#every fucking morning and every night the news has a segment on her im going to start calling in bomb threats

[unamused-kookaburra]

I wish you could block tags irl because I'm so sick of hearing about taylor swift

[samingtonwilson]

A Bid on Bucky

Summary: You spend thousands of dollars at a bachelor auction for Bucky when you could’ve had him for free this entire time.

Pairing: bucky x reader

a/n: this fic is damning evidence that idiots in love is my favorite genre, your honor. i’ve more likely than not used this gif before but idc because im lov it

Tony Stark is a humanitarian— a fact you have neither forgotten, nor will he allow you to forget. 

Oftentimes, he’ll remind you verbally and, other times, a visual reminder will be posted on the team’s social media accounts. The pictures of him at the elephant sanctuary he helped found in Thailand are your personal favorites.

If news of his latest cause is not filling the pages of The Times or showing up on CNN’s special segment of Billionaires Who Care with Christiane Amanpour, it’s being distributed via monthly text reminder of reasons to leave Tony’s special coffee alone— last month you were told, “His donations allowed the doors of Planned Parenthood to remain open in developing nations such as Burkina Faso, and all he asks for in return is that his teammates do not finish his goddamn coffee.” 

Of course, because you all live for him sniffing out your mugs at morning meetings to discover the culprit, his reminders only lead to greater coffee theft as it, in turn, increases the redness in his face when he finds the morally corrupt heathenous criminal— who is usually Clint. 

In true Tony Stark fashion, though, his favorite way to remind you all, and the rest of the world, is through a gala. A gala where champagne flows like water, money is no object, extravagance is to be expected, and, as a member of the team, attendance is mandatory. 

At first, you hated the damn things. It’s not like you’ve ever cared about the private island one guest owns which another guest is so obviously jealous of, or if the deal to buy a chunk of land on the light side of the moon before that hippie Elon Musk usurps it all has successfully closed. 

But now? Now that you’ve learned how to direct the money those snots brag ostentatiously about into causes you truly care for with a couple little sly techniques, you fucking love the things. 

You and Natasha have a game, actually. Whose Shameless and Absolutely Disingenuous Flirting Will Lead to More Money Donated to (Insert Tony’s Latest Cause Here)? 

Natasha is the current titleholder as Smelly Von Oil Tycoon’s wife shooed you away before you could close the million dollar deal and Cowboy Hat McFast Food Franchise would have given up his entire company if Natasha kept batting her eyelashes at him. But in the end, just as every other time the two of you have played, you both felt like winners because the almost obscene amount of money was helping fund housing for Rohingya refugees living in Bangladesh. The competitive edge to it is just for entertainment. 

This time, though, seeing as this event is an auction and you are in no mood to flirt with red-faced old men with paper-thin skin, you have taken to auctioneering with Sam. 

Motioning to a projected photograph of a luxurious Paris hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower in your best Vanna White impression, you grin as brightly as you can. “And the last item Sam and I will be auctioning off together is a two-night stay at Plaza Athénée in Paris. First class airfare for two is included, as are two tickets to the Louvre. You’ve been to Paris, haven’t you, Sam?” 

“Why, yes, baby girl, I have,” he replies with a grin as broad as yours, the spotlight and his natural charm causing his deep brown eyes to sparkle like diamonds. You think for a second that you can actually hear Bucky scoffing in the audience. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but I will say that it is called the City of Love for a reason.” 

“Of course, our unlucky-in-love Sam shared those kisses only with every bit of bread and cheese he came across but you can share it all with someone special.” At that, Sam elbows you gently in the ribs with a fond roll of his eyes. “We’re going to start the bidding at twenty-thousand dollars.”

Immediately, paddles shoot up and Sam begins calling out higher bids and paddle numbers while you lean your hip against the podium and take a long sip of your champagne which has since, unfortunately, gone lukewarm and flat. Your face pinches and you scan the crowd for a wandering waiter. 

Before you can, though, your head tilts just as you spot Bucky, a large button reading “BACHELOR #4” pinned to the lapel of his tux.

He’s laughing. Not openly and loudly like he usually does when the two of you are alone, but his shoulders are shaking and he’s grinning so the skin beside his eyes wrinkles. You think fleetingly that his cheeks might even be dusted in pink as he ducks his head. 

The sight makes you smile, too, and you set your champagne aside. It’s secondary now. 

“Congratulations to Mr. Baldwin and all the other winners of these wonderful vacations,” Sam says once the winner has been announced and ushered backstage. “Sadly, our time is up for the night.”

You nod and pick up your microphone again. “Yes, but you will be seeing Sam again tonight as a part of the Bachelor Auction. Give the crowd a spin, Sam, show them what they could be going on a date with.” 

Sam unbuttons his wine-colored tuxedo and spins slowly, a slight swing in his hips. He’s met with several wolf-whistles, a rose thrown on stage, and a brief retching noise courtesy of Clint, to which Sam replies with a wink and a scoffed, “The glory is too much to handle for the insecure and faint of heart, ain’t it, Barton? We got a doctor on retainer in case you pass out.” 

Sam holds out his elbow to help you down the stairs and you gratefully loop your arm through his, your other hand hoisting the hem of your dress above your ankles. 

You sigh after meeting one of the bid winners, smile falling from your lips the moment you turn away. “I should’ve bid on that Marrakech trip.” 

Sam cocks an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit that you have yet to release him and simply follows you as you head to the bar. “Enjoy it last time?” 

“You mean when I was there to locate stolen Chitauri weapons?” you let out a bark of sarcastic laughter. “Steve didn’t even let me glance in the relative direction of a souq when that was the only reason I volunteered.” 

“So that’s a no?” 

You take the fresh flute of champagne a waiter offers and nod your thanks. “That’s a hell fucking no.” A pathetic pout and, “I deserve to love Morocco.” 

“Makin’ that face at me won’t help your cause. Makin’ that face at Pervert Santa Claus over there,” he points to a man, rosy-cheeked with a white beard and wandering eyes, who you recognize as the winner of the trip. “That’ll get you what you want.”

You make a face, tongue sticking out as you gag, and set your glass atop the bar. “First of all, even the prospect of sex with me will make his heart give out.”

Sam laughs into his tumbler of whiskey and rolls his eyes.

You grimace openly when the eyes of an elderly man— his arm around a woman who looks to be barely in her twenties— linger a bit too long and smile when he visibly shrinks. “And B., I only flirt with them to get donations. I’d sooner never leave this tower again than get with one of these ‘I only donate money to boost my public image’ types.” 

He hums and a slow, lazy smile curves his lips. He nods his head in the direction of something behind you. “Barnes’ got a different ideology.”

As casually as you can, you turn your body to lean your elbows atop the bar and tilt your head ever so slightly to glance where Bucky is standing. 

Standing and laughing. How is he still laughing? 

Arching an eyebrow at the woman he speaks to, you lift your glass to your lips. “Doesn’t look like she fits the bill.” 

“You’re joking,” Sam laughs, shaking his head as he sets his elbows on the bar as well. His shoulder brushes yours and, despite the itchy fabric of his tuxedo, you don’t mind. “That’s Maris Scheufele.” 

Long, chestnut brown hair swept over one shoulder to keep her back bare, her gown is silky, liquid gold. Dripping in wealth.

You purse your lips and turn back to Sam. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” 

“Chopard heiress.” 

“Chopard like—” with wide eyes, you point at the sapphire and diamond earrings borrowed from Pepper on your ears and the matching ring on your left index finger. “Like Cannes Film Festival Chopard? Like that Chopard?” 

“Yeah, that Chopard.” He has to stop from laughing at the look you offer him. He thinks he might see your skin turn green in a matter of minutes. “She’s more loaded than Cigarette-Breath Du Rideshare-App-CEO from the elephant benefit.” 

You manage a small smile and a quick roll of your eyes, only to have them once again land on Bucky and the Chopard heiress. Maris. 

You aren’t jealous— per se. Jealousy is an ugly emotion, after all. Childish, and inconsiderate, and rooted in insecurity. 

Sure, she’s cuddled up next to someone you’re in the midst of denying feelings for out of fear and the prospect of being undeserving. And, sure, she’s covered in diamonds and you’re usually covered in dried blood, dust, and dirt from HYDRA facilities. But you aren’t jealous. 

You know you’ve wasted your time, his efforts, and your emotions being anything but happy with Bucky. Chances lost never come around again, right? So you’ve made your peace with it. You’ve had to make your peace with it.

With how much you’ve messed up, how many chances you’ve lost. With how perfect she is and how perfect he looks laughing with her. 

Perfect. 

So perfect that your teeth grit and the grip you have on your champagne flute tightens.

“He’s gonna bring in the big bucks.” 

You snort. “I thought he had different ideologies.”

“He does. But you know she ain’t gonna let him get auctioned off to anyone else.” A corner of Sam's lips turn up in disgust as he, too, stares at them with little stealth. Nick Fury would be ashamed in you both. “Lookin’ at him like he’s a piece of jerky.” 

“Jerky?”

“Old, dried up beef.” He then hums in agreement with his own words. “Nasty, hundred-year old beef.” 

With a laugh— a laugh that has the cadence of a sob— you drop your head into your hands. 

You meet Bucky’s eyes when you pick your head up, his head tilted in silent question. Perhaps at your wet, ironic smile, perhaps at the pull of your eyebrows. 

You shake your head in response and it’s when he almost immediately returns to laughing at whatever Maris Scheufele is saying that you straighten with a frown. 

What the hell kind of name is that anyway? Maris.

“What the hell—” you pause to take the glass from Sam’s hands and polish off his whiskey. “What the hell is so funny?” 

The glass is snatched back. “Not you finishing my drink, that’s for sure.” 

Shrugging as you continue to stare at Bucky and Maris, you mumble, “Put the next one on my tab.” 

Sam snorts as he asks for another drink, facing you as he adds, “S’an open bar, you cheap ass.” 

Once you’ve been able to secure a fresh, much stronger drink for yourself, you loop your arm through Sam’s again and set your chin on his shoulder. Your noses nearly bump when he looks at you and you both laugh softly. “I fucked up, didn’t I?” 

“You did.” He yelps and laughs when you pinch his side, lightly knocking his head against yours. Gentle eyes meet yours as he says, “Not tryna be harsh, but you had him and you let him go.” 

“I know.” 

“He spent weeks moping about it, you spent weeks moping about it.” 

“I know.”

“It was miserable comforting both you idiots.” 

“Yeah, you’re the real victim here.” 

Despite your dry tone, he nods in agreement. “You could tell him right now. Get all this bullshit over with and out in the open.”

Just the idea makes your heart rate spike. “He might reject me. Exact revenge for what I did.” 

“Barnes is a lotta things. Greasy, geriatric, testy, fuckin’ annoying as shit—” Sam hisses when you pinch him again, “— but vindictive ain’t one of ‘em.” 

Before Sam can convince you to move even an inch from the part of the bar you’ve dubbed yours for the night, warm fingers wrap around your elbow and tap your arm five times in quick succession. A secret identification code. 

A secret identification code that makes you smile despite yourself. You lift your head from Sam’s shoulder and hope you don’t look too eager as Bucky leans back against the bar, facing you entirely. “Look who it is.” 

He waves vibranium fingers and grins, a bit of that thirties charm you’d heard so much about shining in his blue eyes as he looks at you. “Hi, sweetheart. Wilson,” he adds with a playfully curt nod, chuckling when Sam returns it. “You were great up there. Prettiest MC I’ve ever seen. Almost had me buyin’ the trip to Morocco to make up for the shit Steve put you through.”

You feel Sam shaking in silent laughter and sigh when you hear his whispered, “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Only ‘almost’?” you ask with a pout Bucky grins at and wide eyes that have him swallowing over a dry throat. “What does a girl have to do for you to actually bid?” 

He shakes his head after a moment of simply staring, chuckling. “These poor bastards don’t stand a chance against you, do they? They’d probably sign their entire companies over to you and not think twice about it.”

“Just doing my part to save the Amazon,” you shrug. “Like you’re doing with the Bachelor Auction.” 

“‘Bout that,” he begins as he straightens his jacket and tie— all black. You trace his jaw, sharp and angular, when he glances away for just a second. “How long d’you think it’ll take Stark to put me out of my misery when nobody bids on me?”

“I wouldn’t be so negative. I know of one person who’ll definitely bid on you.”

His lips quirk up on one end, eyes dreamy as his head tilts in indulgence. “Yeah? Who’s that?” 

“Your heiress.” 

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice Sam jabbing his elbow into your ribs and cocks an eyebrow in confusion. “My what?” 

Though you weren’t planning on replying, Tony’s voice over the speakers doesn’t allow Bucky to question you further and you heave a sigh of relief. He calls all the bachelors to the stage and Sam pulls his arm from yours, bumping your shoulders together before he departs just as Tony begins telling a story of his first bachelor auction and how much he went for. 

Bucky remains still, however. Leant against the bar, eyes on you. 

“Bachelor number 4,” you say, pointing at the button he wears. You smile softly. “You’re needed on stage.” 

That seems to jolt him out of whatever stupor he was lost in and he stands straight. He takes a step forward and pauses, so close you can feel the heat radiating from him and smell his subtle cologne. “Bid on me if no one else does.” 

“I won’t need to.” 

Natasha finds you just as the bidding begins and orders herself a drink. She doesn’t say much, simply looking at you as you stare at Bucky standing next to Steve and Sam, and nods to herself. She remains a quiet, comfortable presence until Steve is brought to centerstage and nearly every paddle in the room shoots up. “You tell him yet?” 

“Nope.” 

“Thought so.” She nods her head to her left and you follow the movement to where Maris sits, back straight as she, too, looks at Bucky— but she’s grinning, paddle poised to be raised. “Scheufele being a cock block?” 

You’re visibly surprised when you turn back to Natasha, her ginger hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. “How did you— How the hell could you possibly know that?” 

With the crooked curve of blood red lips, she smiles. “I’m just that good. And Sam texted me about it ten minutes ago.”

She continues to watch you as the excited winner of a date with Steve rises from his seat. “He’s next.” 

“I know that.” 

“You gonna bid on him?” 

You snort, though unconvincingly, and shake your head. “And go against an heiress? I’ll save myself the embarrassment.” 

“Stark pays us buckets,” she tells you with a frown, picking a stray piece of lint off her silver dress. “You could afford to go against an heiress.”

Bucky’s eyes are narrowed as he looks over the crowd of people seated at their tables. The light bounces off diamonds and sequins, gold and shiny leather shoes. It stings his eyes, it makes him scowl. 

“And next, ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on Bachelor Number 4,” Tony announces, turning a bit to glance at Bucky as he trudges over, not bothering to look a bit more appealing. “James Buchanan Barnes, truly the human equivalent of a cat.” 

Bucky openly glares at Tony now.

“James enjoys silence, brooding, eating like a fuckin’ horse, and telling the same story more than once,” Tony continues, ignoring the roll of Bucky’s eyes. “Cute, cuddly, and a little dangerous, we’ll start the bidding at one-thousand.” 

Three paddles shoot up. One from Maris, and two toward the center of the room. Your shoulders tense, Bucky’s relax.

“Okay, do I see eleven hundred?” 

Two paddles remain lifted until Maris shouts from her seat in a lilting voice, “Three thousand.” 

Your jaw clenches, Bucky grins. 

Tony set his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Alright, three thousand going once—” 

“Thirty-one hundred!” 

It feels as if the entire room turns in their seats to gape at you, but you try to pay them no mind. You, wearing your jealousy and determination like armor, stand at the bar with an empty glass in your hand, waiting for Tony to call your bid. But before he can— 

“Thirty-two!”

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at Maris. “Thirty-three!” 

“Four thousand!” She’s smiling. A perfectly manicured eyebrow is raised in challenge. 

You see red. “Forty-three hundred.” 

“Six thousand!” 

“Sixty-five hundred!” 

“Seventy-five hundred!”

When you look at the stage in a bit of a panic, Tony grins expectantly at you and Bucky— Well, you don’t think Bucky’s ever looked so shocked in all the time you’ve known him. But when his eyes go from Maris to meet yours, you find yourself yelling, “Ten thousand!” 

The room goes silent, or maybe you’ve just tuned it all out, and Tony is shaking his head in amusement. “Ten thousand going once.” 

You turn toward Maris as she sits and tosses her paddle onto the table. “Ten thousand going twice.”

You face the stage again. Bucky’s expression is unreadable. “Sold to our beautiful teammate in blue.” 

A bright spotlight shines on you and you fight the urge to run from the room, from the Tower, from New York, and give your best smile. 

— 

It’s four in the morning, all the lights on the residential floors of the Tower have been turned off, and the world is peaceful. But your mind continues to race. 

You sit at the kitchen counter, container of Sam’s leftover cheesecake from your lunch out with him open before you. You twirl a fork between your fingers and stare at nothing in particular, your soft breaths the only sound in the room. 

You’d changed out of your dress hours ago, washed off your makeup and taken the pins out of your hair. You could barely meet the eyes of your reflection out of fear of judgement and you didn’t ask FRIDAY to dim the lights or lock your door just in case she laughed at you. 

Tony had yet to talk to you about paying the ten grand you bid on Bucky and you left the ballroom before anyone could so much as snicker. You knew you couldn’t hide forever, you just needed the night to come to terms with your own stupidity. 

Yet as you prop your chin upon your palm and sigh, you think you might need a day or two, too. 

Quiet steps down the hall are made purposefully louder as they grow closer so as to not startle you, the lights dim as bulbs flicker on to about ten-percent of their full brightness. You fear your heartbeat might be audible to everyone in a ten mile radius at the sight of his blue eyes, messy brown hair, and wrinkled black t-shirt, and take a deep breath through parted lips in a futile attempt to calm it down.

He offers you a small smile and walks to the fridge. “You want some water?” 

You shake your head— even though he can’t see you. “No, I’m fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence and you take a breath to steady yourself. “Buck, I think we should talk.” 

He takes out a glass bottle of water for himself and shuts the fridge, leaning against the sink. He’s still smiling. “I know.” 

“I—” 

“I’m not gonna hold you to this thing,” he interjects, rolling the bottle between his hands. He watches as you sit up straight and set your fork down. “I know you made the bid just to donate the money and save me from that married heiress—” 

“Married?” you repeat to yourself. 

“And you’ve made it clear you just want to be friends,” he continues, undeterred. “So it’s okay. Hell, I’ll pay for half of it so I’ll feel like I’ve actually done somethin’ to save the sea turtles.” 

“The Amazon.” 

“Right, the Amazon,” he amends with a quiet laugh. He takes a sip of the water and sets the botte aside. “So whaddya say, huh? We’ll go half and half, help this cause out a little, and you don’t have to go on a date with me.” 

“Bucky, you don’t understand—” 

“No, no, I get it,” he says, walking around the narrow strip of granite separating you to sit on the stool beside yours. Features soft but a little sad, he shrugs as warmth rolls off him in waves. “I told you to bid on me in case no one else did and you saw how much more Steve went for. You tried to raise the bids on me and got stuck since those billionaires didn’t want to shell out more than ten grand on the Winter Soldier. I get it!” 

“That’s not why I did it, Bucky. Not at all.” 

He lowers his eyes to his hands, staring at mismatched palms, and says nothing. 

“Honestly, I—” You stop yourself when it feels as if your heart’s lodged itself in your throat and struggle to swallow over it. “When I saw that Chopard heiress talking to you and laughing with you, and when she bid on you and almost won that date, I— Something happened.” 

He looks at you now, eyebrows pulled together. “What happened?” 

“I— I don’t know. I guess I was a little jealous,” you say with a laugh only to shake your head. There’s a subtle sting behind your eyes, at the tip of your nose, and you pray to every deity you can think of to stop any tears. “No, I was very, very jealous. You two looked so happy and perfect and I wanted to scream, and cry, and— Fuck, all I could think about is how much time, and energy, and emotion I’ve wasted pushing you away so neither one of us ends up heartbroken when I already am.” 

You sigh, unable to meet his gaze as he gapes at you, his mouth hanging open as you laugh mirthlessly. “It probably seems so stupid to you and I know you’ve moved on, but, holy hell, I wish you still had some kind of crush on me because I’m dying here, Buck. I mean I just spent ten thousand dollars to make you go on a date with me.” 

“You did,” he agrees. He’s smiling when you manage to look at him, “You spent ten thousand dollars on me when you could’ve just had me for free this entire time.” 

He grasps your chin between his flesh index finger and thumb and jostles you a little, gaze so adoring. “And what punk ass told you I moved on from you? Huh? That same goof who said it’s just a crush?” 

He leans forward and pauses just before his lips meet yours, as if waiting for you to pull away only for you to close the distance first. 

What starts off as just a light brush of your lips against his quickly turns into a deep, hungry kiss that quiets your mind and forces your heart into overdrive. The warmth of it reaches your toes and every hair follicle, especially as both his hands cup your face while your fingers tangle through his hair, the rasp of his stubbly beard against your soft, sensitive skin stealing your breath even more.

You pull away first and your voice is small, a bit hoarse as you ask, “So you still like me?” 

He sets his forehead against yours and his lips pull into a smile. “I’d say it’s a li’l more than that, sweetheart.” 

It’s hours later when the sun is up, the cheesecake slice is long forgotten, and Bucky’s pulled you onto his stool to straddle his lap, your lips swollen and a little painful, that you groan in embarrassment. 

He immediately leans away from your neck and looks up at you in concern, lips full and cherry red. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“I have to pay Tony ten thousand dollars.” 

Chuckling, he rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to your chin. “I’ll pay it.” 

“Then I’ll owe you ten thousand dollars.” You withhold a moan when he nips at a part of your neck that has your hips rolling into his, the hitching of his breath felt more than heard. “That— that just transfers the problem.”

You feel him smile, arm tightening around you. “I think I know of a way you can pay me back.”

“Sounds like you just discovered the world’s oldest profession.” 

A punishing nip under your jaw and you gasp as he laughs. “I’m still all for going half and half to save the sea turtles.” 

“The Amazon.” 

He sighs and leans back. “Fuckin’ Christ. Someone needs to save the fuckin’ turtles already, then.”

[missjackil]

My 14x20 Season Finale Opinion

Moriah

This was absolutely AMAZING!! It ranks in there with the Season 4 and 5 finales with me! Definitely one of the best!! I came away from 14x19 saying “ooooh my boys done fucked the fuck up!” and came away from this with “OMG MY BOYS REAAAALLLYYY FUCKED THE FUCK UP!!!!”  So without further ado, let's get to it.

Absolutely nothing I predicted to happen happened. Even with clues given from trailers, sneak peeks and spoiler shots, which is fantastic, because that means they can still surprise me, have not gotten too predictable, and the writing is STILL top notch!

I was completely and pleasantly thrown by the segment where no one could lie. This is the first finale that had a good strong dose of comedy, where it would seem to not fit but was so well done it was great! It was reminiscent of Lebanon which started off very light and humorous and quickly changed to deeply dramatic. Since the beginning, one of my favorite things about this show is its ability to take me through so many different emotions in just one episode.

We start off with a very angry Jack. Sam Dean and Cas looking on in terror as he emerges from the smoke. Sam, though a little terrified, actually shows a little relief that Jack made his way out. .Now Dean and Cas have at it, because Dean wants Jack dead and Cas does not. Which solidifies that this, season 14, is the first season in 10 years that had absolutely 0 Destiel moments (Thank you Dabb!!) not a welcome back hug, no “sex eyes” no stupid mixx tape... nada zip nothing :)  so while so many of you have bitched since Dabb took over in S12, that he's breaking down the brothers’ co-dependency and is a Destiel stan, he has proven both accusations wrong by a long shot. 

Now let's move on to the story.  Jack walks through town and hears everyone lying to each other. One of the first things we know he has learned is that lying is bad. He’s expressed this a few times that he is uncomfortable with it, now even without a soul, he doesn’t like it, so he orders everyone to stop lying, simply by shouting it. I knew this was going to be fun. 

Sam and Dean go to a facial recognition company to try to find Jack. Right away I notice that the sign says “Mirror Universe” and they hold the shot for a moment, making me wonder if this is something I might want to remember later. Not unlike in Lebanon when the boys walked up to the pawn shop and their reflections appeared over the sign “Precious Pawn”. Are these things a hint to something, like in 7x02 when Sam and Hallucifer/Dean got to the office building that was named “Morning Star Inc” (Lucifer is Latin for Morning Star)? Could just be a coincidence but Im going to put that on my “hmmmm” shelf. 

Right away Dean comments about the nerds and Sam says “Takes one to know one” and we know they can’t lie either. We learn Dean is not only a geek also, but watches Jeopardy every night, and Sam’s favorite singer is Selene Dion! This tickles me because I love learning new things about Sam, and my little wincest heart sighs at the thought of My Heart Will Go On, Because You Loved Me, and It’s All Coming Back to Me Now are songs maybe he thinks about Dean to?

On that note, I must include that my good friend @supernaturalnardog pointed out that in the early years, being made to tell the truth, led the brothers to say biting, resentful things about each other, and now it was just silly brother teasing. How much closer and trusting they have grown since those days 😍 

Meanwhile, we have Cas doing something that made no sense to me. After bitching at Sam and Dean about trying to contain Jack in the Malak box, he is now trying to get into Hell so he can see if he can put Jack in the cage?? Ummm sure yeah Cas, that's a much better choice.  Jack goes to find Kelly’s parents, and sadly, they don't like him anymore. They looked him up and no one heard of him, and Kelly’s peers believe she is dead. Grandmom believes Jack killed her. She screams at him and all we see are glowy eyes and STOP!! Ugggh did he just Mary Winchester another grandmom?? Back at the ranch, Chuck shows up agrees with Cas that Jack is a problem and they go meet up with Sam and Dean. Dean is automatically pissed and breaks Chuck’s guitar, the office is crazy with people telling the truth, so Chuck zaps them all back to the bunker to talk. Emotions rise from there...

Cas splits to go find Jack, Chuck talks to the boys makes them a gun that can kill anything, but the catch is, that whatever the gun does to someone else, it also does to the shooter. Dean takes the gun. 

After some monologuing between Cas and Jack, we go back to Dean in his room, filling a flask. Sam is looking for him, so Dean invites him in and asks him to have a seat. Here comes “the talk” that Sam must be all too familiar with now. Dean informs Sam that he’s going to kill Jack, and consequently kill himself as well. Looking for Sam’s approval, blessing, acceptance, or whatever, Sam isn’t having it this time. He admits he’s still angry with Jack and part of him still wants him dead too, but

 “Dean, we never even tried to save him!”  “He killed mom!” “He has no soul!” “And who’s fault is that?” I actually thought Dean was blaming Sam for a second, until Sam took the blame himself and Dean’s expression clearly showed that wasn’t what he was trying to say, he was trying to say it’s Jack’s fault he has no soul. 

Sam says it’s his own fault because he brought him back, and Jack burned his soul off saving both of their lives. So Sam tells Dean if he thinks hes going to give him permission to go kill Jack and himself, so he can lose them both all at once, then no... just no.... he’s lost too much already. Sam peaces out.

Sam meets up with Chuck and the meta here made me a little dizzy to be honest. Chuck reveals that Sam and Dean are his guys, of all the Sams and Deans in all the universes, they’re his favorite. They’re SO interesting. And now Sam manages to make me feel guilty about watching them over and over and even writing fic. I empathize with Chuck a little bit here because he “writes” them this way because they're his favorites. They’re the most amazing heroes ever, they save the world but to BE those heroes, they need to go through tragedy. Show of hands here how many of you Sam girl’s write or enjoy fics with hurt!sam? Or Dean girls who write/enjoy hurt!dean? Wouldnt it suck if the boys in your stories started yelling at you to stop it?? What a dark and crazy thought! And I empathized with Sam too, because of how much I love episodes like Red Meat because Sam is badass... but now hes kinda saying, “why did I have to suffer like that to show you Im a badass??” ya feel me fam?? 

Anyway. Sam gets very angry and then Chuck tells him Dean already left. Dean is at the cemetery about to shoot Jack with the special gun, and Sam doesn't want this, Jack is on his knees, telling Dean he understands and its ok. It flashed me back to the end of S10. Dean cant do it and drops the gun. Chuck is like “nooo pick it up this is the big Abraham sacrificing his only son on Moriah and Dean’s like “nope” and he doesn't even care if Chuck brings mom back in the trade. He’s done, Chuck can fekk off... Chuck’s like fine snaps his fingers and the lights all go out and Jack dies, Dean goes after Chuck and Chuck flings him hard. Sam is completely done, gets the gun and is like fekk all “Chuck dies, I die, Dean dies, the whole freakin universe dies... GAME OVER!” But (un)luckily Sam misfired. And dont @ me Sam and Dean both are crack shots, but they also miss pretty often. And Chuck, from what Ive seen between the show and the fandom said “If all you can do is bitch about the show? Welcome to The End” 

Now we are being shown all Sam and Deans hard work being undone. From the Lady in White in  1x01 to John Wayne Gayce’s ghost in Lebanon. All the demons rising and the graves spitting out their dead and ganging up on 2 pretty helpless Winchesters and a pretty useless angel. My boys done fUcKeD tHe FuCk UP!!!! Jack is in The Empty, he’s awake with The Entity and Billie... I cant even imagine where this is going. 

 Im fairly sure this storyline won't come to a close in a few episodes in the beginning of next season. Since its the final season (side eyes the haters who made sure of it by bitching and not just changing the damn channel like civilized humans would) it will probably be a season-long arc and have reconciliation between the boys and Chuck by the end. If we have learned anything from the past 14 years of this show, its that good intentions don't always turn out good, with love we can forgive some pretty bad shit, and unfortunately, we tend to hurt the ones we love most. 

Overall I think this was one of the best finales we’ve seen. I plan to write about and meta the crap out of what's gone on this whole season, because I think the season itself, aside from a few crapisodes, (which every season has) was by far one of the best!

So on a scale of Bloodlines to Lebanon, Im giving this a 9. Well done everyone... well done!!

[eligrantbooks]

gotta vent about my day real quick

highlights of the day

> be professional ghostwriter.

Agreed to edit a 25000 word segment of a finished manuscript for a much loved regular client, who said the MC’s dialogue needed to be punched up. Easy enough. I figured it would take a few hours.

Was briefly excited to discover the manuscript was for a concept I had outlined and written several chapters for a few months ago.

Excitement rapidly dwindles as I realize that beloved client has hired another ghostwriter to write the majority of the book. Which would be fine, except this other ghostwriter has no fucking idea what they are doing.

Formatting is a god damn disaster and I spend several hours just getting the document into a workable condition.

You ever open a word doc, look at the navigation pane, and just see a wall of blank links, because someone applied the header formatting somewhere and then just hit enter a million times instead of using a page break like a civilized god damn human being?

in the middle of this forest of blank headers, actual chapter titles are scattered at random, and also they only applied the header to roughly one out of every five chapters or so, you know, just, when they felt like it. when the spirit took them. when the stars aligned. when the feng shui was right.

Also, apparently they like the way first line indenting looks but don’t know how to make word do that (spoiler: its easy as shit and takes like two clicks) so every once in a while they start manually hitting tab before every line, until they get distracted and stop for a while, luring you into a false sense of security before they remember and start doing it again.

Sometimes, when a scene transitions but they dont want to just end the chapter for some reason, they break it up with spaces. Other times, they like to use asterisks. Once or twice, just for flavor, they throw in one of those page width lines that word makes when you type a line of hyphens.

There is random highlighting in places, for no discernible reason.

Once I have the document formatted in a way I can bear to work with, I start actually reading through it. About the first seven chapters were written by the client. They’re cheesy but solid.

Then I get to chapter eight, and the suspicions i had begun to form while putting the formatting through traction (namely that whoever did this was a fuckwit) quickly crystallized into a shining certainty that my beloved client had mistakenly hired An Ass Clown.

Not just An Ass Clown, but An Ass Clown who thought 50 Shades was a beautiful love story, actually.

And they gave This Ass Clown, this literary reprobate, this paste eating remedial english mother fucker, my outline.

let me clarify that i did not expect to have sole control of this story when i produced the outline for beloved client, and I was okay with that. That’s how it works. If I’d been dead set on writing this myself, i wouldn’t have sold the outilne to beloved client. but it really rubs salt in the wound to have spent hours of my life crafting the bones of this story, which i really liked and was excited to see take shape

and then find out it has been put into the pie fondling hands

of An Ass Clown.

first hint that something has gone drastically wrong: the arrival of completely unnecessary and ridiculous fantasy names for things.

“oh we dont drink coffee in this book. it’s kofee. at least until three chapters from now when i forget and it becomes kofe. Oh, and watch out for those thornaby bushes! I’m going to misspell that one literally every time I use it! It’s entirely possible that this isn’t a fantasy name at all and I just have a small seizure whenever I try to type the word thorn bush!”

second omen of my impending anuerism: phonetically written accents which are so comically stereotypical and inaccurate that native speakers of that accent should be entitled to financial compensation, except they can’t even stick to the stereotype accurately, producing gems such as  “It’s not safe in that there pen with ‘em swine, young miss.” I don’t even know what accent that’s supposed to represent. To top it off these accent abominations are sprinkled in with all the consistency and reliability of a lactose intolerant cheese enthusiast’s bowel movements.

But this, I tell myself, moving on, is not my problem. I just need to punch up the mcs dialogue. It’ll be fine. I can do this. I just need to take this shit: “A fond idea, but I doubt I have that ability.” I joked. “I can’t imagine living without true sunshine. Even the triplet moons must shine less brightly without their sister sun.” and make it… not like that.

Except, and here’s where I start hitting the real roadblock guys

this book is in first person.

essentially, the entire novel is the MC talking.

So sure I can change the spoken lines, but her internal monologue

which is, i remind you, the entire narrative

her internal monologue is going to keep being maggie gyllenhal’s character from The Secretary if her copy of the script had been swapped with just a binder full of sonnets written by a middle school english class during the Shakespeare unit.

I get to chapter ten around three in the afternoon. I have been working steadily, with an unusual degree of focus thanks to my recent adderal prescription, since ten in the morning.

this is where shit begins to go truly bananas.

this is a YA beauty and the beast type fantasy

that good fun indulgent shit that’s almost as enjoyable to write as it is to read

usually. previously. before i had to endure this traumatic twelve hour experience.

Chapter ten is the first big “dinner” scene. this book isn’t being shy about pulling from the source material, but that’s fine. the beast “apologizes” (heavy quotes there) for having earlier used magic to force the heroine to answer his questions truthfully. They talk and almost seem to making progress for a bit, and then have a fight and storm off. Standard stuff.

Except, uh, the beast’s apology is, essentially “Yeah I shouldn’t have done that.” “so you’re apologizing?” “no but it’s the best you’re going to get so deal with it.”

and the headstrong, independent heroine who wears pants and wrestles pigs and dont need no man

just kinda rolls with this. There’s giggling.

They have their big dramatic fight, exit stage left, much angst and todo.

The next morning heroine wakes up to find the beast has (presumably) snuck into her room while she was sleeping and dumped a bunch of new dresses on her. he has also (apparently) replaced her brain with Bella Swan’s more vapid cousin.

She forgives him instantly. Because pretty dresses. She also starts calling him master, because why not. She has, over night, become the darling submissive Tumblr doms dream of.

This is not a bdsm book. I am eighty percent certain it doesn’t even include soft core smut. I’m telling you this so that you understand this transformation was not a contrivance in order to facilitate kinky sex. I have written a contrived set up to a sex scene or two in my day. This is not that. This is Not what is in the outline. I know, because i wrote the outline. It is My Outline.

No, The Ass Clown just… decided to do this. Apropos of nothing. I’m beginning to think the Ass Clown’s decision making process involves whipping pies at a comically large dartboard. And all the options on the dartboard are just “lol whatever”

By the time I get to chapter eleven, wherein our newly lobotomized heroine is “excited to wear a new frock and please the master!” - direct quote I have given up any pretense of editing dialogue and I am just straight up rewriting shit using the previous garbage as a loose outline.

I have eaten, maybe, three bites of a bowl of oatmeal all day. I have not taken a bathroom break since before noon. I have missed my deadline. Beloved client is concerned. I’m sure I can still do this, I just need a few more hours.

the words sound like truth but my soul knows i am a liar

I frantically restructure scene after scene, deceiving myself each time that it will be the last, and I will be able to get this crazy train back on the rails. But this crazy train has no interest in being on the rails. It’s a direct line no stops right off the edge of the cliffs of insanity.

The beast jumps unpredictably from homicidal rage and threats of violence to jokes and flirting as though he did not just declare her his property and threaten to rip her tongue out a few paragraphs ago. Heroine swoons and sighs and giggles regardless of whether she is dealing with Dr.Jekyll or Christian Gray on PCP.

But I’m still sure I can do this. I’ll just adjust these two full chapters to make her appropriately scared and angry, and then replace this weird conversation here with a heartfelt apology from him and an effort to do better. That will totally work. Unless, you know, it turns out that conversation I want to replace only starts out with them joking and laughing together, and turns into him berating and abusing her mid paragraph of a fuckin montage a page later! But, haha! Why would The Ass Clown ever do that? It would be completely irrational, tonally jarring and out of character! Only a seltzer slinging rainbow suspender-ed peanut butter fumbling son of six fucks would do that.

so of course The Ass Clown did that.

It’s eleven at night. I know when I’m beaten.

I inform beloved client that the Ass Clown has bested me and I can do no more.

She is very understanding.

I send her what I managed and I check the added word count while im at it

i added a full 6,000 words to that manuscript just trying to patch up this sloppy motherfucker’s lopsided prose and gossamer thin understanding of narrative structure

son of a bitch had about as firm a grasp of romance as i currently have on the trembling shreds of my sanity.

their grip on character writing could not be more tenuous if they had first dipped the target brand Hulk Hands which I assume they always have on their person into a barrel of adult-film-grade silicon lubricant and then taken their Leapfrog 2-in-1 Leaptop Touch down a waterslide.

Do you know how much I usually make for 6000 words?

$180.

Do you know how much I made for enduring this ass blasting, which I naively believed I could tackle in a matter of hours?

$100.

You owe me $80 Ass Clown. And I aim to collect.

Also I lost my damn mind for a minute and said the words "i dont know shit about fuck my guy” to my actual father on facebook

so there’s that.

[cashmierathoughts]

Riley ‘Nem pt. 6: The Meeting

I got to work promptly at 7:45 that morning. I went over some figures for one of my private accounts then flipped through Riley’s team’s presentation proposal. I’d gone over it so many times that the staples were loose and dangling from the top of the page. I always had my assistant contact Riley’s assistant days prior, in hopes of getting my hands on a copy of her notes. I don’t know why but I felt entitled to knowing everything there was to know about her – especially before anyone else.

I entered the boardroom and first noticed all the whites in the room and then acknowledged all the blacks in the room with a subtle head nod. it was like the secret handshake into the ‘blacks only club’ in any setting. It was to let other blacks know that we were in this together. I took a seat at the head of the table and scanned the room for her. There she was. She was on her way to take her seat near the front of the room with the rest of her cohort. Dougleman’s fat ass rolled in, talking fast and not saying shit, as usual. He began passing out the handouts with his stubby cheeto-colored fingers. When he approached me, trying to slide me a copy, I politely but firmly declined, and signaled to him with my hand letting him know that his gesture was unneeded. 

Pause. I know what you’re probably thinking, “why did he just kill that nigga like that?”. Just know, there’s a reason for everything I say and do. 

I looked over and caught her glance. Her almond colored eyes quickly turned away and looked back down at her pages. Damn, did she think I was ugly? Was she annoyed that I was looking? It wasn’t the time or the place and I had a lot of shit on my mind so I refocused my attention to the account. 

Before I knew it; I was thinking about the hit from the other night and missed the whole presentation. When I came to, they were exiting the front of the room and heading back to their seats. 

“Would you mind going over those figures again from last quarter?”, I interjected. 

Tom got up and started for the podium. What the hell was he doing? I was hoping Riley would take the bate and use this as an opportunity to show the rest of the board members how valuable she was. I wasn’t sure if she was aware of this or not, but the board was thinking about giving Emily the promotion next quarter. Emily was the new, fresh, white face that just so happened to be Dougleman’s niece. 

“Uh, actually, I was hoping that Riley would take the lead and brief us on this one, Tom.” The words left my mouth before I could even calculate how this would make me look. I never spoke up for anyone around here. I was sort of a one-man show.. I looked down the aisle of faces and stopped at hers. Her eyes were wide with surprise and she quickly looked away from me and back down at the stack of papers in front of her. As she swayed past Tom, I couldn’t help but to let my eyes trace the silhouette of her shape as she made her way to the forefront. 

Just as she began to talk, my eyes zoomed in and halted at her mouth; I lost myself in the sound of her voice. Her lips were full but not big, juicy but not smothering. They were two shades of brown, her top lip being a deeper shade than the bottom. She definitely had my attention, as well as that of a few others in the room. I looked over and saw that nigga Tom giving her the same look as I. He didn’t stand a chance. Hell, I didn’t even know if I did, but I knew for a fact that nigga didn’t. He paid her way too much attention and from my experience, women only go for those type of guys after they’ve been fucked over a few times by Mr. Wrong. Never really understood that logic, but it definitely saved me some time and effort along the years. 

Me, on the other hand, I wasn’t looking to fuck her over, but I also wasn’t about to let her think she could sucker me. I had to find that balance because I was definitely curious and I usually get what I want. And I wanted HER. 

I tried to stay concentrated on what Riley was saying up at the podium. I mean, shit, I did ask her to go up there and I hadn’t heard a word the girl had said. Occasionally, I would nod my head or flip through the handout, pretending to be following along with the rest of the group, knowing damn well that I was lost than a mothafucka. As she pointed to the projector screen with the infrared pen, she reached up and her skirt kind of bunched up, cuffing her ass. Damn. It was a nice cuff too, not too much ass, but enough to play with. The kind of ass that would probably intimidate those who were un-southern, but enough to make you wanna bite it – longterm. My mind started to wander… I wondered what she smelled like. I bet she smelled like a warm field of lavender and honey. I wondered what she tasted like.. I bet she tasted like nothing I’d ever had before. 

I gathered my thoughts and attempted to jot down notes concerning the presentation. I only got down two bullet points before I started to just scribble shit. I wrote and rewrote my signature a few times, then I started to loosely sketch asses. Big butts, small butts, cute asses, fake asses; it didn’t really matter, I just had an affinity for ass. 

A buzzing in my left suit jacket pocket distracted me from my already distracting thoughts and I quickly glanced at the phone and ignored the call. “The fuck was she doing calling me in the middle of the day for?” Luckily, Riley was finishing up with the quarterly figures segment. For what seemed like a grip, she was paused and was just kind of staring into space – I wondered if anyone else in the meeting caught it; outside of Tom. I don’t know what the hell she was looking at but she cleared her throat and quickly finished. 

The meeting was coming to a close and I wanted to get her attention. Say something to her. Anything. But she grabbed her belongings and booked it for the door so fast that I didn’t even get a chance to speak. I tried to gather my things as well and make a discrete exit, but I was cornered by the VP and a couple other faceless big wigs and was forced to participate in “white folk” corporate banter. 

“…You should come out and hit the course with us sometime, Jake.”, offered Dougleman.

I adjusted my head and neck to make sure that he knew I had to look down on him to make eye contact and replied, “ Golf isn’t really my sport. I’ll have to pass.” 

I don’t know why he was showing out in front of the other executives. He knows damn well that I don’t golf, furthermore, he knows I don’t fuck with him and he knows why. Inviting me to “hit the course” and shit. Pssshid. Nigga please. 

“How about basketball, then?”, Dougleman combatted in a pompous tone. 

Pause.

No this nigga didn’t. Did this nigga really just ask me to HOOP!!!? First of all,  I would obliterate this nigga on the court. I was trying to keep myself from playing the race card when another one of our superseding counterparts chimed in, “Don’t cha just love that Lebron James, Jake? You know, you remind me of him. I was just telling my son that the other day.” 

Aw hell nawl. It was time to go. Typical. Just because I’m a brotha who likes to hoop, which let me remind you, is NOT an anomaly, I remind this nigga of Lebron James? Fuck outta here. I kept my Malcolm X rant to myself and laughed off the comparison, 

“Oh I wouldn’t want to embarrass you, Hank. Ha ha ha.” On that note, I exited. 

I felt corny as hell. And on my way out, Tom slithered by me and said, “Good meeting…Lebron.” I laughed it off and made a comment about how he and Durant must have the same barber. Tom was he kind of hatin’ ass nigga that would be cool with you in your face but throw salt when you weren’t around. A real lame nigga. So I tolerated him because it was my job to do so, but he would never get away with that shit outside the confines of this high-rise. 

Finally, I made it back to my office. I checked my phone, thinking I’d see an alert about the liquor license for the party I was throwing this Saturday. Nope. Nothing. So I sat there and waited. I text my contractor/my nigga since the third grade and asked him what the hold up was. 

“Wassup with the license, Germ? Hit me back ASAP”

Bored as hell and not in the mood to actually start “working”, I scrolled through the company instant message list to see who was online. Scrolling…scrolling…scrolling…Adams, Arnold,….scrolling..Biggs, Bonds..Bowerman, Bradley! Bradley comma Riley.

I peered intensely at the small icon that everyone at the company was forced to take for photo identification. It was a corky picture of her, I’m sure like most people, she hated it; but it was something about her that made me look past the picture. I clicked on her name and opened the IM tool. Our conversation history was blank. We’d never really had a conversation but I was dying to know how she thought..what she thought..

I thought about sending her a message, but decided against it. I grabbed the miniature orange Spalding ball from inside my desk and shot it at the rim that hung on the back of my office door. (The irony. I actually did love ball. I just wasn’t about to let Dougleman use it as a stereotype against me.) I made a small wager with myself: If I make three shots in a row, I’ma write the girl. If I don’t make these shots, I’ma leave it alone. 

I put the first shot up. Swish. Second shot, too easy. Third..BRICK! 

Welp, that sums it up. I guess it wasn’t meant to be. I spun around in my chair a few times, tossing the ball in the air and catching it. Then I scrolled the TL for a few minutes, stopping at every Plies rant and catching a few quick laughs. That nigga was a foo. Checked my phone, still no word from Germ. I wasn’t surprised though. He was a “last minute” type of nigga. Germ always waited until the last minute to do everything. Waited ‘till the last minute to tell his folks that he was few credits shy of graduating college. Literally, they were parking their car in the arena lot, getting ready to enter the ceremony. This nigga even had on a cap and gown! Knowing damn well he wasn’t hitting the stage. He waited ‘till the last minute to get his license.. (last minute being three years ago);  although, he was the first one of us to have a ride. Worst of all, Germ waited ‘till the last minute to pull out; which explains why I have four god kids. 

Besides all that, the man had remarkable luck. Any contest he’d ever entered in, he won. Won the Roosevelt Jr. High Spelling Bee and hadn’t even looked at the vocabulary list. It got to the point that the radio stations were calling HIS ASS to let him know that he’d won raffles that other people had entered him in. How that shit works, I have no idea. And although we were very different, that was my best friend. He was the only person outside of my folks that I’d ever trusted. To say I had ‘trust issues’ is played, but y'all know how it goes. 

My reflection was interrupted by a chime alerting me that I’d gotten a text. It was from Germ. 

“Yea, nigga. I got u. Its handled.”

“Bet.” 

Bet. Now I could contract the liquor in bulk and get everything set in stone for this damn party. 

I don’t know if I was on a high because everything was falling in place with the party or what, but I clicked on Riley’s IM icon and saw that she was still online, so I hit her up. 

“Good job today during the presentation. If you would like any assistance on the next one, let me know and we can” ..do it? work together? Na..”..we can get together”. 

“Getting together” implied that it would be work related but not strictly business; a little fluidity was allowed. I waited nervously for a response. The little bubbles at the bottom of the message arose, letting me know that she was typing something back. Then they disappeared. What was the hold up? Shit. Either you tryna get together or you not. I was pressed. Damn. Just as I was trying to hold on to my last fuck to give, I heard my desktop ping. The alerting sound drowned my ego back into its shell. I took a deep breath, hoping she’d accepted my advance and quickly scanned the screen, reading her reply. 

“Thank you. I’d like that.”

“Thank you. I’d like that.”, I repeated aloud to myself, trying to figure out what her tone might have been. At first glance, it seemed mundane, but she definitely accepted my bid so that left room for possibility and possibilities are endless..