hasn’t gone away, but without Christianity, this yearning looks to politics for satisfaction. And religious impulses, once anchored in and tamed by Christianity, find expression in various political cults. These political manifestations of religion are new and crude, as all new cults have to be. They haven’t been experienced and refined and modeled by millennia of practice and thought. They are evolving in real time. And like almost all new cultish impulses, they demand a total and immediate commitment to save the world. Now look at our politics. We have the cult of Trump on the right, a demigod who, among his worshippers, can do no wrong. And we have the cult of social justice on the left, a religion whose followers show the same zeal as any born-again Evangelical. They are filling the void that Christianity once owned, without any of the wisdom and culture and restraint that Christianity once provided. For many, especially the young, discovering a new meaning in the midst of the fallen world is thrilling. And social-justice ideology does everything a religion should. It offers an account of the whole: that human life and society and any kind of truth must be seen entirely as a function of social power structures, in which various groups have spent all of human existence oppressing other groups. And it provides a set of practices to resist and reverse this interlocking web of oppression — from regulating the workplace and policing the classroom to checking your own sin and even seeking to control language itself. I think of non-PC gaffes as the equivalent of old swear words. Like the puritans who were agape when someone said “goddamn,” the new faithful are scandalized when someone says something “problematic.” Another commonality of the zealot then and now: humorlessness . And so the young adherents of the Great Awokening exhibit the zeal of the Great Awakening . Like early modern Christians, they punish heresy by banishing sinners from society or coercing them to public demonstrations of shame, and provide an avenue for redemption in the form of a thorough public confession of sin. “Social justice” theory requires the admission of white privilege in ways that are strikingly like the admission of original sin. A Christian is born again; an activist gets woke. To the belief in human progress unfolding through history — itself a remnant of Christian eschatology — it adds the Leninist twist of a cadre of heroes who jump-start the revolution. The same cultish dynamic can be seen on the right. There, many profess nominal Christianity and yet demonstrate every day that they have left it far behind. Some exist in a world without meaning altogether, and that fate is never pretty. I saw this most vividly when examining the opioid epidemic . People who have lost religion and are coasting along on materialism find they have few interior resources to keep going when crisis hits. They have no place of refuge, no spiritual safe space from which to gain perspective, no God to turn to. Many have responded to the collapse of meaning in dark times by simply and logically numbing themselves to death, extinguishing existential pain through ever-stronger painkillers that ultimately kill the pain of life itself. Yes, many Evangelicals are among the holiest and most quietly devoted people out there. Some have bravely resisted the cult. But their leaders have turned Christianity into a political and social identity, not a lived faith, and much of their flock — a staggering 81 percent voted for Trump — has signed on. They have tribalized a religion explicitly built by Jesus as anti-tribal. They have turned to idols — including their blasphemous belief in America as God’s chosen country. They have embraced wealth and nationalism as core goods, two ideas utterly anathema to Christ. They are indifferent to the destruction of the creation they say they believe God made. And because their faith is unmoored but their religious impulse is strong, they seek a replacement for religion. This is why they could suddenly rally to a cult called Trump. He may be the least Christian person in America, but his persona met the religious need their own faiths had ceased to provide. The terrible truth of the last three years is that the fresh appeal of a leader-cult has overwhelmed the fading truths of Christianity. This is why they are so hard to reach or to persuade and why nothing that Trump does or could do changes their minds. You cannot argue logically with a religion — which is why you cannot really argue with social-justice activists either. And what’s interesting is how support for Trump is greater among those who do not regularly attend church than among those who do. And so we’re mistaken if we believe that the collapse of Christianity in America has led to a decline in religion. It has merely led to religious impulses being expressed by political cults. Like almost all new cultish impulses, they see no boundary between politics and their religion. And both cults really do minimize the importance of the individual in favor of either the oppressed group or the leader. And this is how they threaten liberal democracy. They do not believe in the primacy of the individual, they believe the ends justify the means, they do not allow for doubt or reason, and their religious politics can brook no compromise. They demonstrate, to my mind, how profoundly liberal democracy has actually depended on the complement of a tolerant Christianity to sustain itself — as many earlier liberals (Tocqueville, for example) understood. It is Christianity that came to champion the individual conscience against the collective, which paved the way for individual rights. It is in Christianity that the seeds of Western religious toleration were first sown. Christianity is the only monotheism that seeks no sway over Caesar, that is content with the ultimate truth over the immediate satisfaction of power. It was Christianity that gave us successive social movements, which enabled more people to be included in the liberal project, thus renewing it. It was on these foundations that liberalism was built, and it is by these foundations it has endured. The question we face in contemporary times is whether a political system built upon such a religion can endure when belief in that religion has become a shadow of its future self. Will the house still stand when its ramparts are taken away? I’m beginning to suspect it can’t. And won’t. What’s Left? Here are a couple of questions for Democrats about two of their potential 2020 candidates: What motivated Kirsten Gillibrand’s widely noted tweet this week? And why is there so much discontent on the left with Elizabeth Warren? On Tuesday evening, Gillibrand tweeted : “Our future is female. Intersectional. Powered by our belief in one another. And we’re just getting started.” I get the point: Women are succeeding more than ever before, are poised to do even better, and this is a great thing. But why express this as if men are also not part of the future? And “intersectional”? It’s telling that, in Democratic circles, this is such a mainstream word now that she doesn’t have to explain it to anyone. Gillibrand’s evolution, of course, has been long in the works — and reveals, I’d say, where the Democrats are going. When Gillibrand was a member of Congress, she identified as a Blue Dog conservative Democrat. She once campaigned in defense of gun rights, was in favor of cracking down on illegal immigration, voted against the 2008 bank bailout, and opposed marriage equality. Fast-forward a decade and look at the change. She first reversed her previous anti-gay positions, and was even instrumental in ending the gay ban in the military. By 2015, she invited Emma Sulkowicz to the State of the Union, a person who alleged they had been raped at Columbia University, despite Columbia’s, the NYPD’s, and the district attorney general’s investigations ending without a finding of rape, indeed finding “a lack of reasonable suspicion.” On social media, Sulkowicz was known as “Mattress Girl,” carrying an extra-long twin around the campus to exemplify the burden they felt (Sulkowicz identifies as nonbinary) and to pressure Columbia into expelling her alleged rapist. Gillibrand, who once opposed allowing illegal immigrants to get driving licenses, is also now a supporter of abolishing ICE. And, of course, she famously engineered the resignation of one of the more talented Democrats in the Senate, Al Franken, because of a forced stage kiss, allegations of groping, and a photo of him pretending to grab a fellow USO entertainer’s boobs. We won’t ever get to the bottom of all that because Gillibrand demanded Franken’s resignation merely on the basis of allegations, and within a day, Franken had resigned, before the Senate Ethics Committee had finished an investigation. “Enough is enough,” she declared , invoking the “existing power structure of society” to end due process for Franken. I do not begrudge Gillibrand for her transformation, but it is hard to believe that political calculation was absent. She’s running for president, and invoking the language of critical gender theory, she seems to believe, will help her in the primaries. Then there’s the Democratic backlash against Elizabeth Warren. You’d think it would be about her terrible political judgment, as demonstrated by her spectacular self-immolation on the “issue” of her claimed Native American ancestry. But no! The reason many Democrats have turned on her is that she used a DNA test at all to prove her family lore. From the New York Times : “She has yet to allay criticism from grass-roots progressive groups, liberal political operatives and other potential 2020 allies who complain that she put too much emphasis on the controversial field of racial science — and, in doing so, played into Mr. Trump’s hands … Ms. Warren has also troubled advocates of racial equality and justice, who say her attempt to document ethnicity with a D.N.A test gave validity to the idea that race is determined by blood — a bedrock principle for white supremacists and others who believe in racial hierarchies.” The social-justice movement’s suspicion of science, especially genetics, is at work here. And it is not “racial science” to examine your DNA to see which genetic subpopulation in the world you belong to, or where your ancestors lived. It’s science. So if you send off for a 23andMe test, in the view of many Democrats, you’re a white supremacist! This seems to be where the Democratic Party now is. Hunker down for a second term of Donald J. Trump. A Moment of Truth I almost never cry in movies, even tear-jerkers. But the other night, I sat down and watched Darkest Hour , the movie, now available on HBO, that follows (well, kinda) John Lukacs’s account of the five days in May 1940 when Britain, its entire army stuck in France and its air force still woefully unequal to the Luftwaffe, stared into the abyss. Many in the elite believed that some kind of accommodation with Hitler was the only option — keeping him at bay and preserving much of the Empire. That policy of a peace treaty was, to my mind, a highly persuasive way forward in the naked short-term interest of the United Kingdom. Lord Halifax famously championed it in a vital cabinet meeting. Something in Churchill resisted. There’s a factually ridiculous but dramatically powerful scene when Winston jumps out of his official car and into the tube, where the passengers greet him first with British politeness (no mass selfies back then), and then begin a conversation. Churchill lays out the reasons for a peace treaty and asks the Londoners what they think of dealing with Hitler this way. “Never!” they shout back. “Never!” Interests be damned. A figure like Hitler has to be confronted and defeated. To slink away from this moral obligation violated their sense of patriotism, their understanding of what Britain meant to a world suffocating in tyranny. The great symbol of this refusal to appease was, of course, the rescue of the troops from Dunkirk by hundreds and hundreds of ordinary Brits in various boats and ships, defying Nazi control of the air to save their “boys” as they called them. It was an upwelling of moral purpose, of real grit against all the odds, and as I watched Gary Oldman deliver the “Blood, Toil, Tears and Sweat” speech that Churchill gave in the Commons, my eyes were swimming. Why had my response been so intense, I asked myself when my bout of blubbering had finally subsided? Part of it, of course, is my still-lingering love of the island I grew up in; part is my love of Churchill himself, in all his flaws and greatness. But I think it was mainly about how the people of Britain shook off the moral decadence of the foreign policy of the 1930s, how, beneath the surface, there were depths of feeling and determination that we never saw until an existential crisis hit, and an extraordinary figure seized the moment. And I realized how profoundly I yearn for something like that to reappear in America. The toll of Trump is so deep. In so many ways, he has come close to delegitimizing this country and entire West, aroused the worst instincts within us, fed fear rather than confronting it, and has been rewarded for his depravity in the most depressing way by everything that is foul on the right and nothing that is noble. I want to believe in America again, its decency and freedom, its hostility, bred in its bones, toward tyranny of any kind, its kindness and generosity. I need what someone once called the audacity of hope. I’ve witnessed this America ever since I arrived — especially its embrace of immigrants — which is why it is hard to see Trump tearing migrant children from their parents. That America is still out there, I tell myself, as the midterms demonstrated. It can build. But who, one wonders, is our Churchill? And when will he or she emerge? See you next Friday. Tags: interesting times president trump social justice kirsten gillibrand elizabeth warren Andrew Sullivan: America’s New Religions Most

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[4lorne2]

Desire

I find that in conversation, when people ask me about myself in the future, I tend to answer in a detached manner: as if it were someone else. For example, when asked whether or not I believe that I will be able to make a living in the field that I am pursuing, I list all the potential opportunities I might have, but don’t express a strong belief in any particular future.

The reason for this is that I really can’t see myself in the future. I can’t imagine myself doing the jobs that I might qualify for. My personal philosophy is essentially “maybe I can do it”: which is to say I leave options open to see what happens. I don’t commit strongly to anything, and even what I do work towards I tend to do so in half-measures.

Now, society tells me this is a problem. “Give it your all” is the familiar refrain in a plethora of media directed at children, but also by the self-help gurus and life coaches. I have two ways of looking at this. On paper, I have been successful in many of my endeavors, but personally, I have been a frequent outcast. Does it really matter if I’m an outsider? So far I have succeeded in many other aspects of life that don’t involve my personal ingratiation with my peers. I suppose it only matters if I myself want to be closer to other people.

But returning to society, there is another question that goes how willing society is to include outcasts. In a way, I take American individualism to an extreme, beyond American Puritanicalism to a kind of individualism of pure dissensus. If life is a practical art, a socially mediated performance, in some ways it helps to think ones life as an ironic deconstruction of Democratic Ideals. But deconstruction is cold, and ultimately ends in death, and as such, I do not spiral towards it entirely willingly. I want to be part of society to the extent that it will have me, but what I fear with grim disquiet is that society will not have me at all.

Ultimately, the question becomes do I need the coherence found in the certainty of incoherent destruction expressed in an act of critical practice, or put more plainly, do I need to see my life as a “work of art”? Or is there someway to break the metaphorical glass that houses the exhibit and ensures “perfection” without me having to give up on one of the only things I belief in.

I’m incredibly sensitive about belief. In many ways its all I, or any of us have. I have often flirted with outright cynicism, but more so than in recent years I am beginning to lose the kernel of hope that is at the center of my favorite philosophy, Nietzsche and Deleuze. In fact, It has been a somewhat crushing experience listening to the music of Father John Misty. His beautiful album Pure Comedy was just released in which he presents his scathing rebuke of Western Liberalism. To summarize with the use of the first and final songs on the album, human life is “pure comedy, like something that a madman would conceive” ... “but I look at you, as our second drinks arrive. The piano player’s playing this must be the place and its a miracle to be alive, one more time.” Evoking the squeals of gleeful children demanding another turn, for FJM it’s the companionship and the fulfillment of his desires that make it all worth it. “Play it again Sam.” However, FJM’s nod to the eternal return is predicated on a fulfilled desire that I struggle to believe in.

After watching the film 20th Century Women (2016), I discussed with my parents the ways in which I felt the film worked towards establishing a re-conception of masculinity for the 21st century. There’s a character in film played by Billy Crudup, who despite being the one man living with Annette Benning, is the only one who is not asked to help her son played by Lucas Jade Zumann become a man. Crudup’s character is not quite self-sufficient, relying on Benning’s hospitality, but he is thoroughly independent and largely ignored by the women who live in the house. Crudup is an island, he’s stable and dependable, but also boring and predictable. Ultimately, in his favor, he is sensitive and kind and that seems to be enough. Women come to visit and they leave just as suddenly, but he keeps going, and he’ll remain a kind of constant, even after he starts his own pottery store and marry’s two time (the ending ascribed to him via voice over). I said to my parents that so much of society, and patriarchal society especially, has functioned through the commodification, exchange, and possession of women. From Marcel Maus’s accounts of the bond that formed early societies in The Gift (the gift is a bride, of course) all the way to sexual objectification of women in contemporary media, women’s bodies and agency have been disciplined through socially constructed economies of desire. 

We have a somewhat rosy picture of desire, often celebrating it and brushing aside its dark side, but a history of patriarchy informs us that desire is a force that is done to others against their will (or to the detriment of their potential agency) as much as it is someone else’s ability to exercise their will. I am dubious that what I might think of as “my desires” are truly mine, and don’t belong to something I want no part of, but regardless, “my desires” are not free of consequence to others any more than my ability to fulfill said desires is guaranteed. You might try to reassure me,��‘you as just one person can’t do anything about the restrictive structures of gender and the demands they place upon our bodies. You can’t deny that you have inherited our cultural lust for the female body, just follow it, try it, it will make you happy and feel fulfilled.” And while I would agree that many many many many times I have wanted to “try it,” I don’t believe in it. These desires don’t give me hope. Ultimately, whether it is my insistence on countering the imposition of desire onto women’s bodies, or merely that I’ve lived too long without it happening, each and every day my  belief in the satisfaction of my sexual desires gets more untenable.

Upon hearing what I had to say about Crudup’s character, my dad asked me, what about a geeky guy, a guy who women don’t seek out. I told him that that’s me, and that what happens is that they are alone on their island. My dad said that that was sad and that he hoped I didn’t feel like I had to hold myself to that, but unfortunately, that is more the way I feel everyday. Being alone for my principles is ultimately the only price left to pay. I may not believe in the ability to adequately address my sexual desires, whether practically or conceptually, but I do believe in desire. In A Thousand Plateaus, Gilles Deleuze describes desire not as a lack that needs to be filled, but as a force that is satisfied with itself and does not depend on any concrete end or external means. I’ve felt this kind of desire before, and while it pains me that in my life it is more frequently associated with media constructions than with warm bodies, ultimately I take some solace in Deleuze, who never puts one “Plateau” of pleasure above any other, and thus never dictates the forms in which may flow. This is the image of desire that I believe in and that I have only rarely found this desire in my interactions with other people, I find it in other places and it at least gives me something to believe in. 

If I insisted on exploring these desires and their relations to other people, I begin to enter into actions that I can’t intellectually reconcile. I think that despite all my knowledge, all my sensitivity, and all my desire to contribute something to this world that I am sexist and a mysogynist. That I objectify women and objectify myself. As it relates to myself, as I said above, my belief is in my life as a snow globe or an exhibition. But I’m a person and even intellectually I can accept at some level that I can’t protect myself if I don’t want to be alone. But when I think about letting down these walls I remember that I’m no better than any other man and my desire would just be a burden placed upon someone else. 

I started looking at pornography when I was middle school, maybe 5th or 6th grade, which would mean when i was about 11 or 12 years old. I learned to masturbate from porn, although my dad did tell me what masturbation was first. I though the men were peeing on the women until I saw that the pee was white. I also remember some pleasurable friction applied to my penis on my own before I knew what would happen, but I had never followed that through to the point of climax, if it had even been possible. I distinctly remember seeing anal porn very young. I looked at cartoon porn often as well. I went through phases with what kind of pornography I was interested in, but at a certain point as I gradually moved through categories I got into rougher and more humiliating kind of pornography. I have watched what is called “facefucking” pornography primarily for several years. It’s distinct from “oral sex,” “blow jobs” or even “deep throating” because the man is the one thrusting into the woman mouth, rather than the woman performing oral sex on him. It seems evident that this kind of pornography is pretty darn dehumanizing. Treating a woman’s mouth as a sexual orifice to be penetrated is certainly transgressive, but it also distinctly eliminates the woman’s pleasure from the act of sex and robs her of the agency afforded to her as the active performer of the “blow job.” But it actually gets much worse. Not only is the woman stripped of her agency and her pleasure removed from the sexual scenario, in fact the woman’s displeasure becomes necessary to the mans pleasure. Clearly it is infused with S+M tendencies, and I did actually begin watching bondage porn through my watching of facefucking porn, but there’s something distinct about the woman’s discomfort in facefucking that remains particularly arousing. (In bondage, I do respond to restraints, as in the girl is restrained in uncomfortable positions, but a huge part of bondage is spanking, whipping, and otherwise hurting women which is not something I respond too outside of the context of penetrations. Hair pulling or slapping during penetration on the other hand is a turn on, as is forceful sex in general) Beyond mere oral penetration, one of the focuses of this kind of pornography is on gagging, and act that I can attest to as being quite unpleasant if a history of stomach bugs and vomiting are anything to go on. As the scene progresses, the woman’s eyes begin to tear, her make-up starts to run, her hair becomes disheveled: the elements composing her feminine mask start to dissolve and the act of sex is that which can alter and transform appearances. This happens even more graphically in what has been standardized as the most frequently employed face-fucking position, in which the women lies upside down on a bed or a couch with her leg up in the air and her head hanging down just beyond the edge of the bed. In this position the man who stands at the edge of the bed/sofa has the greatest amount of leverage over the act of penetration, especially if he takes the back of her head with his hand in order to push her head up into the downwards penetration. Not only does this position put the man in the position to penetrate further into the woman’s throat with more control of her body, it also is the position which is most conducive to the inevitable spittle and potential vomit that can occur from this kind of penetration. In this position, the woman’s spit/vomit is only able to travel in one direction, which is straight up her face to dangle in beads off her hair and forehead. This only further contributes to the disfiguring effects of facefucking in any other position. Going even further, some pornographers specifically attempt to make the woman vomit so as to cover her face and their penis in vomit and then force them to continue felating them. (I’m less into it, it seems to be more like scat porn or waterspouts, i.e. urine, but it can be a part of very arousing facefucking). Ultimately this position take on a kind of goal in which the man attempts to enter the woman’s throat as deeply as possible and remain there until she gags, forcing her to expel her spit and his penis. It can get pretty degrading, especially when the man forces the woman to gag on his penis so that she is essentially leaking spit down her face while keeping his penis in her throat.

I’ve tried to be as specific about this as possible, and while it is graphic, its something that I feel like I could never tell anyone about, so its good to tell it to the keyboard and maybe I’ll be able to share this with them at some point. I went into such detail, because although I do watch other kinds of porn, facefucking is the most arousing/most difficult to reconcile for me by far. 

Obviously S+M is a somewhat accepted thing, and generally people are fairly accepting of other people’s sexualities, especially when those desires are not directed towards them, but there is something about my desires that I have always found painful and difficult to reconcile. It leads me into association with people I disagree with, who are proud of themselves and their belief that there is no harm in objectifying women. I also have to contend with the idea of rape and the semblance that my mysoginy would make me a potential rapist. Even though I would insist that rape is indefensible and rapist belong in jail, I find simulated rape arousing and I don’t really know a good way to deal with that. I guess that’s just something that you don’t tell other people, but it is the truth. And beyond that, what’s also true is that I don’t know what having sex with a woman would be like. Would I want to do all these things that I watch in porn? Would I be unable to get aroused by “regular intimacy?” Is my desire culturally wired and it’s too late for me to have anything else? As if there weren’t enough obstacles standing in between myself and intimacy, the entire question of my desire and what forms it might take as something unpleasant and wrong in some way makes it really hard for my desire to take me towards intimacy. It seems instead that through my desires, I actually get further away from intimacy and that feels a lot like being broken. That feels like something that’s going to prevent me from having relationships. And although I guess someone else could accept all these things about me, would they really want to? and perhaps more paralyzing, how could I even go about telling them?