#JUSTICE FOR SIXTY DAMMIT

[until-another-one-comes]

Finally meeting someone IRL who agreed with me that Sixty getting shot was unfair and cruel and goes against the message of the game-

[shotsbyshae]

Angel on Fire

Warnings: Language, Murder, Little Fluff, Smidge of Smut   

Words: 4.2k

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader, Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You literally fell for Bucky Barnes in 1944, Steve was there when it happened. How is it possible that you’re sitting across from him now in 2012 looking exactly the same?

Song: Angel on Fire by Halsey

A/N: Please do not hold me accountable for any of this lore. 

I’m standing in the ashes of who I used to be.

1944

It was a celebration.

A small gathering to acknowledge everything The Howling Commando’s had accomplished thus far in sabotaging Hydra’s operations. There was only one reason you were here – him. Steve Rogers, America’s golden boy. You had to admit the newspaper clippings did not do him justice. He looked so young and innocent in his service uniform that night.

Guilt. It echoed through the very depths of your soul.

You had traveled this far though, so you finished your glass of wine, a little liquid courage, and ran your hands along the front of the emerald green chiffon material of your dress to smooth it out. You inhaled deeply, trying to calm your nerves before you left the bar and waltzed across the room towards him with sheer confidence. The moment he saw you, his blue eyes widened, and he shifted on his feet. Chest out. Shoulders back. You kept your eyes on him, the corner of your lips turning up in a smirk at how utterly distracted he was by you – it was adorable.

An unseen force slammed into your shoulder, knocked you off balance, and strange hands grabbed at your waist and arm as you fell. The man had managed to catch you in time and pulled you back to your feet. His hand slipped from your waist to lower back as he steadied you against his strong frame.

“Dammit Dugan,” the man who was pushed into you hissed as you instinctively clutched his arm for support.

“Oh shit,” a large, burly man in a bowler hat and red moustache gave you a look of embarrassment as he tipped his hat. “Sorry ma’am.”

“Sorry about that,” the stranger’s hand was still on your lower back and heat radiated from his palm. Your skin prickled where his fingers gripped you ever so slightly through the dress, his hand felt as if it encompassed you wholly. For a moment you were terrified the fire that pulsed through your veins might consume you both. Dark hair and eyes that were blue as the ocean only emphasized the boyish grin on his face. “They’re idiots.”

This feeling was unlike anything you’d ever felt before. Lust? Love? One thing was certain, for the first time in a long time you felt safe. You smiled at him because his charm was infectious, “It’s okay.”

“I’m James,” he offered his hand as an introduction and you took it carefully. “My friend’s call me Bucky.”

You had given him your name and as he brushed his lips across your knuckles you knew things would never be the same. Sergeant James Barnes stole your heart that night and saved you from yourself without knowing. He wasn’t who you had come for, but sometimes fate has other plans.

The two of you fell in love hard and fast. The kind of love that absorbs two people so fully that nothing else exists in the entire world except each other. He was your first real love – first real mistake – being in love with Bucky had meant bringing his best friend into your life.

The photo Bucky had carried with him of he and Steve showed the person Rogers was before the war, the shield, the serum – a rail-thin kid from Brooklyn. Bucky had told you stories about having to save him from fights he’d get into and how awkward he was with girls. He’d also tell you how proud he was that Steve had volunteered for that experiment. Bucky wanted you like Steve, because that was important to him – Steve was important to him.

You tried not to like Steve Rogers, you really had. After all, you knew where that road would lead. There was no escaping it though, because Bucky was a brother to him. They were a packaged deal. You didn’t get one without the other. So, Steve had befriended you, against your better judgement.

“Watch out for each other,” you told them.

“Always,” Bucky placed a chaste kiss against your lips before he turned to join Dugan and Morita.

“Will do,” Steve gave a small smile, warm and assuring.

They were just young men – boys – fighting the monsters of the world. Not exactly the same types of monsters you were accustomed to, but monsters nonetheless.

One year felt like forever.

In the middle of a war, you had snuck around to places to you shouldn’t have been, just to spend a few moments with the guy you loved and the one you shouldn’t have met.

It was amazing.

Until it wasn’t.

People die. It’s the curse of being human. That’s one reason you’d never let your guard down before. Bucky Barnes had been worth the momentary lapse in judgement though, Steve too, even though you hated to admit it – he was a good friend.

When you lost them both, you had been devastated, but in your life, you knew you would outlive people.

Lose those you love.

That didn’t make it any easier.

However, with Steve Rogers gone you had nothing left to lose – literally.  

2012

You had seen the news – The Avengers had saved New York.  

At first you thought it was someone imitating him, just a cheap knock off behind the mask. So, you had come to see for yourself, after all, it’s been over sixty years.

They said he was frozen in the ice.

What is your excuse going to be?

You watch as he sits across the patio from you, a half dozen empty tables between you, sketching away in his notebook. Steve used to do the same thing, all those years ago, always drawing in his spare time. Against your better judgement, you pull your sunglasses lower on your nose, peering over the rim of them to get a better look.

It’s him – it’s really him.

The same golden boy you remember, he’s not aged at all. Your mind is racing and for a moment you just stare at him as a flood of memories wash over you. Your heart stops as his eyes flick up from his drawing and immediately focus on you.

He recognizes you instantly. You’re still as beautiful as the last time he saw you, but that was over sixty years ago. Steve blinks, afraid his eyes are deceiving him. His mind is telling him there’s no way it’s you, but his heart is reminding him that in a world full of aliens and gods – maybe – just maybe the universe could give him this.

A piece of home.

He’s been stumbling through a world that’s not his own. Everything has changed. At least when he puts on the suit, he has a job to do, responsibilities as Captain America.

He’s a hero.

A damn national treasure.

Take away the red, white, and blue, and he’s just Steve Rogers, a man who doesn’t belong here.

This isn’t his time – it isn’t either of your time.

Why are you both here?

The recognition is evident on his features and you quickly push your sunglasses back up on your face as you carefully stand, trying not to draw attention to yourself. It’s too late though, because he’s on his feet, notepad forgotten on the table.

He’s halfway across the patio as you head for the sidewalk, calling out behind you, “Hey.” You don’t stop, but he’s persistent as he chases after you. “Excuse me, miss?”

You pick up the pace, but he doesn’t relent. Images of your smiling face flash through his mind. Bucky’s arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, the wide smile on his face crinkled the corners of his eyes. He had been happy for his friend, even if there was a tinge of jealousy there. Steve had saw you first that night, but after everything Hydra had done to Bucky – he was the one who needed you.

Rogers has to jog to catch up with you and gently places his hand on your shoulder to stop your escape. For a moment you forget to breath, his touch familiar – yet foreign. You close your eyes as he circles around to get a better look at you. An almost silent whisper falling from his lips, “It is you.” You look up at him slowly, staring into his curious blue eyes as he continues, “How – how are you here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you remark.    

“Long story.”

“Mine’s longer.”

***

Steve tells you about everything, the fight with Schmidt, the tesseract, and crashing the Valkyrie, then about Loki and the battle of New York. You can see a happiness in his eyes when he looks at you, as if no time has passed.

It has though and so much has changed.

“How?” his brows furrow. “How are you here?”

You don’t want him to know the whole truth – not yet. You’ve lost a lot since he’s been away and having him here brings back feelings you’d long since forgotten.

You didn’t think it was possible anymore.

“It’s complicated,” you say before taking a sip of your coffee.

Steve knows you’re holding something back and his hand finds yours on the small patio table between you and he gives it a gentle squeeze, “Tell me.”

He had developed this uncanny ability to ready you like a book during that time together in the war.

Maybe it was from being a third wheel in your relationship with Bucky.

Maybe it was something else.

It had been wrong, and you knew it, but fate be damned. There had been something very pure about Steve Rogers – innocent. In a world full of monsters and demons, he was good and kind, and oblivious to it all.

“I can’t die,” you say simply as if that sums up everything he needs to know, “technically.” He stares at you for a moment, waiting for you to elaborate, but you take another sip of your coffee instead.

Steve raises his eyebrows after a few moments of silence, “I’m going to need more than that.”

“I’m not human,” you finally say, your fingernail anxiously scraping at the chipped paint on the table. “I’m what they call a Phoenix.”

His blue eyes are inquisitive, and you can see the flurry of questions waiting there, “Like the mythical bird?” You nod and he continues with boy like curiosity, “Do you breathe fire?”

“No,” you shake your head with a smirk and hold your hand up, wiggling your fingers. “That comes from these.”

He gives a slow nod as he contemplates another question, “Can you fly?” You give him another shake of your head and he takes a deep breath as he leans back in his chair. “Okay.”

“Okay?” it’s your turn to look surprised. “I just told you I’m not human and you’re just going to roll with it?”

“I fought aliens two months ago,” he gives you a half-smile, “alongside an Asgardian. Weird isn’t so weird anymore.”

Truth be told, as long as you aren’t Loki, he could care less what you are. You’re here. That’s all that matters. Seeing your face brings back the good memories of the war, those small moments in time, which he’d forgotten about.

“You know what we should do,” Steve says suddenly, as a thought crosses his mind. “Let’s go see a movie.” Your brows furrow together in confusion at him, the large smile on his face making him look like a teenager. “Remember? Me, you, and Buck, we used to talk about when the war was over and we got back home, we were going to spend all day at the theater just watching whatever was playing. Eating popcorn.”

“With butter,” you do remember those discussions.

“Loads of butter,” his eyes widen with excitement. “What do you say?”

You just got him back, you’re not ready to let him go just yet, even though you know you should. It’s selfish, and you know that, but you agree, “Deal.”

The two of you spend the rest of the day watching movies and binging on theater popcorn and snacks while reminiscing about the past and how much things have changed. When Steve talks about how everything is different now, you can see a glimpse of that rail-thin kid Bucky had always protected.

You know what it feels like to be lost, and even though you had told yourself you wouldn’t stay – you can’t leave him like this.

He was Bucky’s best friend – your friend.

2013

Just a few months, until he’s more adjusted.

That was the phrase you had started telling yourself in the beginning. Steve had no one and you couldn’t leave him. He needed you and the fact your friendship was able to pick up right where the two of you had left it in 1945 made it easy to stay.

But you shouldn’t be here.

You know it.

Yet, here you are, assisting Captain America and the Avengers in taking down another Hydra facility, this time in D.C. of all places. The fighting, the violence, it’s too much. Fueling the flame inside of you, making you irrational sometimes, but you can’t tell him that. Then you would have to explain everything, and you can’t do that either.

The mission is going according to plan until two Hydra agents get the drop on Barton and you’re the only one to see it. You react without thinking and your right arm juts out towards the two agents, hand igniting in a beautiful combination of red and orange flares. The action immediately causing the two men to burst into flames. Their screams of agony are short-lived as your manipulate the blaze with your hand. It only takes a few moments until nothing is left of the men but a pile of ashes.

Clint raises an eyebrow in concern because you’ve never used your powers like that, then gives you small nod of appreciation for saving his life.

“What the hell was that?” Steve says from behind you, ignoring Tony’s ‘Language Cap’ over the comms.

“Sorry,” your tone almost flippant.

“We’ve talked about that,” he reprimands you, making you feel like a child, which only pisses you off. “Incapacitate only. Killing is a last resort. We don’t do that.”

“You don’t kill people,” the cold look in your eyes is one he’s seen before.

“Neither do you,” Steve voice is still firm, calmer.

Shaking your head, you glare at him, “You don’t fucking know me. There’s a whole world of bad out there Steve. It can’t all be contained. Some of it has to be killed.”

You know you’ve said too much and you storm off. You’re going to have to tell him, but you’re too angry at him right now. You died too many times during the sixty years Steve was frozen in the ice. It’s taken a toll and you know he’s seen it, his blue eyes filling with concern and uncertainty at some of your actions. You aren’t the same carefree soul you were when he and Bucky met you, in fact, you know there’s not much of your soul left at this point.

That was part of being a Phoenix.

You and Steve have talked some on the subject of Phoenixes. He knows you’re a rare species who can control fire with your hands, although he’s not a fan of that. You haven’t mentioned the issue with your soul though, or how he plays a part in your story. There’s no easy way to tell him and you know it will be easier to leave – disappear.

Steve approaches the quinjet seeing everyone on the team except you and glances to Tony his eyes questioning your whereabouts without him saying anything.

“Hey Firestarter,” Tony says over the comms, even though you hate that nickname. “You still inside?”

“Yea,” you respond.

No one expects the explosion that originates from somewhere inside the warehouse and rocks the quinjet, but Steve’s eyes go wide in horror. Tony has to grab him to stop him from running into the flames. Metal arms cling to him tightly, as his world goes up in bright orange and red waves.

You told Steve you couldn’t die – technically. He never asked what technically meant because he was afraid to.

He searches the warehouse himself after the firetrucks leave. Tony and Natasha help, but there’s nothing left.

This is technically.

Later that night, you wake up in the rubble of the warehouse – naked and cold.

You know you’ve stayed too long. You can barely feel any of yourself left inside and it scares you. Feeling completely empty, void of any emotion or empathy. That is a fate worse than death.

It’s time to let him go. He’ll be okay without you. He has Tony and Romanoff now. You should leave while you can, but Steve Rogers is the only friend you’ve ever really had – which in itself is a cruel fucking joke.

***

You rap your knuckles against the wooden door in a rhythmic beat. The hem of the oversized bright yellow t-shirt you’d stolen from the construction worker’s truck brushes against the middle of your thighs, and it reminds you just how numb your body feels from the cold. It had been a long walk from the warehouse to here.

Steve opens the door to the apartment, red-rimmed eyes staring at you in shock. Your face has smudges of ash, sprinkles of it are in your hair, and you smell like the thick smoke of a campfire.

“Have you been crying?” Your tone edging on derisive as you enter the apartment.

“I thought you died,” he replies slowly, before closing the door hard behind you.

“And?” You can’t help the cockiness in your voice, chalk it up to being almost soulless, and you turn to him. “I told you, I couldn’t –”

His mouth is on yours, shutting you up as he pushes you back against the wall. One hand grips your waist firmly while the other tangles in the hair at the nape of your neck. Your mind races because this isn’t supposed to happen – it can’t. You shouldn’t be here.

The muscles in his shoulders flex under your fingers as he tightens his hold on you, pinning you to the wall with his body. Steve’s kiss is punishing and as his tongue slides past your lips, your body arches into him instinctively, overriding your thoughts. His assertiveness makes you forget the reason behind your visit, the warm, wet sensation between your thighs quickly becoming your new motivation.  

He presses his forehead against yours as he breaks the kiss for a moment, whispering against your lips, “I thought I lost you.” He has never looked at you like this before, with such longing and desire, and you feel it.

Really feel it.

The small part of you that is left is suddenly overcome with a surge of emotions and feelings.

Joy. Fear. Sympathy. Confusion. Love. All colliding together, twisting and spiraling inside of you like a whirlwind. Making you question yourself, ‘When did I fall in love with him?’

This need you’re feeling.

This ache.

You’ve forgotten what tears feel like as they prick the corners of your eyes and you cup his face gently with your hands, staring up at him. Your golden boy, “I’m here – I’m right here, Steve.”

It would be easier if he fucked you. Cold and hard against the wall of his apartment or with reckless desperation in the shower as water streams around the two of you, but he doesn’t. Steve Rogers makes love to you that night. Forcing you to melt as rough hands trace every curve and line of your body with feather like strokes and tender touches. His mouth both insatiable and intimate with kisses, expressing his feelings for you without words.

It’s raw, intense, and passionate.

You shouldn’t have come back, it’s not fair to him.

But you’re thankful you did.

Because you’ve never felt more alive – the irony of that is not lost on you.

***

The next morning you’re sitting at the kitchen table when Steve comes out of the bedroom and he can immediately see the look on your face. He notices the duffel bag by the door, and it makes his heart stop.

“We need to talk,” you say ominously, and the man slowly moves to sit across from you at the table.

“I don’t like how this looks,” there’s a noticeable tick in his jaw as he keeps his eyes focused on you.

“I didn’t tell you everything – about what I am,” you begin to explain, wrapping your hands around the coffee mug in front of you nervously. “Everytime a Phoenix dies and is reborn, or rises, a part of our soul burns off. It’s an incentive really, to keep you from dying. The more you die, the sooner you become a soulless monster, not caring about anything or anyone. Killing others becomes a second nature to us then, at least while we have a soul, we can keep that part of us in check.” You watch him closely as you speak, making sure he’s understanding everything as you say it.

“So, the two men at the warehouse?”

“Yea,” you nod shamefully. “Phoenixes are immortal, but we are destined to be killed eventually. A final death, one which we don’t rise from. When a Phoenix rises for the first time, there’s a name you’re given. The name of the person who will ultimately be the one to kill you – bring about your final death. Usually a hunter, or someone along those lines. Sometimes, that person may not enter your life for hundreds or thousands of years.” You glance out the window thoughtfully, “You have no idea what it’s like to know the name of the person who will kill you. Live with that for years, but you can’t run from fate.”

Steve sits across from you solemnly as he processes the information you’re sharing, “Can you change it?”

You shake your head. “I wanted to though. I wanted to change my destiny, kill the person whose name I was given before he had a chance to kill me. I found him too, but fate had other plans,” you glance away from him. “She’s cruel that way – fate – destiny or whatever it is that’s written in the stars. None of it would have ever happened if I’d not been trying to change it.”

“Whose name were you given?” he asks quietly.

“Yours,” you say, looking back over to him. “Steve Rogers.”

It looks as if you’ve punched him in the gut. That night, all those years ago, when he saw the prettiest girl at the party walking his way, it was because you had planned on killing him. Because eventually he was supposed to kill you.

“I never wanted to be your friend Steve,” you let the words slip out quietly. “Then Bucky happened, and I let my guard down. That wasn’t fair to you and I’m sorry.”

His mouth goes dry as he shakes his head, “But I wouldn’t –”

“You won’t have a choice Steve,” you reply. “When my soul is gone, that’s it.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two of you as he shakes his head in frustration. “How much is left?” he questions you, his brows furrowing together. “Of your soul?”

“Not enough.”

“There has to be a way we can fix this,” he tries to reason with you.

“No, we can’t,” you look at him hopelessly. “This is it. We both know what’s coming and I need you to promise me, when it happens, you’ll take care it.”

“I can’t do that,” the pain on his face is enough to break your heart.

“You have too. When there’s nothing left of me, I’ll just be a shell. The person you love won’t be here anymore, I’ll be a monster,” you can see the wretched expression on his face as you stand up from the table. “Promise me.” Steve looks out the window as he starts to chew on his bottom lip. You reach down, placing your hand on top of his, squeezing it gently, “Please.”

He glances up at you with glossy blue eyes. He’s broken because of you and you’ll never forgive yourself for this. You shouldn’t have come back.

“I promise,” his words are barely audible.

“I should go,” you say before leaning down to kiss his cheek gently. “I do love you.” The words come out as a whisper against his skin before you stand back up. You make it halfway to the door when you hear the chair scraping across the hardwood floor roughly. Steve is on you by the time you turn around, his hand flying to the side of you neck roughly, pulling you back to him. His lips crash into yours hard and desperate as tears slowly stream down your face.

Sometimes your soulmate isn’t the person you fall madly in love with, sometimes it’s the person you least expect.

A beautiful disaster.

Steve Rogers is your soulmate.

He’s also the man who will have to kill you one day when your soul no longer exists.

The thought of it shatters your heart and you’d give anything if you could take that burden away from him, but fate is cruel.

“I’ll see you around Steve,” you state quietly as you move to grab your duffel bag.  

He watches as you open the door to his apartment, his face full of sadness as he says the words firmly, “I hope not.”

[bigskydreaming]

remember when devin grayson wrote about green arrow flirting with teenager dick grayson and then bruce and dick have an incestuous relationship............................

Listen, I have no idea what this ask says, I just see a string of random letters followed by dot dot dot. 

In completely unrelated matters, the only dynamic between Dick and Ollie I abide by is one where the nicest thing Dick’s ever said to Ollie is something like “hey why does your face look like you killed a squirrel and glued it to your chin, is that what you were going for or do people just not like you and so nobody ever told you til now that that’s what it looks like.”

And even there, that’s still just the best Dick could manage (or was willing to even aim for) after Bruce gave Dick a totally and one hundred percent genuine and sincere Talking To about how he needed to be more polite to Ollie. Cuz the way I envision it, all that’s after Dick initially opened with something like, idk, “hey wanna hear a funny joke, it goes “what do you call a known Errol Flynn fanboy who thinks putting on a domino mask when he fights crime with a bow and arrow like, magically makes his goatee invisible? A dumbass who doesn’t get how secret identities work, that’s what. Get it, its you, you’re the joke.”

LOL for the record, I don’t actually hate Ollie and have no really strong opinions on him one way or another, it usually just depends on how he’s being written in whatever story or issue I’m reading with him. Its just canon that Ollie is like, one of the few people that Dick just openly can not stand, pretty much, with this stretching back far enough that personally, I like to headcanon it goes all the way back to even before Ollie took Roy in and has absolutely nothing to do with Roy whatsoever.

Idk, its just really fucking funny to me to picture that like, for whatever reason, ten year old Dick Grayson decided upon meeting the Justice League that they were all awesome except for Oliver Queen. Dick doesn’t know why, he doesn’t care why, he just knows that like, “I do not care for that Oliver Queen guy, not one bit, and no, I am not open to constructive criticism on this matter, UGH BRUCE STOP TELLING ME I SHOULD AT LEAST TRY AND BE NICER TO HIM, I SAID HE WAS A BUTTFACE AND I MEANT IT, WHERE’S THE CONFUSION.”

Because see, while Ollie is not Actually The Worst, he IS one of the League heroes who is prideful and petty enough to like, absolutely take offense to someone hating his guts for no discernible reason, while considering this more than reason enough to hate their guts right back. Even if that particular someone happens to have both miles and years left to go before they hit either puberty or the top side of five feet tall, and thus in the meanwhile, Ollie must literally lower himself in every sense of the word in order to return fire at his pint-sized and prepubescent critic.

Like, if Dick for whatever reason decided he just doesn’t like Superman or the Flash and he’s not gonna and you can’t make him, then I mean, Clark or Barry or someone else along those lines would just be like, oh, okay, that’s fair I guess. No, its totally fine Bruce, the adorable little human incarnation of glitter, cotton candy and all things Cute and Precious and Wee that you just took in is allowed to hate me if he wants to, its absolutely *wheezing sob* not a big deal. I’m a big boy, I don’t need you to intercede on my behalf with him. Now if anyone needs me, I’ll be wallowing in my room for the next 84 years, trying to figure out if I was some kind of monstrous puppy-kicker in a previous lifetime and that’s why my fate here in this one is to be despised by a ten year old with the superpower of Absolute Preciousness. Its my punishment, clearly, for being just the worst kind of monster to ever exist, the only kind that could actually be hated by someone like your adorable little Fun-Sized sidekick of joy and sunshine and l-l-laughter......no, don’t look at me, I’m hideous! *bursts into tears and scurries away to hide from the light*

But see now, Ollie, on the other hand, like.....he’s not a monster but he’s not about to let even some paragon of preciousness go around painting him as one. Why the fuck does he spend so much money on publicists if he’s just gonna roll over belly-side up the first time one of the people bad-mouthing him just happens to be like, a toddler instead of the usual TMZ?

So Ollie’s not about to admit that he’s actually miffed and even a little bit wounded that this cherub who seems to like even most supervillains more than he likes Ollie, just like, can not seem to be in his presence longer than sixty seconds before drawing his weapons and stabbing Ollie with words that hurt, dammit, because he has feelings too, y’know, he spent a lot of money on pricey therapists figuring out that yes, those are feelings he’s feeling and he can even name some of them.....

Like, he’s not quite on board with actually ACKNOWLEDGING that hey this stings, and that he really just wants to know what the hell this kid’s deal is and why don’t you like me, tiny human, what did I ever even do to you??? But all of that is like......Advanced Level Therapy stuff that he hasn’t quite gotten around to finishing yet at this point in time. Like yeah he’s already dropped a mint on the A-list of the head-shrinking world by now, but apparently he was supposed to keep coming back or something like that, they all keep making a really big deal about that for some reason, and look, he’s been busy. So he really just hasn’t had the time to finish up the course on How To Make Peace With the Fact That Sometimes Tiny Humans Don’t Like Me Even Though I’m A Fucking Delight, Dammit.

But even if the why of this kid getting under his skin so much eludes him for the nonce, Ollie is perfectly clear on one thing: he doesn’t typically go around making enemies of the twelve and under set, but if you prick him, he doth in fact bleed, you little prick. So if this knee-high nightmare is gonna keep coming at me and trying to start shit, then I am more than willing to throw down, is basically Ollie’s take here. 

“He wants to dance? Then c’mon, let’s do this thing. We can dance if he wants to. I’ve got the time,” Ollie says to himself and any other nearby Justice Leaguer who might be looking at him with that swiftly-becoming-familiar expression of mingled judgment, pity, exasperation and something a bit more ambiguous but which probably lands somewhere in the ballpark of “We honestly don’t know what to make of all of this but we’re all a little concerned This Is Not A Good Look, Bro. And also, we would like to formally request by way of this petition with all 200+ signatures of Leaguers and auxiliary members and support staff: please don’t escalate this into something where Batman might actually kill you, because that’s definitely not gonna make any of this less awkward for the rest of us, and uh....not to be indelicate here, but all those times we’ve all said things like no Ollie, we don’t think Bruce is a better fighter than you and we absolutely agree with you, you could totally maybe take him in a fair fight if you had your bow and arrows on you and he had the flu probably.....like. Umm. How to put this....Okay, soooooo....here’s the thing. There may, perhaps, ever so slightly be a possibility slash definite hardcore certainty that there were fib-like qualities to those conversations. A little bit. Oh hey, look at the time, we gotta run, there’s a fire somewhere, hopefully. Lol wait whoops did we say hopefully, that’s so weird like where did that even come from. We definitely meant to say probably. There’s a fire somewhere, probably."

But look, at the end of the day, the thing is, Headcanon Ollie is not like, proud of any of this, but he’s not unproud of it either. He is hashtag justified and he wouold appreciate some validation of that Ugly Truth, even if it might go against the grain and not ever exactly be a POPULAR opinion with the “please don’t tell the ten year old that nuh uh, his face looks like a hairy butthole, nobody wins there, that is not the victory you are looking for” crowd.

Honestly though, at this point Ollie’s list of Big Asks is quite small. Miniscule, even. All he wants, all he really really wants, is for someone, anyone, to join him in grasping the one essential corn kernel at the heart of this whole clusterfuck. The thing that nobody but Ollie seems to get and that Ollie’s pretty sure would be enough to allow him to die happily, if he could just manage to find one other person to sign on to the one single extremely obvious observation he keeps trying to point out to everyone, with a whole lot of nada to show for it:

Because see, the one thing about all of this that drives Ollie just absolutely up a wall, is that for some reason he can’t seem to get anyone to understand that like.....this whoooooole ridiculous mess, just like, even in terms of its very existence in the first place?

None of it is Ollie’s fault.

Dick started it!

Mere moments after frustratedly trying to convey this to Dinah for the umpteenth million bajillionth time:

“Okay, could you at least say something?” Ollie asked exasperatedly. “Anything? Seriously, I would take you counting to ten in Cantonese as an acceptable response at this point.”

“I’m just trying to decide which concerns me more,” Dinah said at last. Several epochs and the equivalent of the entire Jurassic Period later. But whatever, its not like Ollie was holding his breath at this point or anything. “The fact that you are genuinely trying to find and occupy the moral high ground in your feud with....a ten year old. Or that you actually think you’ve found it. That this is it, this is what that looks like. ‘The ten year old started it.’”

That was apparently all Dinah had to say. She fell silent again, and said silence lingered through a recreation of now the entire Cretaceous Period, before continuing into a revival of the whole Paleozoic Era from start to torturous finish.

“Well?” Ollie said with a patience that belied the urgency of the many pressing matters he had to attend to. Like the vanquishing of a ten year old archnemesis most foul.

Dinah just continued to frown pensively.

“Hang on, I’m still deciding.”

[tinalbion]

hey, i was wondering if you could do a freddy x reader where the reader plays piano and sings?? thanks you!

That's a very cute idea! I love it! I sure hope I do it justice, and I was listening to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack when I wrote this, could you tell?

Freddy always knew you had talents beyond his own, and he always tried to get you to open up to him more, and he was sure that teasing you would help. He learned to tone his comments back a bit since he figured that he could be rather harsh sometimes, but he would always poke and prod you about little things.

He knew you were attractive and could come back with snappy comments much like his own, but he didn't know much about you otherwise. What would he even say to find out, and how would he say it where it wouldn't come off as insanely creepy? One day as he toyed with you, watching you run from him as you laughed and hid behind corners, his deep voice echoed within the halls and sent chills up your spine.

"I got a deal for ya, if I catch you, you gotta tell me three things about you. If you can hide from me for ten minutes, you can ask me whatever you want. How about it?"

You scoffed at his attempt, knowing quite well that he would use his powers to catch you easily within sixty seconds.

"Okay, but on one condition. No powers. You gotta catch me the old fashioned way, and if I suspect you of cheating, you gotta do whatever I say."

Freddy scoffed in reply and chuckled. "You got yourself a deal."  

He was in his own element, so he figured he'd have you easily, no problem. He would allow you to think you're doing a great job like you were about to get away with it all. It was only four minutes in and you thought you were doing great, you haven't been found yet and there was still time to not be found. Your chest heaved with your heavy breaths as you rounded a corner as quietly as you could, your hair clinging to your sweaty face as you held your breath, listening for any heavy footfalls coming your way.

Two minutes left and you wore a cocky grin on your face, but then he tapped you on your shoulder, chuckling as he crossed his arms against his chest.

"You lose," he said smugly.

You groaned and threw your head back dramatically. "How do I know you didn't cheat!? I didn't hear you coming up at all!" You looked down to see him without his boots on, then glared up at him.

"Didn't cheat, sweet cheeks."

You pouted and crossed your arms as you had come to realize that he'd begin to ask you all about your fucked up life. You couldn't deal with the questions or what kind of comments he'd make, so you took what control you had and caused one of the pipes to bust and blow directly in his face as you took off running. This was your dream, dammit, you could go wherever you wanted to avoid the prodding.

After a moment, you had decided that back in your childhood home was best for you, where the large grand piano sat in the living area, gleaming in the sunlight like it did every morning. Every weekend, you wanted to play, and your mother had taught you all she knew, so you sat on the bench and allowed your fingers to tap against the ivory keys like you used to.

Your body swayed with the melody as you played a song that relaxed you, that pulled you away from the fears and worried you had, even Freddy didn't matter right now, just you. The tap of the keys and the way your hands just knew where to go next was magical, and you couldn't help but smile as you sang along.

"It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside. I'm not one of those who can easily hide.I don't have much money, but, boy if I did, I'd a big house where would both could live."

'Your Song' was always one of those that touched you in your younger years and channeled the most in your musical days.

You were so wrapped up in the lyrics and the notes you played that you didn't even notice Freddy in the doorway. It was an odd feeling being back in your old home, but the music made you feel lighter, it always did. You were tired of things never going to way you planned like you never really had control of your life, music always held you together.

But from Freddy's point of view, it was almost an angelic tone as he heard the faint sound of a piano after you had disappeared. He followed the tune until he approached an older house, almost partially destroyed much like the old Elm Street place. You were in here, he sensed you, and he felt your heart in the lyrics as you belted them out like no one was there.

The tune began to change slowly and the singing stopped as you switched it up, your fingers once again working their magic as you hummed along and began to sing another song.

“I never knew I could feel like this, like I never seen the sky before. Want to vanish inside your kiss, every day I love you more and more.”

It was all romantic as he listened to you and he almost felt as if it were more intimate than intended and he shouldn't be there. The song ended abruptly and you turned to see him in a flustered state, which was very rare. You smiled awkwardly at him and laughed nervously.

"Uh, yeah. I usually play when I'm feeling anxious or stressed. Losing made me stressed," you explained.

He sauntered up to you as he composed himself and sat down next to you on the bench. "Too bad I can't really play now, but I coulda been able to."

"I could play for you if you'd like."

"Only if you sing, too. You're like one of them singers in a jazz club, less jazzy though," he said playfully as he nudged your shoulder with his own.

You both sat there and you played songs that you knew and some he would have maybe heard, but you both had a great time in the dream, thankful that tonight wasn't full of questions, just songs.

[creativeashproductions]

White Knight // Stiles

Summary: The reader has an encounter with someone that made you scared, anxious and dirty since the day you first saw him. You’re haunted by the memories and the guilt of not telling Stiles but what happens when in daylight that man comes back? With the discovery of the event by Stiles and Scott how will the situation go?

Characters: Stiles x Reader, Sheriff Stilinski, Scott McCall

Words: 1958

Disclaimer: We do not own Teen Wolf or the characters that appear in this.

Warnings: Swearing, fighting, mention of rape (not detailed), angry Sheriff, angst, and fluff

Author(s): Caitsy and Ash

Requested: Yes by anon.

Tagging: At the end. Ask to be added or removed from any lists.

A/N: We both decided we weren’t able to do this request justice alone due to the graphic content of rape. We both agree to write it together and make is so the rape was in the past and not detailed at all. PLEASE REQUEST FOR FICS

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*Four Years Ago*

The night was colder than usual for the end of summer time. It was the last night before Freshmen year started and you were terrified. It was the first year of high school and you were walking from one of your friends houses, it was Beacon Hills. The crime rate was low so you were trusted to walk the short distance home.

You stopped looking back feeling the hairs on your skin stand up. You shook it off before continuing the distance home. You were humming trying to keep your mind occupied when you felt that eerie feeling again. You turned seeing a shadow moving but you once more brushed it off.

You sighed before taking five steps before a hand grabbed your arm. You screamed as you were yanked in the dinghy behind of a store. The man was tall, average looking with a nasty gleam in his eye.

The man leaned down to you and chuckled. You expected to smell the disgusting odor of alcohol but all you got was a smell of cool mint. You whimpered when his hand wandered further down and you knew exactly what was going to happen. You were paralyzed with terror and unable to even scream for a second before it finally hit you.

“We’re going to have so much fun together.” The man laughed.

You gasped sitting up from the nightmare, more like memory from four years ago. You sobbed feeling his dirty hands on your body still. You felt the need to jump into the shower and scrub every part of you but it never could get away, it was at the back of your mind every day.

You had started to move past that night but it was hard, so hard you refused to walk alone at night. You refused to not lock all the windows and doors because you felt like that man could come back at any moment. You knew it was irrational seeing as your attacker probably didn’t remember you at all.

You were embarrassed by it that only your parents knew about it while your friends and boyfriend were in the dark. The one person you felt guilty about not telling was Stiles, you two had been friends from Freshmen year until the end of junior year when you two started to date. Now it was the end of senior year and you two were serious. You two were going to the same city and living together because you saw a future in each other.

You knew at some point you would have to tell Stiles about that awful night. You weren’t sure if you were more worried about his reaction or actually having to say what happened out loud. You took a deep breath running your fingers through your hair as you scurried out of bed to get on with the day.

Today was going to be a normal day, running errands and enjoying your summer off before college started in the fall. You had plans to go over to Stiles and look at apartments before the pack meet tonight. The pack had become like your own little family. They made you feel safe and secure.

You hopped in the shower, jamming along to whatever song played next on your favorite station. You got dressed and headed downstairs to make the all too familiar walk to Stiles house. You had your headphones in and were bopping along to the music, casually taking in the beautiful Summer weather of California when you saw him. You froze. Suddenly, you were that scared, fragile girl from four years ago.

You felt your stomach twist into knots and become increasingly sick at the sight. You could still smell the awful stench of the sickeningly sweet peppermint he had in his mouth that night. You tried to look away, run, scream, magically poof into the air so he wouldn’t notice you. There was no way he would remember you, right?

After what seemed like an eternity you finally felt your legs regain some movement and slowly start making their way on your pre-determined course. You shook your head trying to get the image of him and that night out of your head. You could someone watching you, the hair on the back of your neck standing up as if someone was following behind you.

It was deja vu and you didn’t have to turn around to know exactly who it was either, you also knew would try and get you in daylight. You weren’t that far from the Stilinski household so you felt a little more safe than normal. You bit your lip speeding up but you could feel the distance becoming shorter.

“Hey! We should catch up!” The man grinned, you could hear that grin in his voice, and you whimpered.

You pretended you weren’t able to hear him and in fact you turned your music off but not removing the buds from your ears. You had an advantage that way. Well if he was anyone other than your attacker you could have kicked his ass thanks to the self defense courses you went to. Not to mention the extra lessons from the Argents and Derek.

“Hey slow down!” He exclaimed. His fingers brushed your bare shoulder before you did the one thing you didn’t do that fateful night.

“HELP!” You screamed. It seemed like it was just in time too because you were very close to the Stilinski household.

“Hey! Be quiet.” The man hissed.

“STILES! SCOTT!” You screamed, one that nearly rivaled Lydia’s scream, feeling your body shake and the tears begin to fall.

You turned around telling yourself to find your inner Allison Argent strength, you refused to go through this path again. The man smiled even more thinking you were giving in but you weren’t. You were just raising your leg to kick him in his dick when arms pushed you back and someone was blocking your view.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Your eyes widened at the ferocious voice that belonged to Stiles. He seemed almost like he was the Nogitsune again.

“Who the hell are you? All I want is another night with her.”

“Stiles. Back off.” The matching anger in Sheriff Stilinski’s voice sounded. You looked to the side where the Sheriff’s car was idling with the driver door opened.

You had managed to get lucky enough to not only be close to their house but that Sheriff Stilinski was just getting home from a late night shift. You whimpered as Stiles stepped back pulling you into his arms with a nasty glare pointed at the man.

“I ain’t doing anything wrong.”

“Oh son, you are.” Sheriff said, “You see that house there? The one with the blue paint and deep brown shutters? That happens to be the Y/L/N house, where you are not to be within sixty feet of their house. You happen to be fifty-eight feet from it.”

“Restraining order?” You mumbled.

“We weren’t able to find you, you sick son of a bitch.” Sheriff glared, “You wouldn’t believe how happy I am to see you in front of me. Why? You hurt my son’s girlfriend, the girl I consider my daughter.”

“What are you going to arrest me?”

“Yes. You’re under arrest of the violation of the restraining order put upon you by Mr and Mrs. Y/L/N and for sexual harassment.”

“Come on guys.” You turned to see another angry male standing there with eyes he had closed. Scott had let the anger change him.

You made your way over to the other man you considered a brother as you took a deep shaky breath. You felt Stiles and Scott wrap you into a hug as you tried to fight off tears. You never thought you’d be so happy to hear the clink of metal as Sheriff wrapped his handcuffs around the wrist of the man who stole something so pure from you.

“I’m going to find you again, you bitch.” You heard the man mumble as Scott turned around and clocked him square in the jaw.

“Gotta be more careful son, don’t want to trip and fall” was all Stilinski said as he placed the dirtbag inside his car.

“Dammit Scott, I’m the boyfriend I should be the one who gets to punch the asshole.” Stiles said flailing one hand around trying to make a point.

“Couldn’t help it. Brother instinct,” Scott said shrugging his shoulders.

“(Y/N) one sec please.” Sheriff said as you turned from both the boys and made your way over to him. He opened his arms and hugged you tight.

“You can finally breath, you’re safe and he’s never getting out. I promise. Just tell Stiles. He loves you, he’ll understand.” he said softly as he kissed your forehead. You nodded as you hugged him tightly before whispering a mumbled “Thank you.”

I guess it wasn’t just your parents that knew about it. Sheriff had known all along and pretended to not know for you. Maybe that’s why when he saw you before and after you left he hugged you tight. He wanted you to know he cared for you and would be there for you. It made you love the man even more.

The walk to the living room of the Stilinski household was silent and a little awkward feeling. You weren’t looking forward to telling both of them but Scott saw that scene. Plus good guy Scott had punched someone and he deserved to know why he had punched him.

“Sooo…” Stiles trailed off trying to find a way to ask and not be ignorant.

“Four years ago.” You mumbled, “He...uh...he raped me four years ago.”

“What?!” Stiles screamed, “Scott you should have punched him! You should have ripped his throat out with your teeth! No, I should have grabbed my ba-”

“Stiles!” You exclaimed earning his attention, “Let me finish. That’s why I was acting off that first day of freshmen year. That’s why I never walk alone at night or alone for a long length of time. He took my innocence that night, that’s why I tensed up the first time we made-out. I felt dirty and unworthy of you-”

“I love you. You will never be unworthy of my love. Never.” Stiles sternly said, “Do I wish you had told me sooner? Yes but I’m not mad because I knew you would have told me on your own time.”

“I’ll always protect you.” Scott said squeezing the hand you didn’t know he had grabbed, “You’re my little sister.”

“That’s why you had those classes and the frequent hang outs with Allison.” Stiles put together.

“She didn’t know...well actually I think she knew by how I asked her to teach me. I hesitated explaining I didn’t want to get in danger.”

“I’m better but even four years later I struggle sometimes.” You mumbled, “I’m sorry I’m not the girlfriend you d-”

“Stop.” Stiles said, “I love you. I will marry you in the future, we will have children. Those children will be taught to respect others and our daughter will have a kickass family to learn fighting skills.”

“You w-”

“What did you think I meant about our future. Did you think I just mean the days until the weekend?” Stiles teased you.

“I...I...I can’t wait to have that life with you.” You whispered.

For the first time in four years you felt safe, loved, and light. You knew you could get through anything with the pack by your side and your boyfriend. Also helped that your future father-in-law was a member of the police force.

Forever Tag List

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[typical-trope]

Your Place

Note: My first (and probably only) attempt at a straight up Xavierine fic. I feel like I’ll never be able to do Logan justice, but the movie really got to me.

Charles remembers when he hadn’t needed help. He remembers having strong arms. He remembers being desirable. Being respected. Not being a burden.

He even remembers a time when Logan would look at him with lust. Which may be why it hurt so much to recognize the repulsion in his old friend’s eyes when he looks at him. When he sees revulsion, and pity. Logan waits for a few minutes before storming out of the bathroom to check on Laura, and Charles lets himself lean against the stall wall and close his eyes.

“I can do it myself, dammit.”

“Well you’re not. I’m going to help you, now.”

“Will you please just leave?”

Logan grins up at Charles from where he’s crouched on the floor, pressed trousers gathered up and ready to be rolled up thin legs. “You can’t tell me you’re embarrassed. Not after last night, bub.” Charles rolls his eyes and leans forward to grab the fabric and lift up one leg. Despite his obvious intention to get dressed alone, Logan doesn’t let him. “C’mon, Chuck. I’m leaving for the month. Let me help you with this.” Charles can imagine the tickling feeling of Logan’s whiskers brushing against his knee in a kiss, but that’s all he has.

“Really, Logan. Aren’t we a bit old for this kind of behavior?” Charles pulls the trousers completely up before Logan’s persistent coughing distracts him. He’d been having coughing fits more frequently, lately. It was a bit disconcerting. “I do wish you’d go to the doctor about that, darling.”

Logan waved him off and stood up, closing himself off from the caring tone Charles had affected. “It’s nothing, Chuck. Just a cold. I’ll get over it soon.”

“Logan, when was the last time you’d ever had a cold?” It was a fair question, and Charles rushed to put on his shirt so he could follow the man out of the bedroom. “Your body should be impervious to illnesses. Up until recently, you have been.”

“Everyone’s been sick. Or haven’t you noticed? Listen, it’s just a bad flu going around. I’m sure I’ll be better by the time I get back. See you in a month, Charles.” Logan leaned down and kissed the Professor goodbye before heading down the main staircase and to the garage for Scott’s bike.

Only no one had gotten better. It had taken them five years of coughing and progressive lung failure to realize that the illness wasn’t going away. There had been a flickering of unstable powers, and then suddenly everyone was losing their abilities. Students would go to bed, and wake up in a pool of their own blood. Hank and Jean had discovered the problems with the food and water days before Charles had his seizure. Logan had gotten back in time to save Charles, but it had been close. He’d had to drive through Westchester and then claw his way up the staircase to find the telepath locked in his own mind. He had managed to knock him out and keep him out until after he’d gone to the hospital and gotten some acetazolamide in the hopes that it would help.

A year later and Charles knew that he would never recover. The banging on the bathroom stall door alerted the telepath that he had been stagnant too long, and that it was time to go.

Logan barged in and helped Charles right his clothes before guiding him back to the old chair. The transfer was rough and impersonal, and Charles did his best to remind himself that Logan had never been overly affectionate.

But back in the truck, Charles looked at Laura and could remember a different Logan. A softer one. One that tried to hide the fact that children would go to him for comfort from their nightmares. One that let the older kids vent at him, and give them a companionable “that’s a shit situation, bub” in return. One that lay in bed with Charles late at night, letting the old man reminisce on the fifties and sixties fondly as he kept his arm firmly wrapped around Charles’ torso, rubbing the knuckles of his hands.

Laura crawled over the small bench and leaned against Charles, her head resting solidly against his chest as Logan coughed and started driving again. Charles could feel the guarded walls around the girl, and pressed against them, gently requesting permission to enter.

Her mind was so much like his used to be in those quiet moments at the mansion. Charles wouldn’t mind going back there after helping Laura get to North Dakota. Maybe Jean or Hank would let them have his old rooms and they could just be, and remember.

His thumb ran up and down the thin bicep comfortingly as Laura’s breathing evened out and she napped, sunglasses skewing where they pressed against Charles’ chest. He noticed Logan glance back at them every once in a while in the review mirror. Charles didn’t bother trying to read that mind. Logan was tired, and bitter, and Charles wasn’t sure if he could handle the self-hate that had warped it. He couldn’t take the burden anymore. He was old now. He just wanted to rest and remember a time when he wasn’t looked at as a senile old man with failing health.

“What do they call you? Wheels?” Charles straightened in his chair at the amused, skeptical, and flirtation look Logan sent him before the man shook his head with a laugh. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” The derisive comment sounded like an attack on the X-Men, but Charles recognized it as a defense mechanism. Logan believed he was past saving. Past participating.

Past being accepted. Even months after their first kiss inside Charles’ office. After an intense psychic training session. “I’m not made for this life, Chuck.”

“Just stay a little longer, Logan. You’ll start to see the place made for you.” The strong arm tightened around Charles’ chest, pulling him closer.

[clubofinfo]

Expert: Every artist, every scientist, must decide now where he stands. He has no alternative. There is no standing above the conflict on Olympian heights. There are no impartial observers. Through the destruction, in certain countries, of the greatest of man’s literary heritage, through the propagation of false ideas of racial and national superiority, the artist, the scientist, the writer is challenged. The struggle invades the formerly cloistered halls of our universities and other seats of learning. The battlefront is everywhere. There is no sheltered rear. — Paul Robeson, Here I Stand, p. 52. The struggle for us common folk daily is a battle on many fronts, with the sirocco of plague-coal gritty winds chasing us into poverty, into incarceration, into structural violence and penury with the jaws of the dogs of usury rabidly biting at our young and old. There is no dignity in the grapes of wrath and no heaven inside the gates of religion. When we end up working for the poverty pimps, social services, in the public sector, or those non-profits and NGOs, or for those purveyors of a fake capitalist green environmentalism, or in the same league of neoliberals or even patsy identity politics liberals, our stories end up frayed and sent into the abyss in a culture that kneels at the altar of celebrity-wealth-military might-superficiality. Most of us can’t get the gumption up to face down power, even in this junk society where our collective powerlessness could be vital to standing down this tragedy called Americanism, Consumerism, Militarism, Capitalism. Some of us are tilting at windmills and screaming, I don’t have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It’s a depression. Everybody’s out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel’s worth, banks are going bust, shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter. So, I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window, open it, and stick your head out, and yell, ‘I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!’ — Howard Beale, Network More poignant in Peter Finch’s portrayal of a disenchanted newscaster is his call to our humanity: Well, I’m not gonna leave you alone. I want you to get MAD! I don’t want you to protest. I don’t want you to riot — I don’t want you to write to your congressman, because I wouldn’t know what to tell you to write. I don’t know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street. All I know is that first you’ve got to get mad. [shouting] You’ve got to say: ‘I’m a human being, god-dammit! My life has value!’ So, I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell: I’M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE! It’s an easy life gig, really, showing, being, acting mad as hell, and standing down in that glorious moment of realizing that the powers that be, the fascists in boardrooms, the militant bankers and financial devils, all those militarists and digital demigods, the lot of them, are only in the driver’s seat because the consumer half-citizens we have become in the US of A have not taken the first two steps – being mad as hell and not taking it anymore. I mean really, not some deplorable bullshit under the mantel of the madman Trump, or the faux anger of the liberals and Hillary lovers, none of that is even in the same league as true anger and standing down. Enough of us in the USA are done with this experiment, but not enough of us have the balls or ovaries to stand down and make a bolt away from their prisons, both symbolic ones and those literals ones. Bolt and stop taking it. Engage in real dirt-smeared arguments, debates, and stop letting the purveyors of neutering and spaying control our lives. If it’s one poor sop doing it, then that’s one poor schmuck left to hang and dry. In so many ways, my life has been my soul and my intellect splayed by the legions of small men and small women, Little Eichmanns and Compliancy Bureaucrats, Admin Class, Deanlets, Chair Persons, HR Midgets, Diversity Officers, Punishment Officers, Pay Masters, Incrementalists, and Violators of All Good Things About Creativity. Splayed in the sense that it’s easy to sack people who go against the grain, against the vanguard, against the status quo. Each and every time I have been sacked, it seems like the first time, and my own naïve exasperation is almost overcoming, but in the end, my stands are more than righteous. They are demonstrative, chillingly expressive, and others in my circle can judge and pooh-pooh, and point to my spiraling out of any power or fame or thumbs near or on the levers of power. In the end, you can die on your principles and feel the incredible lightness of being a human being, and feel emancipated even near the gates of endless poverty, waning sanity and extreme disenfranchisement from this capitalist franchise called America. I’ve cataloged here and other places my struggle with/in/because of the “work place” in America – it started with newspapers where I had drag-out fights with editors about my attitude – going too strong against the powers, in several cases, the policing agencies I was reporting on. Sacked. Struggle as a union organizer a decade ago fighting the middle of the road bosses who thought compliancy and lock-step (to the Democratic Party) were necessary formulations for working there. Sacked. Fighting for part-time faculty and for students at several community colleges . . . terminated. Working with homeless and drug-addicted adults as a social worker . . . encouraged to resign. Unbelievable that it may seem, but some of us can be up against the vast majority, and be right most of the time, and the fact that the majority can be wrong almost one hundred percent of the time when it comes to false beliefs in patriotism, loyalty, god-country-hierarchy. So many people I have come across in my 60 years, a good 45 of which involved work and work places, have only been able to go-think-believe-philosophize-contemplate-act so far. Halfway is half-assed, and going nine-tenths of the way is still an incomplete journey, flawed, dangerous and retrograde. Fired for fighting administrators and college-university presidents. Fired for writing too loudly. Hell, I even went up against the ameliorators in so-called progressive alternative radio and newspaper circles for being too radical, too left, too outspoken, too in your face. Perception is not reality, but their reality is not mine. Now this fleeting battle line as I am hitting my Sixties is taking even more bizarre turns with my most recent end of the line work in social services. Sort of takes on an entire multi-layered Orwellian, Kafkaesque, Brave New World ugliness only capitalism can refine to a really disturbing level. Fired because three insignificant trainers and two of their supervisors in a Planned Parenthood two-day class determined after eight hours that my simple and non-disruptive questioning of Planned Parenthood’s policy of believing — one hundred percent — the efficacy of everything Western medicine shoves down our throats and my doubting some of the mumbo-jumbo propaganda of Big Pharma would somehow weigh negatively on my work at a completely unrelated-to-Planned Parenthood non-profit as a non-medical social worker with my foster youth clients. Imagine — in a training, with that progressive blathering of “this is a safe space” and “anything said here stays here” — and my livelihood is ripped from me by three narc trainers who outright lied about me being a disruptive element. Imagine the level of punk in these people, these urbanites, these Seattlites, these people who are working in the shadow of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation which is shoving Big Pharma and Big GMO and Big Contraception and Big Sterilization and Big Family Planning and Big Vaccinations and Big Agra down the throats of the so-called developing world. I questioned one vaccine, tied to the human papilloma virus. Planned Parenthood gets tens of millions from Big Pharma and Big Philanthropy. This shit brings tears of absurdity to a grown adult’s eyes. These people, these Little Eichmann’s working for Seattle’s Planned Parenthood, with a flick of their wrists, and a punch of their index fingers on their smart phones sending messages to my boss that I was somehow a disruption to the training. Read here part of my story and my lightly political question about Gardasil-Merck. In their world, they believe they hold the power ingrained in their Hillary Clinton stupidity and Uber Alles Planned Parenthood. These people determined from a really light-hearted and anonymous forum that I would be a chigger in their sides for a second day of training. Really, so, this “ich liebe dich Planned Parenthood uber alles in der Welt … I love you Planned Parenthood above anything else in the world” bullshit went as far as influencing my former employer – a social services non-profit in Portland for more than 45 years – to put me on paid leave and then processed through the ringer of an unfair and incomplete investigation that ended with my termination. Talking to these people in the non-profit sector is like talking to emptied-out moth chrysalises. This mostly female-run and female-staffed organization had the gall to not talk to my two co-workers who were at the training. They had the gall to pointedly show me that I was being investigated and then canned for barely challenging Planned Parenthood’s take on Gardasil, the Bill Gates/Genetically-Engineered/CDC Fast-tracked Approved/Massive PR campaign vaccine for the sexually transmitted virus, HPV. In the echo chamber of these female-run/female-staffed social services agencies, the people do not resist the malfeasance and poor treatment. The people do not speak out as if social justice is the key to assisting people as social workers and mental health practitioners. These people do not want any rocking of the boat. These female-staffed/managed outfits want to embrace the superficiality of LGBTQ-ism and faux multiculturalism, yet, when push comes to shove, they are middling humans, who have reached their own ceilings of compassion/knowledge/ radical social work that pale in comparison to the real work that has to be done. Every step of my administrative leave and then bullshit investigation and then dismissal reeks of unethical and wrongful termination. This non-profit, Lifeworks Northwest, is colluding with Planned Parenthood, because tens of thousands of dollars comes from PP’s coffers, and that grant money is really taxpayers’ money. The power of my simple anonymous comments on unsigned notepaper got my ass hung out to dry, and the bitterness is magnified since I had youth on my caseload in major iterations of crisis, and because I had no opportunity to challenge my accusers, and because I wasn’t able to cut through stupidity and illogical thinking. Simple stuff, a social worker anticipating what my young clients might also ask: “IS the Gardasil HPV vaccine safe since when I go onto the Internet and Google ‘Gardasil Dangers’ or put in ‘Is the HPV virus safe?’ I get all sorts of incriminating information about the dangers herein.” Or, I could have posited at the training something more concrete: “I get all sorts of stories from parents and young women who are outraged by the dangers of the vaccine, and I see many documentaries cataloging the dangers and the chronic pain and deaths attributed to the Merck-made Gardasil, and I can download all these scientific journal articles and browse all these advocacy blogs and web sites that point-blank catalog all the issues tied to the three-shot vaccine”: Here! The highly controversial HPV vaccine “Gardasil,” given to young girls to defend against early onset of the only form of contagious cancer, has been responsible for over thirty deaths (from blood clots in the heart and lungs) and more than 10,000 adverse events (anaphylactic shock, loss of muscle use, and seizures) being reported. Certain forms of HPV are known to cause cervical cancer by fueling the development of precancerous lesions in epithelial tissues of the vagina, vulva, oropharynx, anus and cervix. Most infections however, are benign and cleared rapidly by the human immune system, and never progress to cervical cancer. A valid reason for giving CHILDREN the HPV vaccine has NEVER been established. Plus, the supposed “benefits” of the two known HPV vaccines, Gardasil (made by Merck) and Cervarix (made by GSK-GlaxoSmithKline), wear off after a few years, meaning that even if they do work, the cancer only lasts a few years anyway before a normal immune system beats it, so why bother with the vaccines, which are known to be loaded with neurotoxins, carcinogens, synthetic emulsifyers and genetically modified organisms.  Worst yet, there are at least 120 known human papillomaviruses, so, worse than the flu shot, the HPV vaccine is a complete “shot in the dark.” On top of that, only a third of those viruses are the ones typically transmitted through sexual contact. At least 15 types of HPV are CARCINOGENIC. Just days after given the intramuscular injection Cervarix, Stacey Jones, 17 (at the time), suffered her FIRST EVER SEIZURE and was left brain-damaged from it. The Cervarix inoculation contains recombinant proteins and for those unfamiliar, recombinant means DNA molecules are brought together from multiple sources in a laboratory to create genetic material with DNA sequences that would NOT OTHERWISE EXIST in the genome. That means the culture is chemically altered and then mixed with sodium chloride and “residual” amounts of insect cells. If that itself is not bad enough, according to the Rx list itself, the “tip caps” may contain rubber latex. By the way, sodium chloride when injected raises blood pressure and inhibits muscle contraction and growth. All of this sends the immune system into hyper-panic mode when injected, and explains the seizures and anaphylactic shock these girls are experiencing just hours or days after the HPV jab. In the case of Stacey Jones, her parents said that during the few weeks after her getting the cervical jab, Stacey had MORE fits, causing such severe swelling in the brain and brain injury that Stacey had to go to a rehabilitation unit to relearn simple tasks. GSK called it all a coincidence. Eleven deaths occurred less than one week after receiving the vaccine, seven of which died in less than two days. Three of the deaths were boys. Guess what the most common diagnosis was for the CAUSE of DEATH–BLOOD CLOTTING. Where is the CDC in all of this? One of the girls died within 3 hours of getting the jab. Her echocardiogram revealed a blood clot within the right atrium and the right ventricle. Other reports include girls coming down with the sudden onset of Guillain-Barre syndrome, where the immune system attacks itself. With Rick Perry as a sponsor, Merck’s Gardasil was causing permanent injuries and death all in the name of Rick Perry’s political need for monetary backing. Judicial Watch public interest group investigated this government level corruption and released a report based on FDA documents about adverse reactions to the vaccine and found over 100 DEATHS and spontaneous abortions CAUSED BY GARDASIL. Even JAMA (the Journal of the American Medical Association) went so far as to publish over 12,000 reports of vaccine injury. You see, when I work with youth, and talk about student debt, about drone murders by the USA, or about Trump’s felonious business deals, or talk about the power of media to manufacture consent, or what the real history of the United States is about, or how we bombed the hell out of Korea in the 1950s and Vietnam in the 1960s and 1970s, or when I talk about what the real Thanksgiving means, the real Israel means, the real NATO means I expect my youth to go on their own Smart (sic) phones and start double checking my facts and theses. So, what are these people thinking, sacking me, because I shaped a question around maybe Planned Parenthood anticipating some resistance from some percentage of our youth on all our caseloads, and resistance from their foster and biological parents, or their siblings and friends about this unproven vaccine? Clenched-teeth trainers, and this room of 40 women and three men, and I was the only one raising what some portion of all of our client loads might ask – is this shot safe? I raised the eyebrows of the Planned Parenthood trainers when I supposed that maybe practitioners of traditional Chinese medicine, naturopathic treatments, shamanism, Native American healing, and other non-Western Medical beliefs should also be included in their amazing rainbow flag of diversity. These people are lock-step, neo-fascists, for sure, of the liberal kind, and I was not prepared for the absolute party-line around Gardasil. It took very little to time to research how Planned Parenthood gets massive funding from Big Pharma and Big Industrial Medicine . . . that Planned Parenthood is part of the big PR push to get as many young women and boys globally vaccinated with this toxic brew. Right now, over 270 million doses have been distributed. Mark that as $30 billion or more for Merk. Yet, these Uber Alles Planned Parenthood punks and then my own former employers – punks with master’s degrees in social work and taught in reduced harm techniques and trauma informed care  – find it impossible for me to continue taking a mandatory class and then I get my ass unfairly and wrongfully sacked? I am in the process of writing Part Three to the series I was asked to work on over at Hormones Matter (and here at DV it’s here and here and here). This entire episode dealing with the cahoots of Planned Parenthood and the drug makers, including the Gardasil manufacturer, Merck, and my own puny job and possibly my future in social services – oh, my next interviews for new jobs will most certainly involve HR folk Googling me and Googling my writings, and, bam, another illicit and unethical determination of my qualities based on my writing – stinks of what’s really rotten to the core in America: the careerism and the death of a real liberal class, and this entitled stupidity and perceived aggrieved neoliberal class. The formula is clear – if you are a scientist or researcher or expert or legitimate journalist questioning your government, your paymaster, your employer, your school, your non-profit, your NGO, your media, your Fortune 1000 companies, your millionaire and billionaire miscreants, you get harassed, de-funded, shunted into a corner, threatened with lawsuits, threatened with termination, sacked, and in some cases, murdered by these economic and patriotic hit men and hit women. Chris Hedges on careerism! The greatest crimes of human history are made possible by the most colorless human beings. They are the careerists. The bureaucrats. The cynics. They do the little chores that make vast, complicated systems of exploitation and death a reality. They collect and read the personal data gathered on tens of millions of us by the security and surveillance state. They keep the accounts of ExxonMobil, BP and Goldman Sachs. They build or pilot aerial drones. They work in corporate advertising and public relations. They issue the forms. They process the papers. They deny food stamps to some and unemployment benefits or medical coverage to others. They enforce the laws and the regulations. And they do not ask questions. These systems managers believe nothing. They have no loyalty. They are rootless. They do not think beyond their tiny, insignificant roles. They are blind and deaf. They are, at least regarding the great ideas and patterns of human civilization and history, utterly illiterate. And we churn them out of universities. Lawyers. Technocrats. Business majors. Financial managers. IT specialists. Consultants. Petroleum engineers. “Positive Psychologists.” Communications majors. Cadets. Sales representatives. Computer programmers. Men and women who know no history, know no ideas. They live and think in an intellectual vacuum, a world of stultifying minutia. They are T.S. Eliot’s “the hollow men,” “the stuffed men.” “Shape without form, shade without colour,” the poet wrote. “Paralysed force, gesture without motion.” Even the HR people at that non-profit wouldn’t get it right about why I was terminated, and the little letter I received from Oregon Employment Department belies the non-profit’s absurdity and confusion: You ARE allowed benefits on this claim . . . . Findings: You were employed by Lifeworks NW until Oct. 26, 2017 when you were fired because you received too many complaints about being unprofessional, confrontational and argumentative. This was not a willful or wantonly negligent disregard of the employer’s interest because there was no policy or rule violation. You deny the accusations of being a disruption to a training that occurred on October 16, 2017. Employer failed to respond to additional attempts to retrieve information. Legal Conclusion: You were fired but not for misconduct connected with work. This short piece can end with those concepts, these people Chris Hedges likens to docile and compliant followers who obey for whatever prestige they can garner. Notice my former employers use words like “unprofessional” and “confrontational” and “argumentative.” This is how these people running social services agencies work the mental muscles in their heads. My entire work with foster youth, connected to the department of human services case managers and foster parents and a plethora of agencies and businesses, was deemed both “professional” and wise and compassionate. I have written testaments to that fact. What does it mean to have this pejorative thrown at me after the fact, stated to the unemployment adjudicator without my ability to answer this lie? This is a case of so called social services providers putting in the dull knife in my already opened torso. Then, this all-female staff and supervisory and management team throw out the term, “confrontational,” in the double-speak of these fake positive psychological beratings. What in the world does this mean, “confrontational”? I did confront abusive parents, abusive bureaucrats, abusive psychologists and employers and teachers, and a few case workers. That was my job to be advocate and mentor for 16-to-21-year-old youth – foster youth. I confronted abuse and lies and mismanagement and maligning and prejudice and pre-judgments and structural violence. I confronted the school to prison pipeline mentality of officials and confronted the lackadaisical attitudes about my youth becoming homeless. Finally, “argumentative”? You know, I got along with everyone, except a couple of officials at public gatherings who made fun of addiction, who made fun of youth caught by cops for pot smoking or carrying booze in the car. I argued with people who laughed at mental challenges, and who somehow thought addiction was just a fad, a choice. I fought prejudice and stupidity, and did it with aplomb and respect. I never was “argumentative” with supervisors or co-workers, yet, these women social workers dare tell a state official – unemployment adjudicator – that the reason for my termination is my “argumentative” disposition? As if I am getting graded as a third grader for my class demeanor, decorum, participation and citizenship? This is the coda of our social services gone amok and awry, and with these fake diversity-chanting female workers and these social workers who fall over themselves to help gay young men and women, while arguing their point that anyone else who is not a pushover or who is defiant, or who disagrees with their spin on the world, well, even a 60-year-old seasoned teacher with training, skills, experiences and education they could only read about or dream about, is deemed “argumentative” and “confrontational.” This syllogistic thinking (non-thinking) then puts an icing on their canards with the terminology, “unprofessional.” We are not in good hands, fellow readers. We have a society that is far removed from the reality of being one emergency room visit from the poor house or one paycheck away from being homeless. This is a society that fines homeless people for loitering, that fines panhandling for a meal or a beer, that fines people camping in alleys or kipping in their perfectly legal and running vans and motor homes. This is the society of people who lets the world know how “powerful” they are – proof is in the gouged-out cultures and ecosystems, perpetual war, the illegalities of every ounce of investment, retirement, consumption schemed up in America, and endorsed by twenty or thirty percent of the population. This is a country that has no history because it forgets and forestalls and fabricates. This is a country of teary-eyed infants, raised on Marvel Comics’ narratives and Disneyland philosophy and computer mush and Hallmark moments, and violence and junk goo for the brain and junk food for the soul. These people, who are tied to the lies of the most powerful collective organization on earth – Big Pharma (twice the lobbying bucks paid to politicians than even the militarists) – and they give shit about the lives of young women and men forcefully vaccinated. These are the crimes of the weak, the so-called do-gooders. And their crimes go unchallenged, unnoticed, and under-discussed. Because this country is one giant criminal project — Continuing Criminal Enterprise. These armies of bureaucrats serve a corporate system that will quite literally kill us. They are as cold and disconnected as Mengele. They carry out minute tasks. They are docile. Compliant. They obey. They find their self-worth in the prestige and power of the corporation, in the status of their positions and in their career promotions. They assure themselves of their own goodness through their private acts as husbands, wives, mothers and fathers. They sit on school boards. They go to Rotary. They attend church. It is moral schizophrenia. They erect walls to create an isolated consciousness. They make the lethal goals of ExxonMobil or Goldman Sachs or Raytheon or insurance companies possible. They destroy the ecosystem, the economy and the body politic and turn workingmen and -women into impoverished serfs. They feel nothing. Metaphysical naiveté always ends in murder. It fragments the world. Little acts of kindness and charity mask the monstrous evil they abet. And the system rolls forward. The polar ice caps melt. The droughts rage over cropland. The drones deliver death from the sky. The state moves inexorably forward to place us in chains. The sick die. The poor starve. The prisons fill. And the careerist, plodding forward, does his or her job. — Chris Hedges http://clubof.info/