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knightprincess · 6 months ago

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Scars (Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader) Part 5

Warning: Brotherly teasing, denial, drunken jokes Words: 2.2k Pronouns Used: She/Her - Use of Y/N A/N - I apologize for the long wait. I've been dealing with some mental health issues lately.

“What’s got your blaster in a twist?” commented Fox, his words directed to Wolffe across the booth from him. The gathering at 79’s was supposed to offer time to unwind and relax away from the responsibilities so many have thrust upon their shoulders. Yet still Wolffe had been distracted more than normal, so much so the commander of the 104th had zoned out several times, each time a blank look had appeared across his scarred face as he stared aimlessly off into space.

Fox’s words only served to draw attention to Wolffe. Those in the booth with them seemingly forgot their previous conversation and laughter, only to become curious about Wolffe and where his mind had wandered off to. Perhaps it was another flashback haunting him again, or maybe one of the many patrons of the club had gained his attention.

“Huh?” replied Wolffe, his mind allowing him to return to the present, only to be greeted with expressions of concern and curiosity. Rex and Gregor, on either side of him, had a mixture of both, while Fox seemed to be trying to hold back in amusement despite the smile that betrayed him. Thorn and Howzer appeared far more curious than anything as if they silently questioned what had gotten to Wolffe. After all, it wasn’t every day the battle-tested commander got distracted. Cody seemed concerned but knew eventually Wolffe would open up. After all, Wolffe wasn’t the type to keep quiet when something bothered him.

“Oh, I get it,” chuckled Fox, recalling the recent rants the Commander of the 104th had put him through. All of them centered around the Night Sister, who had risked her life to save his. “She’s really got under your skin hasn’t she,” added the Marshall Commander, recalling the few times Wolffe had allowed the nickname he’d bestowed her with to slip through. “(Y/N) Black.”

“The Night Sister?” questioned Cody, raising an eyebrow as he displayed his curiosity and shock. Wolffe hadn’t been quiet when it came to his almost hatred of the Night Sister clans, especially Ventress. So it had come as a shock to learn the battle-tested Commander would become so distracted by another, all be it one far kinder.

“Aye, she’s not so bad. Kept us Commandoes on our toes as of late. The new ones seemed to like her,” commented Gregor, a ring of laughter following his words. Her reputation of disregarding orders had proceeded her, as had her care for those under her command. Whereas the Commandoes had opted to ignore the Jedi Council and Senate before, they seemed more than happy to fall into line when it came to (Y/N). Maybe it was her effort to know them each as individuals that had done it, or perhaps her history with Jango Fett, the man who’d personally trained the majority of Commandoes.

“For what it’s worth, Wolffie, I hear she gets under the skin of others too,” voiced Howzer, recalling hearing Windu complain about her before. Wolffe’s only response was to growl, more than likely over the take on his name. Howzer responded by holding up his hands as if to surrender at least before reaching to grab his neon-colored drink from the sticky booth table.

“General Skywalker talks about her rather fondly; he mentioned the battle droids reminded him of her the other day,” spoke Rex, a chuckle escaping him as he remembered the comment and his subsequent confusion. Ahsoka had prodded her master to explain mere seconds later. To which Anakin had responded the sassiness of the B1 battle droids reminded him of (Y/N) growing up.

“That’s an odd comparison,” began Thorn, his brows sowing together as he tried to imagine what the Jedi Knight was like. There were so many Jedi coming and going it was difficult to tell them apart sometimes—especially the masters who all seemed to blend together with the emotionless beliefs and often lack of compassion for those outside the order. “But also one that sparks so much interest. Please do tell us more,” he added, reaching for his own blueberry drink and sipping it as he waited for more detail.

“Sarcastic and cleverly disguised insults,” called Wolffe before Rex had a chance to respond. Again, he was met with inquisitive expressions, as if those surrounding him were surprised he knew anything about the Jedi even when she’d been a constant figure on his mind since the cavern incident. “General Plo said her lack of subtlety was one of his greatest failures.”

“Ah, so that’s how you know so much about her,” laughed Cody, as if it suddenly hit him. Wolffe knew so much about the mysterious Night Sister because Plo had been her Jedi Master. The same way Cody himself knew so much about General Skywalker. “Wait, What are you doing?” questioned the Commander of the 212th, noticing Gregor pull out his communicator, a wicked grin of mischief spreading across his lips.

“Sending a message to my Commanding Jedi, of course,” chuckled Gregor, seeing the horror pass over Wolffe’s features before being replaced with a neutral expression. “I’m curious if she knows the effect she has on Commander Growls here,” he added, quickly pulling away when Wolffe reached to snatch the communication away. The two soon ended up in a scuffle for the device. Cody ended it by taking hold of it and throwing it somewhere behind him, a satisfied grin appearing seconds later.

“Quit it, you two, before I have to arrest you,” warned Fox, sighing at the thought of the paperwork that would go along with it. Not to mention the continued dispute between the pair as they spent the night in a shared detention cell.

“Honestly, I would pay to see that,” worded Howzer, if only to see the chaos that would cause, especially with the latest revelations. “At least Wolffe would get to see his Night Sister again,” he laughed, knowing the arrest would result in (Y/N) having to retrieve Gregor from detention now.

“She’s not my Night Sister,” growled Wolffe as he questioned why the comment seemed to repeat—First Warthog, now Howzer. There was nothing between him and said Jedi Knight; there couldn’t be; it was forbidden from both sides. She was a Jedi, a Knight of the Order, and he was a clone who had no rights as a living being; he was created for one purpose: war. Outside of that, he was just another clone, a product for someone else to decide the future of.

“You sure about that?” asked Thorn, noticing how agitated Wolffe got when it came to her. “Your actions a few days back say otherwise,” he replied, recalling the cryptographer who’d been rather crude with his comments towards several women apart of the Jedi Order. Many Clones had told him to shut up, and others had been tempted to do something, but it had been Wolffe who had roughly grabbed the civvi by the collar of his shirt. The words he spoke had been indecipherable.

“Would you have acted any differently?” replied Wolffe, seemingly calmer now. Sure, the comment about the Night Sister had broken the camel’s back, but all the crude comments about the women had got to him. “We clones are treated like products. We know how it feels to be objectified. I’d rather not listen to a brainless nerf herder objectifies women like their kriffing sex toys.”

“Honestly, I would have thrown the guy from the tallest skyscraper and classified it as an accident,” replied Fox, “Or an accidental weapon discharge,” he added, knowing there were more creative ways but also commending Wolffe on holding back as he’d done even more so when anyone else would have taken the opportunity to “teach” the civvi a lesson in respect.

“You’d do that for a certain senator too,” commented Thorn, knowing the not-so-secret secret love affair Fox had found himself in. Despite clones being forbidden, the basics most got the chance to experience didn’t stop many from wanting and desiring those very experiences. “You both have a rare opportunity. Grab it with both hands, and don’t let go. If you don’t, then you’ll live to regret it,” the Commander of the Coruscant Guard said. Opting to encourage his brothers to take a leap into the unknown, to grab the chance at something even if it was technically forbidden.

“Its forbid..” started Cody

“General Kenobi,” replied Fox just as quickly. Being greeted with Cody paling slightly and Rex’s loud bout of laughter.

“Told you it was obvious,” commented Rex, not failing to take the opportunity to say I told you so.

“I’ll be damned, Commander Cody, lost for words,” began Gregor in a teasing manner, his bronze eyes alight with mischief once more. “Has the galaxy gone mad, or is it just me?”

“Just you, old friend,” replied Wolffe, smacking a hand across the back of Gregor’s armored shoulder as both broke down into a round of chuckles. Chuckles and amusement were soon silenced by the appearance of (Y/N) Black, the Night Sister who’d been a previous subject of conversation.

“General,” greeted Howzer, the closest to the booth edge.

“Awkward,” commented Gregor, realizing his playful teasing had led to the visit. “The com must have connected,” he added, seeing the horror once again pass over the features of Wolffe and now Cody, who’d mindlessly thrown the communicator away.

“Sorry to interrupt, but it sounded like Gregor got into a scuffle when he called. Just wanted to ensure he was alright,” explained (Y/N), concern alight in her eyes, although relief soon flooded them upon realizing the captain in question was drunk but otherwise unharmed.

“Ha, I’m fine, General, just a brotherly dispute,” nervously responded Gregor, rubbing the back of his neck as the heat began to rise from the collar of his armor. “Cody ended it by throwing the communicator somewhere,” added the Commando, trying to explain without throwing Wolffe under the bus, even when the odds were against said Commander. (Y/N) likely already sensed his conflicted feelings and the tension he so often had when around her.

With a small nod (Y/N) accepted the answer, using her ability with the force to retrieve the lost communicator before returning it to his own. After a polite goodbye and a comment to have fun, the group of men were left to their own business again. Although it appeared now the fun had left with (Y/N).

“General Kenobi, huh,” started Howzer, turning his attention to Cody with an eyebrow raised and a smirk painting across his lips. “Here, I thought you would want a challenge. Perhaps Quinlan Vos,” he added with a chuckle passing his lips. Fox almost spat out his drink as he tried his hardest to hold back the comment threatening to slip.

“Nah, Quinlan Vos is more or less in the same boat as Wolffe; he prefers the Night Sisters,” laughter Thorn as if he could read Fox’s mind. The comment only served to draw laughter out of the others, with the exception of Wolffe and Cody. One merely rolled their golden eyes, and the other tried to hide their reddened cheeks.

“While we’re on the subject of wishful thinking. Rexy, who’s your mystery companion?” asked Howzer, ignoring the confusion to paint on Rex’s features, as if the captain was silently conveying he had no idea what Howzer referred to.

“Forget that. Cody has competition. The Dutchess of Mandalore,” spoke Thorn, recalling being on escort duty for the politician in question. The unmistakable affection flooding her voice when General Kenobi was mentioned at least gave hints there was a long history between the two. “She seems quite fond of him. Maybe the OG member of the Obi-Wan fan club.”

“Yeah, but that’s like saying Wolffe has competition,” stated Rex, ignoring the growls emanating from his left.

“He does,” worded Gregor from the opposite side of Wolffe, noticing the table go silent and feeling the heat of Wolffe’s glare burn into the side of his head. “The sergeant of the new unit. Hunter, I think his name is. He acts like Bly does with General Secura,” he added, “Close enough to be attached.”

“There’s no competition,” hissed Wolffe, once again denying there was anything there and reaffirming his stance. (Y/N) although beautiful was a Night Sister, a child of Dathomir, and a Jedi. There couldn’t be anything between them, not only was it forbidden, he refused to allow himself to fall for the enemy.

“Denial is more than just a river, brother,” spoke Cody, as if suggesting he, too, was floating down the otherworldly river. “We’re all floating down it at some point, even if it’s just wishful thinking.”

“I’m not in denial,” snapped Wolffe as anger began to take hold. “She’s a Child of Dathomir. Her kindness doesn’t change the fact she’s my enemy. Nothing will. Atop of that, I’m just a clone, a commander she took pity on,” ranted the commander of the 104th, reaching his limit with the teasing for the night. However, his words sounded more like he was scolding himself, rather than those in his company. Despite his denial, he couldn’t help but notice his own change in stance since she saved him, risked her own life to do so, and never asked for anything in return. Since then, she hadn’t pushed him or done anything to aggravate him further.

In fact, they’d only spoken once when Wolffe had confronted her about saving his life. Her words still rang through his mind, often sparking prangs of guilt, even more so after he’d practically scolded her as if she was a misbehaving child. I’m fine with you hating me, Commander. At least you're alive to do it.

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partystoragechest · 11 months ago

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A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, the banquet begins.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,616. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: brief mention of murder/decapitation, very close to the end.)

Chapter 24: The Banquet - Part 1

Trevelyan’s dress was not plum.

Her plum dress, sent oh-so-specially by her mother, was currently indisposed.

‘Indisposed’ here meant that it was, at this moment, being washed—quite thoroughly—by the laundresses. Because after it had been pressed and prepared yesterday, it had gone mysteriously absent—only to be discovered hours later, by Trevelyan herself, stuffed inside a sack of sugar.

And so, while the Baroness wore a sleek golden gown, and Lady Erridge one of ruffled green gossamer, and the Lady Samient an outfit of breeches and doublet—black, with striking red panels—Trevelyan simply wore her silk shift, and burgundy surcoat.

“You’re sure you saw her?” Lady Samient wondered, as Trevelyan recounted what had led to this choice of outfit. It was certainly one way to pass the time while they waited to enter the Great Hall.

“It was her,” Trevelyan confirmed, “that Sera.”

Because whilst scouring for the dress her ladies’ maids had failed to find, Trevelyan had seen someone. Certainly, it was dark, and they were dressed like any other servant—but she swore, in that glimpse, she recognised her. Sera.

“You ought to report it!” said Lady Erridge, who had, strangely, been the most furious about the matter—even more so than Trevelyan. “Tell Lady Montilyet!”

“No,” said Trevelyan. “If this is her response to informing on her once, then I should hate to find out the consequences of a second attempt.”

Because it all fit too well, the idea of Trevelyan having blabbed about the swapped sugar and salt being met with a dress covered in a such a substance, hours before it was due to be worn.

Besides, the only injured party was Trevelyan herself, rather than the dozens it would have been for the salt and sugar swapping. The laundresses did have some extra work now, but they were happy to do it, by way of apology for letting the dress out of sight in the first place.

“That is for the best,” the Baroness said. “You shall not stoop to her level. Play with the mabari, and you shall win only fleas.”

Trevelyan was suddenly quite grateful Sera had not resorted to covering her dress in fleas. But there was little time to think of that:

“Presenting Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne; Lady Samient, daughter of Duke Samient; Lady Erridge of West Coldon; and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

The crier’s call was their cue to enter. One last look of understanding passed between the Ladies. No matter how it had started, they would enjoy the rest of tonight.

The door opened, they entered. The frown was wiped from Trevelyan’s face, and replaced with awe. It seemed not only they knew how to dress for an occasion—the Great Hall had been decorated to perfection, under the guiding wisdom of Lady Montilyet.

Every other candle had been left unlit, resulting in an ambient warmth akin to a campfire’s glow. Tapestries and banners adorning the walls were of a rustic weave; mounted game served as focal points of the display. This grand space, which had once played the role of an opulent ballroom, was transformed, into an intimate country manor.

The guestlist reflected such intimacy. Only thirty attended—including the Ladies themselves—which the Great Hall made seem an even smaller number, with its size. Their gazes felt as intimidating as a hundred, however, as they applauded the Ladies’ entrance.

Trevelyan cast her eyes across this congregation, seeking faces of those she recognised, the anchors of safety she would cling to. But having done dreadfully little mingling in the noble kind of circles (and more in the mage kind of Circles), Trevelyan was hardly spoilt for choice.

There was a Dorian, as promised. He sported a black tunic, laden with gold embroidery, and stood beside the Inquisition’s flame-haired Spymaster, who wore a contrasting blue gown. It was so tight to her body, Trevelyan wondered how she concealed the doubtless many weapons she had hidden within.

Varric, meanwhile, wore half a very nice shirt, and was entertaining a few fans. Lady Montilyet, ever the consummate professional, glided past, ensuring goblets were full and people were merry. Her dress was of a muted blue-grey, that almost blended into the stone—intentionally so, most likely. She would not outshine her guests.

And then, there was the Commander.

Trevelyan hadn’t seen him in a day. Lady Erridge had told her, in that time, that his stubble had grown, but it appeared he must have trimmed it back since, for he looked remarkably like his normal self.

Not so pale, not so weak. Normal.

Handsome, even, for he was finely dressed. He wore a sort of doublet, sleeveless, to expose the arms of the fine shirt beneath. Odd, though. Trevelyan struggled to find any word to describe the colour of this waistcoat other than… plum.

How fortunate that Sera had played her prank, then. Trevelyan chuckled to think of what might have happened, had she attended wearing that dress her mother had sent. They’d have matched! How embarrassing it would have been. She’d have to thank Sera for the favour.

If only the little prankster could have tricked the Commander instead, into staying away somehow. For as well as he looked, Trevelyan still did not think it best for him to be in attendance. More and more, she was drawn to the suspicion that the person he treated with most contempt, was himself.

“Lady Trevelyan,” the Baroness said, stealing her attention away, “look over there.”

She nodded towards a small group of nobles—clearly Orlesian, going by the elaborate fashion—and indicated in particular a woman in a mask of turquoise, and a ballgown of silver. With pale yellow lace? Definitely Orlesian.

“That, is Comtesse Bervard.”

Ah.

Trevelyan had been told much of the Comtesse before their arrival. Like how one might learn all the types of wild animal that stalked a road, before travelling down it. And just as that information might make one terrified to leave their home, so did the Ladies’ warnings of Bervard make Trevelyan nervous now.

The Comtesse, she had been told, was a skilled player of the Great Game. Translated, that meant that she was callous, quick, used others for her own entertainment, and gossiped more than the Randy Dowager. Anyone who didn’t like it, would have a nice little visit from a bard.

“Why invite her?” Trevelyan wondered, very, very quietly.

“Because should this banquet be a success, all of the Heartlands shall hear of it within a week,” Touledy explained. “Everyone has their uses, your Ladyship. Though, to that point: do not say anything to her you do not wish the entirety of Thedas to know.”

Lady Samient smirked. “Do not say anything to her at all,” she corrected.

Like a bear, then. Do not look at it. Do not get close. Do not make eye contact. And if it sees you, pray.

But thankfully, stewards arrived, to lead them away from the Comtesse Bervard, and to their seats. The banquet was to take place across two long tables, that flanked the Great Hall’s central path. Like the Hall, they had been decorated with care. Evergreen wreaths made up the centrepieces, with ripe red fruits—possibly candied—nestled betwixt them. Pewter dishes lined the edges, and precisely-laid cutlery surrounded them. Rustic enough for Fereldans and Marchers, quaint enough for Orlesians. Montilyet was good.

To her relief, Trevelyan and the Ladies were escorted together, to the leftmost table. Though, unfortunately, it was not to last. Their stewards divided, and sat each of them two or so spaces away from the others. So perhaps Montilyet wasn’t that good.

At least Trevelyan had been situated at the end of the table, her back to the garden door. In case of emergency, she could make a run for it.

But she would at least wait to see who sat beside her, first. A steward pulled out the neighbouring chair, with a scrape so quiet it was barely a ‘scra’. Still, the movement caught Trevelyan’s eye, and she watched as a devastatingly handsome, incredibly clever man took his seat.

“Dorian!” she said, quite gladly. “I see you made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he lied, already reaching for his glass. “Reminds me of home.”

Oh, she quite understood that. “Well, it’s lucky we’re sat together, at least.”

“Luck...” Dorian muttered, “or a direct request.”

“Ha! I’m flattered.”

“As you should be.”

Trevelyan smiled and left him to his drink, distracted instead by the arrival of further guests. A couple of Banns, one Arl, some Baron—and, of course, the Commander.

Where he sat, and indeed, where all of the guests at this particular table sat, though tedious to describe, would be important for events to come. Therefore:

Lady Samient was to the far left of Trevelyan, at what might be considered as the ‘top’ of the table, given its proximity to the Inquisitor’s throne. Two places down from her, was the Baroness Touledy; and near-opposite Touledy, was the Commander.

Two places down from Touledy sat Dorian. Opposite him was Lady Erridge, and next to Lady Erridge, there was an empty chair.

That empty chair was to be surprisingly important, in the farce that followed. And it all started with Baroness Touledy.

“Lady Trevelyan?” she called. “May I exchange seats with you? I need more space, for my leg and cane to rest.”

Though reluctant to abandon Dorian after he had so specifically sat with her, Trevelyan would not leave a friend in pain. And she was at least confident that he would not find the Baroness a dissatisfactory conversational partner.

“Of course,” she said, rising from her chair.

Dorian sighed. “Well, that lasted.”

Trevelyan laughed as she walked away, passing a grateful Baroness on her journey. Once seated, she absorbed the new landscape of faces surrounding her—most notably, the Commander’s, sat directly opposite.

She gave him a little smile. He reciprocated, and began to ask, “Lady Trevelyan, are you—?”

“Commander,” interrupted an approaching Lady Montilyet, sounding quite harried. She leant down to whisper something to him, which Trevelyan fully intended to hear: “The Marquis du Vert refuses to sit next to Bann Royton. Would you be able to sit in his place?”

There was a barely-contained look of exasperation on the Commander’s face. But nevertheless, he rose, nodding once to Trevelyan as he did so, and went to the empty chair beside Lady Erridge. Her Ladyship seemed quite startled by this. Quite startled indeed.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called down the table. “Would you switch places with me? I cannot speak to Lady Samient from here.”

Trevelyan considered it for a moment. A long moment. But dutifully, she agreed, and got up from her chair.

“Thank you,” said the giddy Erridge, practically skipping by. Trevelyan, defeated by her sweetness, surrendered to the embrace of her new seat.

Quite by coincidence, she was now sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the Commander. She glanced at him, with a smile and a shrug, and a stifled laugh that escaped her mouth. He offered his own smile in return.

“Are you well?” he asked, retaining a little of that shyness from their previous encounter.

“I am,” she told him. “Are you?”

He confirmed he was, and let the thread of the conversation dangle there. It was like talking to him for the first time, again. But Trevelyan was well-practiced in this by now:

“That is a nice waistcoat,” she said, indicating the plum doublet.

“Ah—er, yes. Lady Montilyet chose it—or, rather, the one she chose was in green. This one was brought to me by mistake.”

“Then a happy mistake it is. I think this colour suits you quite well. Certainly better than green would have.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank you, you… too?”

“What?”

“You, you look nice. As well.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Trevelyan brushed her skirts so that they hung correctly over her legs, which was certainly not an excuse to escape eye contact. “Though I think—”

“Commander!”

Lady Montilyet returned, even more frazzled than before. “The Comtesse wishes to switch tables, and the Marquis now says he would rather sit with the Bann than near her. Would you..?”

Trevelyan held her mouth to stop herself from laughing, because this had to be a joke.

And yet, deadly serious, the Commander rose again. “Forgive me,” he muttered, as he followed Montilyet back to his original seat. The one he left behind was soon taken up by a man in a fanciful white mask.

And not long after, Lady Erridge leant forward. “Lady Trevelyan, would you—?”

Trevelyan sighed. “Lady Erridge, unless it is a matter of life and death, I shall not move from this spot.”

Erridge relented, and sank back into her chair. “Never mind.”

And so, it ended, with Lady Erridge in the centre, and the Commander opposite. The Baroness sat where Trevelyan first had, at the very end of the table, next to Dorian. Trevelyan sat on the other side, relieved that she was still, at least, not far from the garden door. Lady Samient had not moved at all.

Yet there was one seat left, across from her Ladyship in particular—and the arse it waited for finally arrived.

Turqoise mask, silver dress, yellow lace. The Comtesse Bervard settled into her chair. Poor Lady Samient.

“Top of the table,” said the Comtesse, her voice dripping with Orlesian glamour, “as it should be.”

The Baroness snorted into her goblet. Trevelyan rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long banquet.

“Friends and allies of the Inquisition!” Lady Montilyet called. She stood at the heart of the Hall, between the twin tables, and addressed all upon them. “Thank you all for coming, to solidify our bonds, and to forge new ones. The Inquisition has much to give to Thedas, and we hope to demonstrate that tonight, with warmth, mirth, and good food. Please, enjoy!”

She clapped her hands, and doors opened. An army of kitchen staff filed into the room, each one carrying a steaming plate of food. Well-rehearsed rows were formed around the tables and, all at once, the plates were laid.

Noise of approval came from the guests. The first course appeared to be some kind of baked fruit—but presented in fine slices, and with cuts of meat and cheese. A balance of Orlesian tastes, and Fereldan simplicity.

All conversation quieted, as people began to eat. Polite mouths kept closed, the only sounds those of hummed appreciation. Until, that was, a fork clinked down onto its plate at the other end of the table.

The Comtesse Bervard leant forward, and gazed down its length. “Who am I eating with, hm?” she asked. “I see new faces here. Introduce yourselves to me.”

The Baroness shot Trevelyan a look, but she needed no prompting. She retreated into her chair, hopeful that the extravagant mask of the Marquis du Vert next to her would do enough to hide her face.

And it did. Because it was not Trevelyan whom the Comtesse targeted first. “You there,” she said, pointing at Erridge. “Your Ladyship, is it?”

It was clear, to anyone who knew her, that Lady Erridge was nervous. For anyone who knew her, knew she did not miss an opportunity to speak. And yet, when the Comtesse addressed her, she merely nodded in reply.

“Well, what is your name? You must have one.”

Erridge attempted to straighten her posture. “I am Lady Erridge, of West Coldon.” When the Comtesse continued to stare at her, Erridge added: “In Ferelden.”

“Ah, I see why you were so keen to hide it. You need not be so embarrassed to be Fereldan here. We are all easy company, I am sure.”

Lady Erridge tried a smile.

“But I admit, I have never heard your family name before. How delightful to increase one’s knowledge of the world.”

“Well, you might have heard of us,” Erridge mumbled, gaining a little sense of pride. “My family are quite prolific traders, in stained glass, particularly.”

The Baroness grimaced. Lady Samient tensed. The Comtesse’s stare narrowed.

“Oh, I see,” she said, speaking as one does to a infant, “you are in trade. How sweet.” Addressing the table more generally, she went on: “This is why I am so grateful to the Council of Heralds. In Ferelden, they give titles to anyone.”

Chuckles rippled through the other Orlesian guests. The mocking little chorus was cut short, however, by the screech of Samient’s fork against her plate. Accidental, of course.

The Comtesse turned on her. “Lady Samient, you have forgotten your manners.”

“Oh, have I?” Samient replied. “I suppose we left them in the same place.”

The Comtesse laughed. “Still a little spitfire, just like your mother.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, and muttered, “And I hear you like the stables, just like your mother.”

Oh no. If she was referring to what Trevelyan believed she was referring to, then it was best to brace for whatever would come next.

Yet to Trevelyan’s surprise, Lady Samient chuckled along. “Yes, the ones in Skyhold are very well-kept for their location.”

A Bann nearby agreed, and began to talk fondly of the Inquisition’s horsemaster. Trevelyan exchanged a glance with Touledy, all too relieved that was over. They both turned their attentions to Erridge.

The ever-cheerful and bright Lady Erridge sagged as if a candle that had been snuffed out. Her food was half-eaten, being pushed idly around her plate. Had Trevelyan not already been disposed to intensely dislike this Comtesse Bervard, she would certainly hate the woman now.

Servants came to clear plates, providing enough distraction for the Baroness Touledy to see to Lady Erridge’s mood. Through whispers behind Dorian, and a little blown kiss, she managed to put a smile back on dear Erridge’s face.

But Trevelyan was not quite satisfied with this.

She awaited the servants’ return, and the second course they brought with them. Plates were set before the guests—well-cooked meat with a selection of fine vegetables, in a rich sauce. Everyone, naturally, reached for their cutlery. And as the Comtesse reached for hers, Trevelyan performed just a teensy-weensy bit of magic.

“Oh!” gasped the Comtesse, dropping her knife the moment she touched it. “It gave me a shock!”

Trevelyan bit her lip to conceal the absolute smugness with which she wished to smile. Though she expected a reprimanding glare from Dorian, when she caught his eye, it seemed he suffered the same struggle.

And Maker, if only that had been the end of it. But there were still two more courses. And the Comtesse Bervard was determined to talk through each of them.

“How does your gracious father find the increased Chantry tithes?” she asked Lady Samient, in the midst of a riveting discussion about how healthy the Bervard finances were. “My people have been whining, despite all the Chantry does for us in these uncertain times.”

“If there has been complaint,” said Samient, “I haven’t heard of it.”

Nothing to entertain her in that answer. So she turned on Touledy.

“I would ask you, Baroness,” she called across the table, “but you do not have a Chantry to tithe. I expect your people don’t even pay tax.”

What bait! Touledy composed her response carefully: “My people do pay tax, and gladly. For unlike the Chantry tithe, it has some use to them. The roads are well-kept, the commerce flows, no child goes hungry, and my guard is strong.”

The last part in particular caused an unpleasantly confident tip of the Comtesse’s head. “Really? For I have heard your guard was put quite to the test, recently. A skirmish on your land.”

“And they saw it off, did they not? That is proof, I would say.”

The Comtesse had no answer to this, it seemed. She reclined in her chair, and continued speaking to a nearby Baron.

With her distracted, Trevelyan whispered to the Baroness: “A skirmish?”

“Bandits,” Touledy replied, reassuringly nonchalant, “though more organised than the usual louts.”

“That shouldn’t be allowed,” Dorian said. “If they’re smart enough to organise themselves, then they’re smart enough to do something more useful. Become a dancing troupe, perhaps.”

The Baroness laughed. Trevelyan had been quite right that the pair would get along; they’d been doing so famously for the last two courses.

Smiling, she decided to leave them to it, but felt an odd sense of cold as she withdrew. Like a stare.

“And who might you be, on the end there? I do not recognise you.”

Well, shit.

Trevelyan turned, and saw the Comtesse Bervard leaning over the table, piercing mask pointed directly at her.

There was no escaping it: “I am Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick.”

“Really?” Though the Comtesse’s eyes were near-hidden, her glare was petrifying. “I have met all the Trevelyans of Ostwick, and I don’t recall your face. I am a regular attendee of Lady Lucille Trevelyan’s balls, you know.”

Touledy swept in: “Lady Trevelyan is the Bann’s seventh child; she attended the Circle in Ostwick for some years.”

There was a laugh from that mask. A cold, wicked laugh.

“Oh, you’re the little apostate. How intriguing to meet you here.”

Trevelyan put on her best smile. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Naturally,” said the Comtesse. “Though I wonder, if you were truly there, could you tell me something about Ostwick Circle?”

“What is it you wish to ask?”

The Comtesse’s hands crept forward, and in a voice that echoed a thousand times, she asked: “Is it true that the Templars cut off the mages’ heads and sent them to the First Enchanter as trophies?”

The candles began to flicker.

Oh, no.

#unwanted #unwanted fic #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #commander cullen #so despite struggling with the original part 1 of the banquet #i already had about 60% of the banquet part 2 written #(across like 5 different docs lol that was fun to stitch together)#so as a dragon age day treat i gave myself the day to just write #and see if i liked it more if we started here #and i did #but dont worry #the ideas from the unseen chapter are already being threaded through these ones #and the premise has a chance to return in a future chapter #anyway that comtesse bervard huh???

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filmjunky-99 · 4 months ago

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s t a r t r e k t h e n e x t g e n e r a t i o n created by gene roddenberry Commander Sela of Romulus [redemption, part ii, s5ep1] 'We should not discount Jean Luc Picard yet. He is human, and humans have a way of showing up when you least expect them.' - sela

#star trek #star trek the next generation #the next generation #gene roddenberry #star trek characters #tng character #Commander Sela #Sela #denise crosby #tng season 5 #the next generation season 5 #tng Redemption #Redemption #tng Redemption part 2 #Redemption part 2 #lot: st tng season 5 ep 1/26 (ep 101/178)#star trek quotes #latest tng posts

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ihathbenobiwankenobied · 2 years ago

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soldier left behind

Part four of 212th Medic Skull Has Had Enough on ao3

Part one | Part two | Part Three | Part Four

Summary:

“I–” Obi-Wan started, then looked back toward the forest, “Cody didn’t come back.” He spat the words out so quickly, Skull could hardly follow.

(Or, yet another follow-up to Skull's infamous run-in with the 212th's newest secret couple. This time, an injured Cody is left in the forest and Obi-Wan, Skull, and new shiny medic Splint go to find him before nightfall.)

Word Count: 4,414

Chapter 1/2

Skull hated fighting, hated having to raise his blaster, even if it was the one thing he had been created to do. He supposed he had been trained to be a medic his whole life outside of being a soldier, so of course his first point of interest was not running aimlessly into a field of droids who were quite literally designed to kill him.

Skull swore under his breath as blaster fire whizzed past his head, cursed out General Skywalker for getting them into this position in the first place.

If General Kenobi was risky, Skywalker took it to another level; he was self-sacrificing but surprisingly confident about it. Skull was happy to not have been assigned as his medic, but that didn’t mean he was exempt from Skywalker’s abhorrent decisions.

Cody’s voice was loud through his comlink, commanding all of the troops to fall back, there were reinforcements coming in. Skull followed orders gladly and booked it away from the oncoming line of clankers, hoping his brothers would do the same; he would be the one to have to fix them up anyway.

Feet carrying him backward through a maze of thick, leafy trees, Skull heard the crackling sound of more orders from Cody through his comlink. He could barely hear over the continued blaster fire pelting into the tree trunks on all sides of him and the surrounding troopers.

“Toward basecamp!” Someone yelled, having heard the orders. Reorienting himself, he changed directions, feet catching on the tree roots that layered the forest bed in his haste.

He ran for longer than he had in a long time, lungs pulling in harsh, short breaths as he began to see the edges of a clearing ahead of him. No one spoke as they ran, equally unwilling to waste their breath on needless conversation. Skull sucked in a big breath, and pushed his legs to go faster as they approached the clearing; basecamp was only a quarter of a klick away from the edge of it, and Skull was more than willing to get there sooner rather than later.

By the time he and the other troopers could see the tents looming in the distance, Skull looked back to see a muddy group of twenty or so troopers, a few of them limping or holding an arm against their chest. Skull pulled his comlink to his face.

“Oxy, twenty of us incoming. I estimate three leg wounds, two troopers with blasts to the bicep and shoulder.” He liked to keep his counterpart informed and prepared; Force knew he was going to have to sit for at least a couple of minutes to regain he breath after having run so far.

“Noted.” Oxy answered immediately, “You alright there, Skully?” He stifled a laugh through the connection and Skull growled under his breath.

“You trying running four klicks away from clankers.” Skull said, breaths coming in faster.

“I’ll save a medical bed for you.” Oxy told him.

Skull didn’t bother responding, just slowed down considerably as he approached the first of the makeshift barracks. The men surrounding him did the same, stripping off their buckets to take a few breaths of fresh air, not quite as thick as it had been in the humid center of the jungle.

Approaching the small medical tent which sat beside the makeshift supply tent, Skull directed the injured men following him to triage with one of the shinies that had been brought on to work with him and Oxy. The shiny, Splint, looked on nervously as Skull directed the troops his way. It was his first time in the field, only having been surrounded with every piece of high-tech medical equipment in the galaxy.

Skull tried to offer him a reassuring smile, but he would be the first to admit he wasn’t feeling overly up to it as he sat heavily on a weapons crate outside the tent. “Is that it, Sir? Are there any still on the way?” Splint asked expectantly, his eyes tracing over the tree line in the distance, almost like he was waiting for more to pop out of it at any second.

They had gone in with forty, and barely twenty had returned; Skull knew what Splint was thinking.

Skull hated that he didn’t know if anyone was left behind, that he couldn’t save every single last one of his brothers, but the reality was, not everyone would make it, and that was something he had to live with as a medic.“I’m sorry– I don’t know. Just focus on what’s in front of you now, Splint, if they make it back, they make it back.”

Splint sighed, then saluted, “Of course, Sir.” He nodded once, then spun on his heel to join Oxy back in the tent.

Skull sat for another minute, then began to pull at his plates of armor. He worked better when he wasn’t constricted by layers of thick plastoid.

Once he had piled the plates beside himself, he was about to get up to head into the medical tent, but his eyes caught on something in the distance.

Alongside another large supply crate, both General Kenobi and Skywalker stood with their arms crossed, obviously in a very intense discussion over something. Skywalker held his head high and seemingly indignant. Kenobi looked equally frustrated, but instead of standing still, he paced back and forth, hand occasionally reaching up to stroke over his beard.

While the image wasn’t inherently unusual, the look on Kenobi’s face was not.

The General looked, for lack of a more dignified term, frantic.

Frantic wasn’t something a High General in the GAR often embodied, even in the face of a losing battle.

Skull stood slowly, watching as the two Generals spoke under their breath to each other, then parted ways with one last biting word from Skywalker. The younger Jedi strode off, confidence rolling off of him as he moved in the direction of the 501st barracks.

General Kenobi stood in place for a moment, forehead dropping into the palm of his hand.

Skull could hardly take it, seeing the General standing alone, clearly upset. Where was Cody? He glanced across the horizon, over the whole encampment, suddenly feeling a small pit form in his stomach as he watched Skywalker and Rex convening by a fire with a few other troopers from the 501st.

Cody would have been with the General if he had returned, Skull had no doubts about that. Which meant…

Skull abandoned his stripped armor, walking the short distance toward the supply crate where Obi-Wan had taken to staring off toward the forest line, much the way Splint had just minutes earlier.

“Uh, General, everything alright?” He asked tentatively as he approached Kenobi from behind.

The General startled, whipping around with wide eyes, mouth ajar.

“Oh!” He said quietly, then offered the most watery, insincere smile that Skull had ever witnessed in his life.

And they say Kenobi is the most convincing negotiator in the GAR, Skull thought, barely able to see past the sullen eyes and grim look that pressed at his face against his best efforts to shield it.

“I’m fine Skull; hardly even had to use my lightsaber.” Kenobi continued, almost automatic in his insistence that he was perfectly fine.

“Sir– I’m not talking about your physical state this time.” Skull placed a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, hoping some grounding touch would do something to coax a moment of honesty out of his obstinate bones.

“I–” Obi-Wan started, then looked back toward the forest, “Cody didn’t come back.” He spat the words out so quickly, Skull could hardly follow.

Once he had a moment to process, Skull realized he was right, the Commander was missing.

“I sense– I think he is hurt, I can’t be certain– but I can’t leave him out there.”

“And Skywalker thinks you should?” Skull asked, almost dumbfounded that the younger Jedi even got an opinion on whether Cody was worth going back for or not.

“Not exactly– he thinks it dangerous, it’s getting dark, and the light will be completely gone by the time we get to him. We have no idea what position the separatists hold and–” Skull couldn’t take the rambling, the attempt to justify Skywalker’s opinion.

“Banthashit.” Skull said firmly. Kenobi looked at him, blinking once, “No way the seppies are going to be combing the forest in the dark if they think anything like Skywalker– their clankers can barely shoot straight in the daylight.”

The last comment at least got a small sniffle of acknowledgement from the General, but he still looked defeated, his worry evident. Skull pointed out toward the trees, “I’ll go with you out there all night if we need– I just need my armor and my kit.”

“Skull– please, don’t be ridiculous. We can’t go without backup. Anakin is right that this could be risky.” Obi-Wan said, voice trailing off at the end.

Anakin took enough risks of his own, Kenobi certainly was allowed to take a calculated one to save an irreplaceable Commander.

“Well, you’re in luck, I have a shiny who can join us.” Skull glanced back toward the medical tent. Sure, Oxy might be a little pissy to have to take on five injured troopers on his own, but the Commander’s life was just as important as any trooper’s was; he was a brother.

Obi-Wan looked him right in the eye.

“Are you sure, Skull? Cody is very capable– he could survive the night–” It was like Kenobi was trying to convince himself he should stay back. Skull wasn’t having it.

“So you’re going to act like this isn’t bothering you, Sir? I have seen– I know how you feel about him.”

Obi-Wan sighed and shook his head, “We should discuss this later.”

“Then we’re going?” Skull asked, and the General offered one affirming nod.

“Seriously, Skull? Those idiots need to get it together.” Oxy placed a fresh bacta patch over a trooper's bloody blaster wound on his shoulder. Splint looked on, albeit nervously. Skull had informed him that he would be joining him out in the rainforest.

“Oh believe me, I agree. I’m going to have to request individual medics for each of them at this rate.” Skull shook his head and strapped his medical kit over his shoulder, securing it as tightly as he could. “If we’re not back in three hours, notify Skywalker.”

With that, he motioned for Splint to follow, his own medkit strapped across his chest, and they headed out toward where Kenobi stood idly outside, not really looking at anything at all. He hardly looked dejected anymore, just… numb.

Skull hated it.

“You ready to go?” Skull asked tentatively, watching as Kenobi startled again.

“Yes– I’m ready. Are you the new medic?” Kenobi held out his hand to Splint, who looked alarmed at the offer.

“Oh–yes! I’m CT-3330.” Splint said sheepishly and shook the General’s hand firmly.

“Do you go by any other names…” Kenobi searched for something else to call him, something more than a serial number. Skull liked that about his General.

“It’s Splint, Sir. Thank you for asking.” Kenobi offered Splint a gentle smile, but it quickly faded when Skull cleared his throat.

“We need to head out; the faster we find him, the more likely he’s still alive.” Skull stepped forward leading the way into the quickly darkening forest.

Kenobi didn’t know the exact coordinates of where he had last seen Cody, but he had a general idea, a feeling. It had been in a small clearing just below a steep cliff. The General was convinced it could be seen from a klick away, but they had not such luck as they stepped over creaking roots and fallen branches that had taken blaster fire earlier.

They had all tried to com the commander, multiple times at this point, but none of them had received a response.

Kenobi was on edge; his usual poise and precise methods seemed to have all but disappeared. His moves were irrational, tugging the trio from place to place without any real logic.

Skull tried to not let his frustration show through, keeping calm as he followed closely behind the shivering General, but Splint, always tense, was becoming more vocal about needing to change their search route at the very least.

“I think we have already searched here– should we move farther east?” Splint suggested, but Kenobi just shook his head and shivered again in the cool night air. Skull should have reminded Kenobi to put on an extra few shirts under his tunic.

“I could swear it was close to this location. If I could just…” Think. Skull mentally filled in the rest of the sentence.

He understood, panic wasn’t a helpful tool when it came to memory, and he could tell the General was just barely holding it together. Skull did not miss the way Kenobi lost focus, eyes drifting across the distant layers of trees. He ground his teeth together loud enough that Skull could hear it.

“Sir, let’s stop for a minute. It’s late, I know this is stressful. Do you want to… meditate? Would that help?” Skull didn’t know much about Force-osik, but if it would help the General focus, he would suggest anything.

“You’re right, Skull, I’m not thinking clearly.” Kenobi said after a long pause, he glanced around and started toward a small patch of roots that wasn’t coated in mud. He sat down, crossing his legs together and taking a deep breath. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Skull didn’t watch, it felt private, and instead, looked through his medical supplies again, checking to see if there was an additional ration bar or some water he could offer the General before they continued the search. He didn’t find anything, and looked up to see Splint staring at the Jedi, wide eyed.

“Strange, huh?” He said as he clipped the med kit back together, acknowledging that seeing the Jedi hovering inches above the ground, deep behind a wall of meditative solitude.

“I’ve heard the Jedi are different, but this is…” Splint blinked a few times, then shook his head.

Kenobi dropped to the ground gracefully, bloodshot eyes opening slowly as he stood. While he didn’t look any less worried, his face was clearer, and more determined. He looked up toward the tops of the trees, then in each direction, hands tracing across the bark of the passing trees as he paced. “I know the way. It’s a klick north.”

Skull couldn’t believe it; he was starting to think Kenobi needed to meditate more often.

“Let’s get going then, there’s barely any light left.” Skull said, motioning for Splint to follow alongside him.

They followed their General closely, the last of the light seeping through the trees as they clamored across more tree roots and dense mud.

“Just up ahead.” Kenobi whispered suddenly, pointing toward a towering cliff that would have been much easier to see in broad daylight. The General picked up speed and the two medics followed his lead, stomping through a few deep craters of muddy sludge until they reached a small clearing at the base of the cliff.

There wasn’t much to look at in last of the light except for a few stacked boulders by the base of the cliff and several mangled trees clumped together. No sign of Cody in plain sight.

That’s a good sign, Skull reminded himself. If the Commander had been killed instantly or been completely debilitated, he wouldn’t have had the chance to take cover.

Kenobi stopped, and brought his finger up to his lips, eyes looking back and forth as he listened to the sounds of the jungle waiting to hear the metallic screeches of approaching clankers. Skull couldn’t hear anything other than the endless crackling of leaves and branches in the breeze and skittering animals. “Clear?” He asked the General, voice barely a whisper.

Kenobi nodded, and began to call out for the Commander, voice louder this time, “Cody? Commander?”

They waited patiently, all three men listening intently now for the Commander to say something, or to drag himself out into the open, but there was nothing.

Kenobi was back to looking distressed– no, frantic– again.

The General called out for Cody again, then again, each time his voice more desperate, until Skull placed a knowing hand on his shoulder, spinning him around. If the Commander wanted to say something, he would have, and they were wasting time. Kenobi was surprisingly irrational, his lack of composure becoming more apparent with every second passing.

It was alarming.

“General– let’s just take a look around.” He tried to sound encouraging, but Kenobi didn’t look satisfied with the suggestion.

So Skull pushed past him and toward the rocks at the base of the cliff which looked like an obvious place to take cover. He knelt down near an opening that looked large enough for someone to squeeze into, and began to consider climbing inside himself when–

“Uh– Skull?” Splint called for him tentatively and Skull whipped his head around, the lights on his bucket immediately landing on what Splint and the General were looking at: blood.

It was trailed across the dirt, and wouldn’t have been visible in the fading light. It led toward a similar cavern to the one Skull had been looking at, but only thinner.

Before Skull could walk over, Kenobi was already down on his knees, attempting to shuffle into the crawl space. Skull rushed over, pulling him back, “No, let Splint do it, he’s smaller than you.”

He hated to volunteer the shiny, but it was true, he was half a head shorter than Obi-Wan, and thinner than Skull due to his age. Thankfully, Splint didn’t hesitate, already shoving a hypo filled with painkillers into his belt.

“Obi-Wan?” Skull heard from behind the rocks. The voice was gruff, weak, and barely sounded like Cody, but it was him. Skull was almost relieved, but there was still the added factor of needing to remove him from the crawl space.

“I’m– I’m here my love.” Obi-Wan still knelt in the mud, eyes watering just around the corners. Skull tried to pretend he didn’t hear it, the admission was almost too blatant for him. Skull’s heart hurt hearing the desperation in the General’s tone.

“Splint is coming in, Commander. Let him give you the painkillers.” Skull said, once again dropping his medical kit onto the ground and throwing it open, “What are we looking at, Splint?” He asked, watching as the shiny disappeared deeper into the cavern.

There was a whimper, one that made the General cringe, eyes still wide, then Splint spoke muffled by the stones, “Two blaster wounds– one to the hip, the other to the shoulder, both on the left side. Concussion too. But I have no idea how he got in here.” Skull was mildly relieved, he had been expecting worse judging by the blood scraped across the ground, but blaster wounds were manageable.

“Can he stand?” Skull asked, but Splint was sure he couldn’t.

The General looked less relieved, and he spoke softly, “I can use the Force.”

“What?” Skull asked, not understanding what exactly the Force could be used for in the present.

Kenobi stood from his crouch and took a few steps back, adjusting his angle, “I can pull him out with the Force, hover him.” Kenobi answered, his focus regained.

Skull had seen him do it before in open air, but this was an entirely different situation, it was a tight cave, with little room for error.

“Are you sure?” Skull asked, but Kenobi shot him a look that spoke a thousand words. “Alright, Splint, get out of there.”

Once Splint had cleared the entrance, squeezing past the thin space between the rocks, Kenobi began, arms extended out in front of him, eyes narrowed and then closed.

His arms shook, then his whole body, and Skull watched the entrance to the cavern expectantly. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then Force-osik.

The General maneuvered Cody’s prone body through the tight opening, and though Cody let out a shattered scream with the movement, his body never scraped the sides of the stone.

Kenobi, his whole body shaking with the effort, slowly brought Cody’s body to rest on a less muddy patch, then collapsed onto his own knees, energy clearly spent.

“Kriff. Splint– get Kenobi sitting down, and a stim.” Skull wasn’t about to request that Splint try and carry the General back while he tried to handle Cody on his own.

Skull took to Cody’s side, eyeing the mess of dried blood across Cody’s forehead. While the blaster fire had hit his armor in multiple other places, he had been hit along his joints where the pieces of plastoid armor plating separated.

It must have been heavy fire, Skull thought. There was no way a clanker would be smart enough to hit those areas purposefully,

Cody’s eyes blinked open, breaths sucked in heavily as he recovered from being jostled. He looked up, blinking through the dirt in his eyelashes, and frowned. His eyes looked dull– drugged, really, Skull reminded himself. He had handed off the strongest dose of a painkiller-sedative concoction to Splint.

“Skull? Where’s–” Cody started hazily.

“Cody.” Skull’s head swiveled to find that Splint had been unsuccessful at getting the General sitting down; instead, Kenobi was staggering toward Cody, tripping into the mud, matted hair scattered over his forehead. He fell to his knees by Cody’s side, hand pressing into Cody’s instantaneously.

“Obi-Wan. You came back.” Splint looked at Skull, eyes filled with some concoction of shock and surprise. Skull supposed it was fair; generally, Sir, was a more appropriate term for a High General. Skull ignored the look, promising himself to explain later, and motioned to the still filled hypo in Splint’s grasp. The young trooper seemed to notice that he had yet to deliver the stim, and pressed the needle into Kenobi’s neck while the Jedi used a thumb on his other hand to wipe away some of the clotted blood still strewn across Cody’s forehead.

“Alright, Sir, you need to help me get this armor off of him before we head back to basecamp. We’ll get some bacta on him for now. Splint– get me bacta patches.”

Obi-Wan hesitated for a moment, still grasping at Cody’s hand, then he spoke to Cody softly. “Don’t panic, Codes,” Oh for the love of God, the nicknames were unbearable, “We’re just going to take these off.” Kenobi tapped at the plastoid armor of Cody’s chest.

The Commander looked at him lazily, then at Skull, worry spreading over his features suddenly.

“Here? I-I don’t know Obi-Wan…” The General’s cheeks grew redder than Skull could have ever imagined, and he refused to look in Skull’s direction.

“No!” Kenobi said firmly, then grumbled, “Just– we need to see the wounds. You need bacta.” Still not looking in Skull’s direction, the General reached for the chest plate, unclasping it at the sides with enough ease that Skull knew he had done it many times before.

How disgusting.

Skull started with the armor by his legs, leaving his boots on so they could try and drag him along if his pain was managed enough to walk.

Skull stripped him up to his waist, all but his codpiece, as Obi-Wan had removed all but his vambraces where his dead comlink was still attached. Awkwardly, not wanting to have to do it himself in front of Kenobi, Skull looked at the General hoping he would offer to remove the remaining piece of armor.

“Sir, can you take that off of him? I’ll need to see his hip.” Obi-Wan blinked at him, opened his mouth to say something, then abruptly shut his mouth and nodded. Skull could see his defined blush as he gently pulled the codpiece away and shimmied the pants of his blacks down past his hip bone.

Cody would never kriffing live this down once he found out when he was more lucid. Skull liked the idea of that just a little.

The blaster wound was bloody, skin torn and angry looking, but Skull couldn’t worry too much about it before he had access to better supplies; bacta patches were going to have to do.

“Splint did–”

“Right here, Skull.” Splint came into view, bacta patch already free of its packaging.

“Thank you.” He said, and positioned the patch over the wound. He had to press down to secure it and to get the bacta to react with the charred skin.

Cody clenched his teeth again, but a muffled whimper still made it through. The General winced, hand still holding back the waistband of Cody’s pants until Skull had covered the wound completely. Gently, Obi-Wan pulled the top of the pants back up, careful to avoid the wound.

“Kriffing hells.” Cody swore, voice slurring slightly as he flinched away from Skull’s touch as the medic moved to his shoulder, gently prodding at the edges of the inflamed blaster wound there.

“It’s okay, Codes.” Skull heard Obi-Wan whisper, his hand already entangled with Cody’s again.

Skull followed the same process, quickly taking the bacta patch from Splint and applying it with pressure. The Commander held in a groan, but physically recoiled away from Skull once the medic pulled away.

Skull moved backward, motioning for Splint to do the same, and let Cody ride out the last waves of pain. With his uninjured arm, he pressed a hand across his face and rubbed over his eyes. The General sat next to him, still looking exhausted and shaky from using the Force, but at the very least, the worry had drained from his eyes and turned into something more reverent as he let his fingers trail over Cody’s jawline for just a split second.

“They’re just like that, Splint– I’ll explain later.” He stood next to the shiny, who looked on with a mixture of disgust and fondness written across his features.

Skull concurred with that feeling.

“It’s… do they realize we’re here?” Splint asked, looking away.

“The vote is still out on that one– Cody still likes to pretend I don’t know they’re… a thing.” Skull let out a snort, smiling at Splint, then sighing when he realized they were still two klicks out from basecamp, were dealing with one half Force-exhausted Jedi, and a very loopy Commander.

Fucking kark it, it was going to be a long trip back.

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nulfaga · 11 months ago

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7x24 was SO GOOD. (spoilers under the cut. don't do it. go in blind)

michelle forbes was amazing in it. i love a spy plotline, love that the old guy was actually endearing, ro's attachment to the maquis was like organically built up (as much as you can do in 40 minutes) AND it's good to see picard putting someone else in impossible moral predicaments instead of being forced into them himself. the scene where they're like schmoozing to keep up their cover and he tenderly whispers, i will fucking court martial you if you screw up this mission. so peak. really good pick to put this episode so late bc it makes you question the foundation that starfleet is built on. and it kind of makes you side-eye all the characters we know & love who have never had any kind of serious moral problem w/ the federation. because why haven't you. <_<

also honorable mention to riker's bajoran earring. and the fact that he let ro go companionably. good on ya will

#i like it when riker shows up for .5 seconds to be Just Some Guy and then leaves. those are my favorite episodes #remember in the offspring when his entire role was to be spontaneously smooched on by lal #and then data shows up like what. are you doing w/ my daughter commander #and riker's like. YOUR DAUGHTER? and gets the hell out of dodge and that's his entire part in the episode #tngposting

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nomaishuttle · 1 year ago

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thank god my therapist is propalestine. thank the lord

#mi mentioned part of my no good very bad day today was waiting like 30 minutes for a resident to fet out of rhe shower so j could mop their #bathroom (which i was told to go do 5 minutes befkre i was off work)#abd they had their tv blaring cnn coverage abt the genocide and callinf it a war and using all the misleading language and shit and it just #after such a shit fuckjng day it was the last thing i needed basically. but its okie #therapy went well i have to stop making daily affirmations jokes bc leslie has commanded me to start doing actual daily affirmations

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prim-moth · 2 years ago

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KILLING BITING I AM THINKING ABOUT EXILE THE GAME AGAIN

#just had a whole fucmking ramble on my personal discord because i cant contain my thoughts. talking about it by myself until i feel like #throwin g up #i need to reread chapter 5 part 1 my god its so much #going crazy over syfyn and the commander’s relationship again #TRYSTAN MY BABY #chewing Marcelle like a chew toy #sorry to the rest of you im only going hogwild abt these three

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catenaaurea · 2 years ago

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Catechism of Pope Saint Pius X

The Commandments

The Fourth Commandment

1. Q. What does the Fourth Commandment: Honor thy father and thy mother, command?

A. The Fourth Commandment: Honor thy father and thy mother, commands us to respect our parents, obey them in all that is not sinful, and assist them in their temporal and spiritual needs.

2. Q. What does the Fourth Commandment forbid?

A. The Fourth Commandment forbids us to offend our parents by word or by deed or in any other way.

3. Q. What other persons does this Commandment include under the names of father and mother?

A. Under the names of father and mother this Commandment also includes all our superiors, both ecclesiastical and lay, whom we must consequently obey and respect.

4. Q. Whence are derived the authority of parents to command their children and the duty of children to obey their parents?

A. The authority possessed by parents to command their children and the obligation children are under to obey their parents, are derived from God who constituted and established family life in order that in it man might have the first helps that are necessary towards his spiritual and temporal well-being.

5. Q. Have parents any duties towards their children?

A. Parents are bound to love, support and maintain their children; to attend to their religious and secular education; to give them good example; to keep them from the occasions of sin; to correct their faults; and to help them to embrace the state to which God has called them.

6. Q. Has God given us an example of a perfect family?

A. God gave us an example of a perfect family in the Holy Family in which Jesus Christ lived subject to the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph until His thirtieth year, that is, until He began the Mission of preaching the Gospel entrusted to Him by His Eternal Father.

7. Q. If families were to live alone, cut off one from the other, could they provide for all their material and moral needs?

A. If families lived alone, cut off one from the other, they could not provide for their individual needs, and hence it is necessary that they be united in civil society so as mutually to aid one another for the common good and happiness.

8. Q. What is Civil Society?

A. Civil Society is the union of many families under the authority of one head for the purpose of assisting each other in securing their mutual perfection and temporal happiness.

9. Q. Whence comes the authority which rules Civil Society?

A. The authority which rules Civil Society comes from God, who established it for the common good.

10. Q. Are we under any obligation to obey the authority that governs Civil Society?

A. Yes; all who form part of Civil Society are bound to respect and obey authority because that authority comes from God and because the common good so demands.

11. Q. Are all laws imposed by the Civil Authority to be respected?

A. Yes; in accordance with the command and example of our Lord Jesus Christ, all laws imposed by the Civil Authority are to be respected, provided they are not contrary to the law of God.

12. Q. Have those who form part of Civil Society any other duties besides respect and obedience to the laws imposed by authority?

A. Besides the obligation of respect and obedience to the laws, all those who form part of Civil Society are bound to live in peace, and to endeavour, each according to his means and ability, to render that society virtuous, peaceful, orderly and prosperous.

#Catechism of Pius X #The Commandments part 5 #Catholic #Christian

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advisorsage · 2 months ago

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Anyone else see The Spider at the ass crack of dawn every morning but only when opening your right eye or is that just me?

#this is a joke i know it's a hallucination #i just. need to say something where people can laugh with me instead of being concerned #it only happens when i wake up between like 5 and 6am and it varies from tiny to huge #this morning it looked ai generated and it's ass was yellow and almost bejeweled in how it looked #it's always a weird experience #cause like i know it's not real and i try to touch it to make sure #and I'm not unsettled like i am by a real one #and if i took the spiritual part of my pagan practice more seriously i might take it as a sign #but i know psychosis runs in my family and I've had hallucinations since i was a child #including ones induced by religion #so like I'm skeptical #it's really annoying and stupid though so i want to post where someone might laugh instead of telling me i have to tell my psych right away #like I'll tell her at my next appointment (the end of this month) but she's never been concerned about my hallucinations #i think that's cause i don't get command voices #i just get hallucinations that scare me or keep me awake #idk #i just felt like posting about my hallucinations today #they're always small things so it's not a big deal #anyway #drink water you heathens

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mariacallous · 5 months ago

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Our Nation has made tremendous progress in advancing the cause of equality for LGBTQI+ Americans, including in the military. Despite their courage and great sacrifice, thousands of LGBTQI+ service members were forced out of the military because of their sexual orientation or gender identity. Many of these patriotic Americans were subject to a court-martial. While my Administration has taken meaningful action to remedy these problems, the impact of that historical injustice remains. As Commander in Chief, I am committed to maintaining the finest fighting force in the world. That means making sure that every member of our military feels safe and respected.

Accordingly, acting pursuant to the grant of authority in Article II, Section 2, of the Constitution of the United States, I, Joseph R. Biden Jr., do hereby grant a full, complete, and unconditional pardon to persons convicted of unaggravated offenses based on consensual, private conduct with persons age 18 and older under former Article 125 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ), as previously codified at 10 U.S.C. 925, as well as attempts, conspiracies, and solicitations to commit such acts under Articles 80, 81, and 82, UCMJ, 10 U.S.C. 880, 881, 882. This proclamation applies to convictions during the period from Article 125’s effective date of May 31, 1951, through the December 26, 2013, enactment of section 1707 of the National Defense Authorization Act for Fiscal Year 2014 (Public Law 113-66).

The purpose of this proclamation is to pardon only offenses based on consensual, private conduct between individuals 18 and older that do not involve any aggravating factor, including:

(1) conduct that would violate 10 U.S.C. 893a, prohibiting activities with military recruits or trainees by a person in a position of special trust; (2) conduct that was committed with an individual who was coerced or, because of status, might not have felt able to refuse consent; (3) conduct on the part of the applicant constituting fraternization under Article 134 of the UCMJ; (4) conduct committed with the spouse of another military member; or (5) any factors other than those listed above that were identified by the United States Court of Appeals for the Armed Forces in United States v. Marcum as being outside the scope of Lawrence v. Texas as applied in the military context, 60 M.J. 198, 207–08 (2004).

The Military Departments (Army, Navy, or Air Force), or in the case of the Coast Guard, the Department of Homeland Security, in conjunction with the Department of Justice, shall provide information about and publicize application procedures for certificates of pardon. An applicant for a certificate of pardon under this proclamation is to submit an application to the Military Department (Army, Navy, or Air Force) that conducted the court-martial or, in the case of a Coast Guard court-martial, to the Department of Homeland Security. If the relevant Department determines that the applicant satisfies the criteria under this proclamation, following a review of relevant military justice records, the Department shall submit that determination to the Attorney General, acting through the Pardon Attorney, who shall then issue a certificate of pardon along with information on the process to apply for an upgrade of military discharge. My Administration strongly encourages veterans who receive a certificate of pardon to apply for an upgrade of military discharge.

Although the pardon under this proclamation applies only to the convictions described above, there are other LGBTQI+ individuals who served our Nation and were convicted of other crimes because of their sexual orientation or gender identity. It is the policy of my Administration to expeditiously consider and to make final pardon determinations with respect to such individuals.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this twenty-sixth day of June, in the year of our Lord two thousand twenty-four, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and forty-eighth. JOSEPH R. BIDEN JR.

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feelo-fick · 6 months ago

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#im hhaving a MOMENT i thought about the touch + command panels for 5 seconds and im exploding into a billion peices #speaking of i should finish writing part 2 of that.... after my exams

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justtogetthrough · 1 year ago

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I stockpile things because of anxiety but I'm trying to get rid of my storage unit because I need to cut $$$ drastically.

A few days ago I donated a box full of curtain rods I haven't touched in a year.

Today, I realize I fucking need one.

SIGH.

This just reinforces the anxiety that makes me not want to get rid of anything.

#I'm trying to remember which thrift store I brought them to and maybe I'll just go back #although I need a super thin one for my purpsoes (hanging it from command hooks rather than installing brackets) and idk if I had that #i know walmart sells super tiny rods so hopefully they're only $5-10 #the amount of regret I feel about getting rid of stuff from my house when I sold it too.... that plaguges me #I also got rid of a lot of school work including apparently my stats work which was my PRIDE AND JOY and a big part of my identity #I go tthrough these phases of purging everything and then months later massively regret it. sob.#what I liked about my house was it had a huge unfinished basement for storing purposes. my first time ever having storage #i'm still really grieving my house and it's been hard. im realizing it was the only place that has ever felt like home in my whole life.#in all my 15+ moves #personal

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gutsby · 8 months ago

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Benign

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marrying a former Soviet sleeper agent was your first mistake. Letting curiosity get the better of you and saying his trigger words before sex was your second.

Warnings: 18+. DUBCON - Bucky is partly brainwashed; R is reluctant at first. Reliving past trauma (i.e., grief, prior HYDRA captivity). Rough, unprotected p-in-v.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5

Marrying into the mob meant one of two things: turning a blind eye to your husband’s crimes or taking them up as your own. Most of the women who had gone before you chose the former, leading lives of willful ignorance while their spouses cut deals, shed blood, stole guns, and submitted only to the laws of secrecy and discretion.

You, unlike those wives, hadn’t had the luxury of choice.

Your life, unlike theirs, had been sold to a man you didn’t know, by a father you couldn’t stand, and now your dad was dead, and this man—your husband—was to blame.

The least Bucky could do was fuck you hard to say sorry.

But no, ever since the Winter Soldier had reared its ugly head that dreadful night in Madripoor two weeks prior, your husband hadn’t laid one finger on your body that was not soft, sweet, and sickeningly apologetic to you. He seemed almost scared to initiate sex, and when he did, couldn’t help but act like a touch might break you.

After all, one almost had. Those hands he’d hear you beg and plead to put on you now were the very same ones he’d used to kill dozens, if not hundreds, including blood of your own blood. To the world, Bucky’s reputation commanded fear. To his wife, now, he felt duly obliged to prove he was more—that you were safe with him, not from him. He’d carted you off to every GP, hematologist, nutritionist, and grief specialist lauded among Brooklyn’s elite to make that happen. Fast. Frankly, these days, the thought of fucking was the furthest thing from his mind.

Unbeknownst to Bucky, somewhere along the spectrum of grief, you’d already come to settle comfortably at the ‘Need-to-be-fucked-until-I-can-no-longer-think-or-feel’ phase, and every bone in your body was crying out for respite in the form of ruthless, mind-numbing sex. It didn’t make sense. You hardly knew what to do with it. You should have lashed out, shut down, cried rivers and lakes of tears for that integral part of family that had been lost, but for whatever reason, you had to go numb.

You wanted to do something really, really fucking dumb.

Remorseful as he was, Bucky and his explanations for who or what the Winter Soldier was had been sparse. He’d told you that he had once been held in captivity by HYDRA, had his brain re-wired some way to make him a merciless Soviet sleeper agent, and that the night in Madripoor was the first in ages he had been ‘activated.’ How did activation happen? Of course, he wouldn’t tell.

But Steve would.

Steve had told you everything you wanted to know about your soldat, describing in painstaking detail how he worked, trained, operated, and could be called to action. You were almost certain Rogers had said it all as a way to assure you that it wasn’t Bucky who’d killed your father—it was someone inside him. You were more than positive Steve had never intended for you to use his intel like this.

You hadn’t believed him. Couldn’t believe him. How the fuck could someone sever all ties to their conscious mind and just transform anew into a killer? You got to be hell-bent on knowing for certain whether it’d been Bucky or him, it, whatever the hell the Winter Solider was, and on knowing it now. If your husband was faking it all and simply using this persona to justify the killing, that would be it. Trust gone, marriage over. If he wasn’t, well…you hadn’t gotten that far into your own line of thinking.

“Tell me what you want, doll,” Bucky said, pulling you back to the present.

He shifted gently against you, cotton trousers raising the friction a little as he slotted between your legs. He was still dressed head-to-toe from his meeting that morning.

“I want you to fuck me. Make me cum. Please.”

You were bare, save for one small scrap of linen and lace that somehow passed as a nightie. Your gaze was soft.

Bucky didn’t want to say no, but he also felt too guilty to say yes. The way you were watching him now, eyes so helpless and pleading, body writhing for contact, he knew you didn’t want his touch so much as needed it. Desperately. Couldn’t bear to be burdened with grief so you brushed it aside, to the furthest recesses of your mind until all that was left was desire. Starvation, really.

He could satiate you for now, but that hunger might not ever leave. The corners of his lips twitched into a frown.

“Gentle?” he mumbled.

“Rough,” you countered.

“Baby—”

“I really don’t need another fucking lecture on death, Bucky. I know I’m not myself right now, but I can still make these decisions, okay? Don’t talk to me like I can’t.”

Anger flashed in your eyes for a second, then indignation, then nothing. Without much energy left, you pushed him away. Flopped back on the bed and, seeming to sink into yourself, heaved a low, feeble sigh.

“I know. Hey,” Bucky leaned over to press a touch to your tummy, and it made you want to hurl, “I’m sorry.”

You turned onto your side.

“You still don’t remember what happened?”

The question came suddenly, almost from somewhere outside your body, it seemed. For the hundredth time.

“No,” Bucky answered, for what felt like the thousandth.

“This Winter Soldier—”

“He isn’t me.”

“You didn’t know?”

“Couldn’t know. Wasn’t…programmed for it.”

Bucky was watching you now, eyes as contrite as they’d ever been while you rehashed this subject to the brink of tears. He never could stay composed when he saw you cry.

“Baby…” he started, arms reaching out for you.

Eyes still filling with tears, you shook your head and swatted him off. You sat up, and your brows pinched together in a look he couldn’t read. Contemplating.

At last, you made up your mind.

You would try something new—and really, really stupid:

“Zhelaniye.”

“What?”

Bucky’s own expression contorted with uncertainty.

“—semnadtsat, rzhaviy, rasvet—”

He heard that. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Wait—”

You were curious. You had no idea what you were doing.

“Baby, baby, stop—”

“—pech, devyat—”

You were speaking so fast, surely it wouldn’t work like that. Either way, he had to stop you. He seized your arms, giving a sharp, deliberate shake, pupils blown to the size of saucers in his eyes. There wasn’t much time.

“Don’t—”

“—adin—”

No time at all.

“—dothisdon’tfuckingdothishoneyplease.”

Losing himself already. Feeling it stir inside his mind.

“—dobroserdechniy—”

‘Kind-hearted.’ ‘Benign’. You truly had no clue what these words were liable to do, much less what they meant.

Having enunciated this last part, you swallowed. Took the tip of your tongue and rolled it left-to-right across the backs of your teeth, waiting for your speech to take effect like some magical performance before your eyes.

It hadn’t, it seemed. You blinked. He blinked. You sat in a protracted silence for what seemed like seventeen years, and presently, your stomach began to churn. Nothing happened—you’d been right about this fuckery all along.

Then you remembered one last word of the sequence.

Faintly, you said:

“Soldat.”

The man above you straightened. Sitting. Stiff. Still perched by your legs at a comfortable distance but regarding you now with a pointed stare. Expectancy made manifest in a simple, sharp glare from his eyes to yours.

“...Bucky?”

The look on his face grew even harder. For a time, he persisted in that strange and silent grimace, and just when you started to suspect he was faking this whole demeanor of deadened stoicism, you heard a voice. Clawing out of his throat but sounding nothing like him:

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

The words drove a fear to the greatest depths of your bones, and you hardly knew why. You stared back at the handsome, barren man still watching you with severity, and you couldn’t seem to find your husband anywhere.

“James?” You weren’t sure why you tried his name again. You just didn’t know what else to say.

The scowl seeped into his mouth, and he frowned.

“James,” he repeated, like the word was foreign to him.

You found yourself shuffling back on the bed just then—to what, you didn’t know. You just felt a gnawing need to put some space between you and this person, this glowering face, however you could. When he grabbed your ankle, you let out a startled sound, and when he followed you up on the bed, you did more than just whimper; you lifted your leg to knee him directly in the stomach. He caught it.

Then he stared again, expression bloodless and wan.

“You’re scaring me, Bucky.” Your voice trembled as you tried to free your leg from his fist—grip unusually strong.

The man paused another moment, if only to soak in your words and let his gaze trail over your face. Your exertions did not register. And, for the very first time, you felt as though you were something more like a plaything in your husband’s eyes—not a full-fledged human being but a system to be gamed. The feeling was so unsettling that you had to turn away.

Or try to, anyway.

Craning your neck just far enough to spy your phone on the nightstand, your first thought was Steve; he would know what to do. But before you could even think to twist and lift your body in that direction, you felt a hand yank you to the bed, flat on your back. You looked up at Bucky and found yourself caged between two arms. He lowered himself to his elbows, shifted his weight to one side, and seemed not to notice your movements at all when you tried to slide away. The man just splayed his hand across your stomach and pressed it firmly. Stay.

You weren’t one to shy away from a challenge—or keep hope alive against the odds. You put your hand over his.

“James—”

“Zhena.”

The abruptness of Bucky’s word stole the rest of yours. You cocked a brow and followed his gaze to your hand.

To the gaps between your fingers, then the touch that fanned across them to settle on one digit in particular.

Bucky thumbed at the diamond and smiled. He smiled.

“Zhena,” he repeated.

You blinked.

“I— you...gave me that, Bucky. You did.”

He hummed in acknowledgment.

Bucky stared at the ring for what could’ve been five seconds or several years, and then he did something unexpected. He shifted his touch to the bodice of your dress—again, if you could even call it that—and he began to tug at the satin bow situated between your breasts.

Of course, this nightie being designed for honeymoons and supremely easy access, it didn’t take much effort at all for the folds of your dress to come apart. Your breasts spilled out of the fabric without so much as a hint of protest, your torso was quick to become fully exposed, and suddenly, shortly, your hands were fumbling at your chest in an effort to regain some smidgen of modesty. Your husband just shook his head, following your hands.

“Moya zhena,” he said, a touch more emphasis and fervor to the first of the two words.

Now it was you who was shaking your head. Trying to pry his touch away as you slid up the bed. When he followed, you saw the icy expression had been supplanted by intrigue and, though you still felt ill at ease, you couldn’t deny you were curious to know what he was thinking. Who was thinking it? Soft, plush lips swiftly replaced his hands, and before you even knew what he was doing, Bucky, or someone, was latching onto your left breast. Using teeth to graze the hardened nub and send a ripple of thick, guilty pleasure coursing through you.

You whimpered. Bucky groaned.

Your fingers slotted through his hair with every intention of pushing him away, but when you tried, he just flicked his tongue and made another delicious sound against you.

You pushed with even more force, and he groaned again.

Not Bucky, not Bucky, not him, you have to—

“Stop!” you cried.

A set of soft, warm baby blues darted up to meet you.

Some flicker of recognition seemed to cross them, too.

“Honey?”

You almost lurched toward the sound. It was Bucky.

Suddenly, your hands were making fists in the collar of his crisp white button-up, and you were trying to yank him up. You murmured his name in disbelief, relief, and gathered him up in your arms to pull him in for a kiss.

The lips that met you were soft for a moment—just one.

Then the teeth reappeared. Harsh, jarring, biting. You jerked back at the sensation, and when you found his face again, it seemed your husband was lost to you all over. The eyes were attentive still—nowhere near as cold and aloof as they had been before—but they did not radiate the same warmth and admiration that Bucky’s always did. You almost couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He was gone, just like that, and there was nothing you could do to stop it from happening.

A broad palm cupped your cheek to bring you in for another kiss, and you weren’t sure if you should indulge. It didn’t seem you had much choice anyway, because the lips that were seeking yours were hungry. Starved. Searing into your mouth with a force you couldn’t refuse.

But something inside you wanted to find Bucky again.

Somewhere inside this stranger was lying dormant a trace of your husband; you’d seen it yourself, if only for a second. It made you curious. Where had he gone? What did he do when forced to retreat into this strange, preprogrammed being, and how could you get him back?

“Bucky,” you mumbled, more of a plea than a moan.

You were kissed harder than you had been in a long time. You didn’t have to think, or do, or breathe one puff of air that this man didn’t account for. His tongue wedged a gaping space in your wet, welcoming mouth for him to fill, and somehow, you didn’t feel the urge to protest. A familiarity in the way he kissed almost put you at ease, and when his body lifted slightly, yours lifted with it.

Before long, Bucky was sitting. Kneeling between your legs with an eye to your soft, shaking torso. You’d barely even come to notice just how hard you were breathing until you felt a palm on your stomach again. There was an oddly calming insinuation in that one simple touch.

And again, he smiled. Brighter than before.

“Nashe?” He sounded eager as he said it.

You peered up at him and raised an eyebrow in question. Perhaps you should’ve felt more exposed; after all, you were sitting half-naked with your husband’s assassin alter ego stroking your stomach and beaming over you, eyeing you expectantly, and you didn’t know what to say. Apart from the short set of words Steve had taught you, you were totally clueless to Russian, and you weren’t quite sure you were in a place to ask Bucky to translate.

When it seemed words might never come, the gleaming teeth above you were shrouded in a tighter, close-lipped smile, and Bucky nodded. Appearing to understand. Instead of forcing a response from you, he just let his hand migrate down your belly, fingers tracing the skin, then settle comfortably—momentarily—at the crest of your pubic bone. Then he pressed the heel of his palm into the place residing right below it, and without really meaning to, you moaned. A quiet maelstrom of pleasure circled low in your abdomen, threatening to draw noises from your throat you weren’t planning to make with every gentle gyration of Bucky’s lower hand.

You had to purse your lips to contain the sounds.

Again, he nodded.

“It’s okay,” he said, so quiet he almost couldn’t be heard.

He let the friction continue for a while like that: just palming you, watching you react to the simplest of motions against your swollen, aching clit and try not to writhe. At length, you squirmed a little bit. Bucky seemed to want to wait for something to happen, and when you bucked your hips, a look in his eye said that was enough.

He lowered himself between your legs. Shoulders bumping your thighs as he spread them apart, chest rising and falling in measured breaths, and lips smiling all the while. You sucked in a breath when his face came to rest just a few inches shy of your bare, aching warmth.

“Bucky?”

The man looked up at you and blinked.

“Yeah, honey?”

One thumb traced over the seam of your cunt, and your back nearly arched off the bed. There he was, again, gaze safe and secure to yours and hands moving in tandem as they always would. His tongue calmly followed suit. When you fisted his hair, he blinked once more and then directed his attention back to your wet, warm, velvety folds with a pointed look and a purpose.

The sound that escaped you next could hardly be classed as anything less than a scream, but the soft and unperturbed demeanor of the man between your legs showed he hadn’t noticed at all. He just sucked diligently—damn near dutifully—on your clit with a vigor you’d never felt, and when you yanked at his hair, he hummed.

It was like his lips had been trained for perfect suction; that was how well and thoroughly he descended upon your swollen little bud. An airtight kiss and a quick flick of his tongue, paired with his hot and heavy breaths fanning over your cunt, sent your senses into overdrive. Your toes curled inward, your throat let loose a gasp, and without fully realizing it, your walls were clamping down, pulsing and leaking out desire for more of this touch.

Then, without warning, Bucky brought a hand to the throbbing and slick cunt that was presently clenching around nothing, and he fed it two fingers. So forceful and deep he nearly buried his knuckles right along with them. Then he started scissoring those two fingers, sharply.

“Open, milaya,” he said. Again, it wasn’t entirely Bucky.

But you felt a faint remembrance there. You didn’t want him to stop. Maybe you were led astray by the gentle laps of his tongue or the prodding of his fingertips, or perhaps there was something stubbornly familiar about the way he was touching you now. You couldn’t tell.

All you knew was that both of your hands were holding tight to his head and begging him, wordlessly, for more.

Your moans rang all the way through the bedroom in your new, far-too-big penthouse apartment in Brooklyn, down the hall, reverberating through every inch of the space until all that could be heard were your sounds and his and the delectable little noises of your bodies working together. Bucky hadn’t even stirred to pleasure himself.

You wanted that part to change.

With your hip pinned to the mattress and Bucky’s tongue laving over your clit in ruthlessly quick movements, you probably would’ve liked to cum all over his mouth and fingers, but you wanted to see him pleased even more.

Just when he’d worked a third finger inside you and was driving you close to your peak, you pushed him away.

Bucky parted from your folds with a glistening chin and two furrowed eyebrows, clearly frustrated to have been torn from his mission before you reached completion, but you wouldn’t let that look linger for long. You used your leverage in his hair—however slight, comparatively, that grip might have been—to pull him up on the bed.

Bucky surprised you with just how swiftly he moved.

His steel-blue gaze was on yours in a second, equally penetrating and soft.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing—”

“My baby okay?”

He surprised you again; this time by how quick his demeanor was to shift the second he sensed something was wrong. Just like Bucky. It had to be him in there.

You nodded, still out of breath from the wonders he’d been working with his tongue. You squeezed his arm and tried to coax him toward you, to help him lower his body some, and when he seemed uncertain, you offered a smile. It’s okay to touch, you won’t break anything.

Bucky eyed you skeptically, but it was clear he was more wary of himself than of you. He glanced over your body, briefly to his, then slowly, apprehensively, sank down.

“Just fine,” you mumbled, hooking your legs around his back the second his chest was close enough to yours.

You felt an uptick in his heartbeat when your heels dug a little more firmly into the waistband of his pants. While your hands started working their way toward the front of that fabric, wedging clumsily between your bodies, his gaze flitted to yours, and his brows drew even tighter together. He didn’t try to stop you, but he certainly seemed confused as to why you wanted to include him so soon. Why you cared to show concern for him at all.

You noticed that then, and in just about every moment preceding, the man was taken aback by kindness.

Whether it was pulling him closer to you, tugging his pants down with a tender touch, running your fingers across the bulge in his boxers, or simply nodding your head and letting him know it was okay to touch you back, Bucky seemed unaccustomed to any care in this area.

When your fingers made it around his cock and started stroking him, gently, he just might’ve come apart.

His chest shuddered with the inhale of a short, strained breath, and his eyelids fluttered, as if meaning to close.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he started to shake his head.

“No, let me—”

“Let me,” you finished for him, wrist flicking back and forth quietly. You paused just to rub a quick touch between your folds, collect some arousal, then return to touching him when he met your eyes again and allowed you to continue. You skimmed his sensitive underside with your palm and let the warmth of him bleed into your fingertips as you worked him up to a comfortable pace.

Bucky rutted into your touch, probably harder than he meant to. Then he planted a hand beside your head and anchored his weight above you so that he was close enough to reach your lips—but he didn’t kiss you.

His expression hardened again, and he forcibly removed himself from the pulse of your fingers. He frowned.

“You want me to fuck you, no? Make you cum?”

He sounded irritated again.

Briefly, you recalled your words from earlier and nodded. It was true, you’d said it to him like that, and you’d meant it. You just couldn’t make sense of what he wanted now.

It seemed Bucky couldn’t wait to indulge you any longer. He fisted his cock in one hand, angled the head just outside of your cunt, and burst in with one thrust.

“Then let me,” he muttered, plunging down to the hilt.

The first go was rough, and the second was no kinder. Bucky’s face screwed up with indifference again, like he wanted to get something out of his brain and just do.

Like there was a task at hand that needed to be finished.

You couldn’t deny it felt fine at first. Fucking edifying after all those horrific thoughts had been eating away at your mind and rousing your own hunger for numbness. The drive of Bucky’s thick girth in and out, in and out repeatedly was no doubt capable of rendering you dumb. But being slammed into and taken so roughly was only good for you when you knew he was feeling good too.

This Bucky was back to being entirely flinty and lifeless—practically devoid of all emotion as he railed into you.

The back of your head was forced into the pillow with the weight of each thrust and Bucky’s thumb pushing into your chin—‘Better, milaya? Is this better for you?’—and frankly, you wanted to push him back and ask the same.

But you couldn’t. The pace he’d set was suffocating, and the stretch of his cock inside you was unusually tough.

Instead, you sank your nails into his arm and mumbled:

“Bucky.”

The man’s thrusts were both stabbing and rhythmic, sending a welt of pleasure blossoming up in your chest. You tried again:

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

And slowed.

“Bucky,” he mumbled back.

Seemingly mindless and mechanical, he snaked a hand behind your head to lift your face and tilt it toward the sight below: his cock splitting you open before him, parting your insides with an easy, welcome glide through the slick of your folds. You watched as your arousal enveloped him fully. Not a single inch of his rock-hard, throbbing shaft was spared; even his balls were soaked. They felt even heavier slapping your ass with each thrust.

“You remember?” you asked, hating how small you sounded.

The man’s nostrils flared, but he gave a curt nod. Expression taut and vigilant, as though anticipating something going wrong at any second. Still, he nodded.

“Years,” he answered.

“Years?”

Since he’d done this? Felt good? Become this way?

No, Bucky was activated in Madripoor just weeks ago. He didn’t look like he was ready to indulge in any ‘feel-good’ pleasure, and you weren’t sure when he’d last been with anyone else before you. Years could mean anything.

You chanced a few soft fingertips up to his cheeks, cupping either side of his clean-shaven face in an effort to anchor you both to one place. The pit of your stomach was reeling with warmth, and friction, and fullness. It took everything in you just to pull him in for a quick, grounding kiss before the feeling gave way to even more.

Bucky’s teeth nicked your bottom lip. He flinched back.

You ignored the sting and repeated his name, murmuring it carefully up to the seal of his mouth as if requesting entry with that word alone.

It seemed to work. Bucky kissed you back with a gentle, albeit guarded, sort of tenderness that made him soften. His thrusts weren’t as rough and punishing as they were before. The dull, throbbing ache between your legs transformed into something sweeter, and your body no longer had to brace itself against strokes that, to you, were nearly bruising and, to Bucky, were just necessary.

For once, your husband let out a soft grunt of pleasure.

“They never let us,” Bucky said as his teeth grit together, “It’s been years.”

“Since what?”

The face above you tempered more—this time with a trace of sadness behind it. He continued to rut into you, but now his thrusts were sloppy, and it seemed as though he were battling against his own pleasure with every motion. He lowered one hand between your legs and began to thumb at your clit, gaze torn from yours.

“Close now?” he muttered.

Ignoring the question you’d asked.

“Years since what?” you pressed anyway. The tiny ripples preceding bliss had already begun to stir inside you, maddeningly, with every flick of his thumb, but your curiosity to know the whole truth was stronger still.

Bucky’s hips were moving at a feverish pace now; his free hand made a fist in the sheets beside your head, and his chest heaved with a series of short, ragged breaths that were no doubt meant to mask his moans as well. Notwithstanding the burn you felt between your legs—he really was much rougher and stronger now, you saw—you cupped his cheek again to tilt his face toward yours.

What you saw made your stomach drop.

Your heart clenched like a fist within the confines of your ribcage, and there it was—that terrible ache you felt each time you saw something awful materialize before you.

Bucky’s eyes were wet with tears. He wouldn’t blink.

He tilted his head into your touch, as if for support, but really, the weight of it signaled to you that he just wanted to feel you. Be assured that you were there. His big, broad arms seemed suddenly unable to hold his weight, and then he sank into your frame with a grunt and another stuttered breath. Like he was ready to collapse.

“Don’t leave again,” he said quietly.

The pain in your chest elevated, in bloom.

“Bucky I didn’t— wasn’t—” you started to say.

The friction between your bodies was almost too much to bear. You couldn’t be sure if you were talking to your husband, soldat, or some strange, inconceivable mixture of the two, but you could tell that this one was desperate.

Pleading.

“I can’t lose you again.”

The head of his cock grazed your most sensitive spot inside, and a whine seeped out through your teeth. Bucky’s whole body was blanketing yours, torso flush with your front and hips working an erratic cadence as he got a glimpse of release himself. He groaned out in pleasure and begged you to stay. You promised that you would. Your legs were still wound around his sides, but both of your bodies were slick with a sheen of sweat; it was hard to hang on. Bucky’s hair was wild and pushed back from his face, but his eyes were clear when they finally met yours, and you heard him mumble again, ‘Please stay.’

You didn’t know what else to say but okay, baby, I will.

You swore you would stay, and in between oaths, your mouth was consumed by a barrage of kisses—Bucky got to feast with a full set of teeth again, primal as ever—and then your climax hit. Euphoria washed over you whole with a force you weren’t expecting to feel, and you couldn’t help but cry out and whine as waves of pleasure coursed straight from the innermost depths of your core.

Bucky’s hips collided with yours in two more stuttered thrusts, and when he bottomed out at the last, you felt a heavy spurt of warmth. A groan coiling out of his chest. Muscles growing lax and two sturdy arms coming to bracket your head as your husband’s whole body weight went folding into yours. You kissed some more, in between frenzied intakes of breaths and steadying moments where you were simply trying to ground your body and get your heart to slow down to a normal rate.

You held each other in silence for a while. Bucky’s head fell next to yours on the pillow when the last of his spend had been emptied, but otherwise, he didn’t stir. At some point, his hands slid behind your back, and the second he hugged you to him, you felt secure in that embrace.

You were probably as far as you’d ever been from understanding who the fuck your husband was, but all it seemed you were capable of feeling for now was pity.

Pity for the years he’d lost to captivity; pity for what was little more than mere existence under HYDRA’s thumb; pity for all the things you still didn’t know about his past.

You held Bucky tighter, and, flooded with this strange, grating emotion and an overwhelming sense of powerlessness, you wished you could protect him, too.

“James?” you mumbled into his hair.

Bucky didn’t respond.

You squeezed his shoulder. Still nothing.

Against your better judgment, you tried to shift yourself underneath his body. You figured you wouldn’t make it far at all, but at least he would be aware that you were trying to get up. Maybe even start to move with you.

He didn’t.

It took everything in you just to wedge an elbow back, struggle to prop yourself up against his weight, and when you were about to let out a huff of an exasperated laugh and tell him, Bucky, you’re crushing me, honey, could you please ease up a little, your request was answered before the words could even leave your mouth.

At the sound of two new muffled voices carrying up from the living room and what appeared to be noises from shuffling feet, Bucky rose straight from the bed, off you.

Your gaze trailed his to the door, and you reached for him.

“Baby, it’s just—”

Bucky was back on his feet. Yanking his boxers and pants up his legs and buckling his belt in no time at all.

The movers. It’s just the movers bringing in furniture—

You moved your hand closer to your husband in the hopes of stalling his movements for half a second, but then a set of ruthless blue eyes had you pinned, quick:

“Stay.”

Your outstretched arm was taken up in a much stronger, stiffer one, and you were suddenly pulled over to Bucky.

But you knew from the eyes it wasn’t him at all.

And you weren’t so much being tugged toward him as you were being hauled to the floor. Thrown on your knees beside the bed, next to Bucky. He was about to leave.

Without thinking, you reached for one of the legs of his trousers and sank your nails into the fabric to hold him in place, to tell him again that there was nothing to see out there but the people you knew, no threat outside at all. But Bucky was deaf to your pleas, it seemed. He shrugged you off easily and made a move for his gun, expression blank, stolid, calm, hardened. Decided.

You tried to rise to your feet but were stopped.

“STAY,” Bucky boomed again, this time an order that he didn’t even deign to complete with a look your way.

If he had—if he even possessed the ability to consider anything but the immediate task at hand—he would’ve seen his own hand knock you to the floor to keep you from standing. Might’ve caught a glimpse of the instant your head struck the edge of the nightstand before you hit the ground. Could’ve even made out the first traces of blood that came trickling out from above your temple. Would’ve seen you cower back, viscerally, out of fear.

But holding the side of your head and watching him leave, grim realization twisted at the pit of your stomach, and you knew the man wouldn’t have stopped if he had.

If your soldat’s objective was to protect you from any harm lurking outside that door, real or illusory, nothing you were capable of doing now could stop that. At expense to yourself, at expense to him, at expense to whatever lives stood between the Winter Soldier and that unwavering, hardwired goal, he still would not ever stop.

Thinking of new, innocent lives in the balance, now, you scrambled for your phone the next second to call Steve.

You tried him once. Twice. A third time crawling on your knees, then standing, then staggering over to the door and pulling the phone from your ear just to send a string of texts to your friend while the thing continued to ring.

SOS

Need help

Pick up please

Bucky’s stuck and he’s

About to hurt people here

A crash sounded outside. You hurried to the door. Your hand closed around the knob and tried to turn it. The handle turned freely, but something behind it was refusing to let you leave the room. You pressed again.

“Bucky!”

Your cry was useless in the face of the barricade outside.

You pushed your shoulder and, behind it, the whole force of your weight against it anyway, trying to get out.

The line went dead. You tried again.

Now with your phone to one ear and the bedroom door taking the brunt of your hits from the other, bleeding side of your body, you scarcely heard much of anything else. The ring started. Stopped. Began again when you pressed a shaky finger to Steve’s contact name, and continued in a cycle for some time while you tried to force whatever was on the other side of the door away.

The second a voice broke through the haze of your frantic, half-crazed state of consciousness, you cried:

“STEVE!”

“Mrs. Barnes?”

You were shocked to hear a woman on the other end. Your pulse was still racing, shoulder aching from the impact of each desperate push you’d been forcing against the door, and then you stopped. Another loud something sounded down the hallway, further away, but you were too startled and unnerved to take any note of it.

You started to ask, ‘Where’s Steve?’ when the voice continued:

“This is Mrs. Barnes?”

“Yes,” you answered woodenly.

You held the phone as close to your ear as you could, but still, the woman’s words were coming in and out in bursts. You must’ve mistakenly accepted the call when trying to reach Steve—you couldn’t think right now; could barely retract the phone far enough to see a strange number displayed on the screen. You swallowed.

“—from Lenox Hill Hospital at Northwell Health—”

The high-rise medical center on the Upper East Side you’d visited that week. Bucky had wanted you tested for nutritional deficiencies and anemia, of all fucking things.

“—if you had a moment or two to chat and maybe—”

No, you needed Steve, not this outpatient courtesy call.

You would’ve liked to hang up. Should’ve hung up. In fact, your fingers were practically itching to hit the button the whole time the nurse was speaking to you, but something in you just couldn’t be persuaded to do it. It took several more seconds before your senses began to creep back, and by then, when you were about to drop the call, you heard a phrase that stopped you on a dime.

“—but the doctor advises prenatal vitamins—”

“What?” you snapped, far more harshly than you meant.

The nurse paused a beat, whether from incredulity at how rude you’d just sounded or to consider something. When she resumed, she sounded a little more guarded.

“Yes…Dr. Watkins did reach out to you about your bloodwork from your last visit, didn’t she? I thought—”

“No,” you said, rushed and painfully brusque, again. You tried to rein in your tone some before continuing, “She didn’t—didn’t reach out about anything. What vitamins?”

Another pause.

“Prenatals.”

You hated that she gave you another second to chew on that word before taking a breath and pressing on.

“I’m terribly, terribly sorry to be the one to spring that on you, Mrs. Barnes—I thought you knew…um—” The nurse was sheepish now, almost embarrassed to be speaking, “—you’re about…three weeks along in your pregnancy.”

Three weeks along.

Advised prenatal vitamins.

For the child growing inside of you.

A rivulet of blood trickled into your left eye.

Your whole body was apt to convulse, but it didn’t.

You hung up.

—

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