#and he was just like 'trust me' and then they made history

[cherryxbooo]

Nothing lasts forever

Summary: Being a dedicated McLaren engineer with a cold demeanor means one thing: judgment. Trusting and opening up to a certain driver leads to a bigger mistake.

Reader x Oscar Piastri

Genre: Angst

I had always dreamed of working for McLaren.

The team’s history, the legacy, the championships, everything about it had captivated me since I was a kid.

I’d spent years idolizing the drivers, the engineers, the people who made it all happen.

And then, there I was.

Standing in the paddock, a part of the machine I had once only watched from the sidelines.

The air felt thick with history, with success, with the roar of engines and the buzz of anticipation.

It was everything I had ever wanted.

But, as much as I tried to convince myself it was everything I had dreamed of, there was something that gnawed at me.

There was an ache deep in my chest that no amount of triumph could soothe.

I had arrived, but the reality? The reality was a constant weight on my shoulders that I wasn’t prepared for.

I’d imagined walking into the garage, feeling the excitement of the team, and being welcomed as one of their own.

But instead, there were whispers.

Quiet, cutting whispers that followed me like a shadow.

I could feel the eyes on my back, the scrutiny, the judgment.

It didn’t matter how many hours I put in, how many sacrifices I made.

The rumors about me spread faster than the engine roar on the track.

I wasn’t the “right” kind of person.

Too focused, too ambitious, too cold.

Too much of everything that didn’t fit their ideal.

And it stung.

Every word. Every glance. Every offhand comment.

I tried to tell myself to ignore it. That they were wrong, that I had a place here because I earned it.

But each passing day, each race weekend, it felt harder to believe that.

The weight of their expectations, their judgments, it was like suffocating under a blanket of misunderstanding.

The worst part was when the comments came from the people I thought I could trust.

From the people I worked alongside. The people I shared ideas with.

How many times had I stayed late, just to make sure everything was perfect? Just to be sure I was giving it my all?

And yet, it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.

The world outside the track didn’t care about my dedication.

They cared about who I was, who they thought I was, and who I wasn’t.

It felt like every tiny detail of my life was scrutinized, dissected, and criticized.

So, I built walls.

Higher and higher, until they were towering around me. I kept my head down, kept my focus laser-sharp, kept to myself.

No one was going to see the cracks forming inside.

No one would ever know how often I lay awake at night, replaying everything, questioning my worth, wondering if all those whispers were true.

Was I too cold? Too intense? Too much of something that no one could accept?

Could they see me as I truly was, or was I just a puzzle piece that didn’t fit the picture they had in mind?

Then came Oscar.

The new guy, the fresh-faced rookie with that infectious energy.

He had that spark of hope, that belief in things I had lost along the way. He didn’t see the walls I built.

He didn’t seem to care about the rumors. To him, I was just another teammate. Another person to work with.

He didn’t judge me for how I carried myself, didn’t dismiss me for my focus. Instead, he laughed with me.

He challenged me in the best ways, without making me feel like an outsider.

For a while, it felt like maybe, just maybe, there was someone who didn’t see me through that lens of judgment.

Someone who saw me.

Oscar didn’t care about my reputation or the harsh words spoken behind my back.

He saw the work, the effort. And for the first time in a long time, I felt... like I mattered.

We started talking more.

Late-night debriefs, sitting alone after everyone else had gone to bed, dissecting the race, talking about what went wrong and what we could have done better.

I listened to him, really listened.

He told me about his journey to Formula 1, about his struggles to prove himself, about his dreams.

And in turn, I opened up. I shared my frustrations. My doubts. I talked about the battles I fought every day just to be here, just to be seen.

I never expected him to understand, but he did.

He didn’t judge.

He listened.

One night, after a particularly brutal race weekend, we found ourselves alone in the garage.

The others had already left for their rooms, and the garage was eerily quiet, save for the hum of the equipment.

I was staring at the car, my mind a whirlwind of calculations and what-ifs.

Oscar walked up to me, leaning against the tool chest, arms crossed, his usual easy smile softened.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

I didn’t turn to him immediately.

I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“I just... I just can’t stop thinking about what went wrong. There were so many little things that could’ve been fixed. If I had just—”

“Y/n,” he interrupted, his voice firm but not harsh.

“You’re one of the best at what you do. Don’t let one bad weekend define you.”

I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. “Easier said than done, right?”

He chuckled softly, pushing himself off the tool chest and walking closer to me.

“I get it. But you can’t carry that weight on your own. You’ve got a team here. Me included.”

The sincerity in his voice hit me harder than I expected.

I finally looked up at him, and for the first time, I saw not just the rookie but someone who genuinely cared.

Someone who wanted to help. It was almost too much to take in.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he added quietly, almost as if he was afraid of scaring me away.

I swallowed hard, feeling something stir inside me, something I hadn’t let myself feel in years.

Hope.

I nodded, unsure of how to respond. “I... I know. It’s just hard.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, his eyes softening.

“But you don’t have to have all the answers, all the time. Sometimes, it’s okay to lean on others.”

His voice lowered.

“Especially if that means leaning on me.”

I felt a warmth bloom in my chest, a sensation I hadn’t allowed myself to experience in so long.

Maybe it was okay to let someone in.

Maybe Oscar was the one person who could help me see things differently.

The next few days were full of more small moments that made my walls tremble.

We found ourselves in those quiet spaces between races, just talking.

I’d laugh at his dry humor, and he’d listen as I explained things I thought only made sense in my head.

He didn’t rush me. He didn’t expect anything from me except honesty.

One evening, as we sat on the pit wall, watching the sunset after another long practice session, he nudged me gently with his shoulder.

“You know, for someone who’s supposed to be the ice queen,” he said with a teasing grin,

“you’re actually kind of fun to hang out with.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips.

“I’m not that bad, am I?”

He raised an eyebrow, pretending to think it over.

“Maybe just a little. But that’s what makes it fun.” He nudged me again, this time making me laugh out loud.

It was a soft, genuine moment.

And for the first time, I allowed myself to feel it, really feel it.

The connection we were building was something I didn’t expect, something that was slowly chipping away at the walls I had so carefully crafted.

Oscar was breaking through, piece by piece. And it scared me. But in the best way possible.

But nothing lasts forever right?

The morning sun was just beginning to rise, casting long, amber-hued shadows over the paddock.

The air was still cool, with a slight breeze stirring the flags and team banners fluttering gently in the wind.

The hum of the pit lane was just starting to pick up as teams were making their final preparations for the day’s race.

Oscar and Lando stood by the car, both immersed in the quiet but urgent task of fine-tuning the machine that would carry them into the competition.

Oscar, his focus unwavering, leaned over the rear wing, adjusting a setting on the aerodynamics.

His fingers moved with practiced precision, checking measurements, recalibrating.

He didn’t take his eyes off the components as he made the final tweaks.

The team relied on him to deliver his best performance, and he wouldn’t let them down.

Lando, on the other hand, leaned casually against the car, arms crossed, watching Oscar work.

There was an easy-going air about him, a stark contrast to the intensity radiating from Oscar.

Lando's eyes followed his teammate’s every move with a small, amused smile on his lips.

It wasn’t that Lando wasn’t focused; it was just that he had a different way of working, more laid back, like everything was under control even if it wasn’t.

After a few moments of silence, Lando spoke, breaking the quiet concentration.

“I have to admit,” he said, his tone light but thoughtful, “Y/n’s not as bad as I thought.”

Oscar glanced up from his task, a small, surprised smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah? I’ve noticed that too. She’s... unique.”

Lando chuckled, nudging him playfully with his elbow.

“Unique, huh? You mean cold and distant?”

he teased, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Oscar’s expression softened, and he straightened up from the car, wiping his hands on his overalls as he met Lando’s eyes.

His smile faltered for a second, but only for a moment.

“She’s not cold,” he said, his voice quieter, more serious.

“She’s just... guarded. And I think once you get to know her, you’ll see a different side.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, and took a step toward him, crossing his arms as he leaned in slightly.

“Really? You’ve spent a lot of time with her, huh? I didn’t think you’d put up with her cold demeanor. I mean, how do you even manage it? She’s like a brick wall sometimes.”

Oscar’s fingers tightened on the tools he was holding, but he didn’t let the tension show on his face.

He took a breath before speaking. “It’s not like that. She’s actually very sweet once you get past the walls she’s built.”

His voice softened, as if speaking about something fragile.

“There’s more to her than people realize. People don’t take the time to see that.”

Lando frowned, narrowing his eyes as he stared at Oscar, clearly unconvinced.

“Sweet? Dude, you’ve got to be kidding. I don’t know if I’m buying that. I mean, have you seen how she reacts to people? Most of the time, it’s like she’s trying to push everyone away. She doesn't smile, doesn't really talk unless she has to.”

Oscar hesitated, the flicker of unease in his chest threatening to break through, but he pushed it down.

He didn’t want to let Lando’s skepticism affect his thoughts about Y/n.

He could feel something real there, something that couldn’t be captured by just looking at the surface.

“I think you’re wrong,” Oscar said, his voice firm, though the unease lingered at the edge of his words.

“She’s just... been through a lot. I can see it in her eyes. She’s been hurt before, but she’s not who people think she is. She just needs someone to understand her.”

Lando’s face darkened slightly, his expression hardening as he stepped closer, his voice lowering to a more serious tone.

“You’re really going to let her fool you, huh? What if she’s just using you, Oscar? What if she’s trying to win you over for something, like fame, or to get information out of you? People like her, they’re good at manipulating others. They know how to get what they want, and you might just be her latest target.”

Oscar’s pulse quickened at Lando’s words. His grip on the tools tightened until his knuckles went white.

His initial instinct was to push back, to tell Lando that he didn’t know Y/n like he did, but the words hit a little too close to home.

He tried to control the rising heat in his chest, not wanting to let it spill over.

“No,” Oscar finally said, his voice quieter, though the defensive edge was still there.

“I don’t believe that. She’s not like that. You don’t know her the way I do.”

Lando’s gaze shifted, his brow furrowing as he leaned in closer, his tone shifting to something more insistent, more urgent.

“Come on, man. I’m just looking out for you. You’re still new here. She’s smart, and she’s got a way of getting people to like her, but it’s all for a reason. Maybe she’s just trying to get close to you for some advantage. I’m just trying to warn you before you get too deep in. You should keep an eye on her.”

Oscar felt a tightening in his chest, a flicker of doubt threatening to cloud his judgment.

He wanted to trust Y/n, to believe that the connection they had was real, but Lando’s words were like a seed planted in the back of his mind, something he couldn’t ignore.

He shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling.

“I don’t think I need to be worried about her,” Oscar replied, his voice firming again, though his hands were still clenched.

“She’s been nothing but professional with me, and I trust her. I’m not going to let something like this ruin that.”

Lando sighed, his posture relaxing just a fraction, though his concern was still evident.

“I hope you’re right, mate,” he said, his voice quiet but serious.

“Just keep your eyes open. You might be seeing things through rose-colored glasses right now, but trust me, people like her don’t change easily. Don’t let yourself get hurt.”

Before Oscar could respond, the team was called for practice, the urgency of the situation pushing the conversation aside.

Both drivers were pulled into the whirlwind of final checks and preparations for the race.

But even as they walked toward the garage, Oscar couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that Lando’s words had left behind.

He tried to push it to the back of his mind, but the doubt lingered, simmering beneath the surface.

He caught a glimpse of Y/n as they made their way to their cars, and for a moment, he found himself wondering if maybe, just maybe, Lando was right.

Could she really be hiding something?

Or was it just the fear of getting too close to someone who had built walls around herself for so long?

Oscar didn’t know, but what he did know was that he wanted to figure it out, he couldn’t just dismiss her like that.

He took a deep breath and forced the thought away.

The race was about to begin, and there was no room for distractions now.

But as they took their positions for practice, Oscar couldn’t shake the lingering doubt that now danced at the edge of his mind.

Later that afternoon,

after the chaos of the post-race debrief, I was given a simple task, one that I had done countless times before.

I was asked to grab some papers from the drivers’ room that had been left behind after a last-minute meeting with Oscar.

It's an easy. Simple. Routine. Right?

I pushed the door open to the driver's room, the quiet atmosphere inside making me feel alone for some reason.

I started sifting through the papers on the desk, the disarray mirroring the mess in my head.

Coffee cups, race schedules, notes from the meeting, all scattered in a haphazard way.

Then, my hand brushed against something, and before I could react, I heard the unmistakable sound of a phone hitting the floor.

A loud thud.

I froze.

Oscar’s phone.

My heart skipped a beat as I bent down quickly, my fingers shaking slightly as I scooped it up.

I checked it over anxiously, my mind racing.

It seemed fine, no cracks, no shattered screen. Just a small scratch on the corner, nothing that couldn’t be fixed.

I let out a quiet sigh of relief and, for a split second, considered just leaving it there on the desk.

Maybe pretending it hadn’t happened would be easier than facing him.

But before I could even make the decision, the door swung open.

Oscar stood in the doorway, his gaze immediately locking onto the phone in my hand.

His eyes flicked from the phone to my face, his expression shifting in rapid succession, surprise, confusion, and then something darker, something colder that made my stomach churn.

“What are you doing with my phone?”

His voice was tight, almost accusing.

I felt a lump form in my throat.

“I—I'm sorry, I knocked it over, and I was just checking to see if it was okay.”

His eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they hardened.

His jaw clenched as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that felt like the final barrier between us.

“Why were you going through it?”

His words cut through the air like a knife, and I could feel my pulse racing in my ears.

“I wasn’t going through it,” I quickly explained, trying to remain calm despite the panic rising in my chest.

“I swear, Oscar. I wasn’t—”

But he wasn’t listening. He cut me off, his voice rising with frustration.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

“Lando was right, wasn’t he? You’re just trying to get something out of me. Trying to manipulate me.”

I stood frozen, the words hitting me like a punch to the gut.

My head spun as I tried to process what he was saying.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Oscar’s gaze was cold, distant, like a stranger’s.

He took a step closer, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“I know what Lando said,” he spat, his words laced with frustration.

“You’re trying to win me over, aren’t you? Maybe you just want to get close to me for some advantage, information, fame, whatever.”

Each word stung like a slap. I felt my chest tighten, the weight of the accusations suffocating me.

I had spent so long building trust with Oscar, trying to make him see the real me beneath the walls I had built.

But now, it was as if all that effort had meant nothing.

“Oscar, I don’t know what he’s told you, but I swear, that’s not it. You have to believe me,”

I pleaded, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

But his gaze hardened further, like an impenetrable wall had been built between us.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore, Y/n. I thought I understood you. But now… I don’t know.”

The words cut deeper than anything he had said before. I felt them settle in my chest like a heavy stone, each one sinking further into the pit of my heart.

The silence that followed felt unbearable. Neither of us moved, the air thick with unspoken words and hurt.

Finally, Oscar broke the silence with a sharp exhale, his frustration palpable.

“I don’t want to argue with you right now.”

And just like that, he turned and left, slamming the door behind him with a finality that echoed in my chest.

The sound of the door closing felt like the door between us had been shut permanently.

I stood there for a long moment, frozen in place.

My mind raced, but the only thing that kept repeating in my head was how completely shattered I felt.

It wasn’t just the argument, or the mistrust, it was the way everything I had worked for, everything I had built with Oscar, had just come crumbling down in an instant.

And for the first time in a long time, I was completely alone.

Hours had passed since the argument, and the weight of it sat heavily on my chest.

The tension between Oscar and me still lingered in the air, suffocating and sharp.

I had kept to myself in the aftermath, buried in data and numbers, trying to escape the clamor of my own thoughts.

I needed the distraction, anything to keep my mind from spiraling further into the uncertainty of everything that had unfolded between us.

But as I walked down the narrow hallway, heading toward the garage, I heard the familiar voices of Lando and Oscar in the distance.

Their voices cut through the stillness of the hallway, and without meaning to, I found myself slowing down, drawn to the conversation like a moth to a flame.

I tried to stay calm, but something in my gut told me I wouldn’t like what I was about to hear.

“…She’s just so cold,”

Lando’s voice was low but carried a certain finality, like he was trying to convince Oscar of something he already believed.

“I’ve tried to get close to her, man, but it’s like she doesn’t even care. She’s got this wall up that I can’t get through. It’s exhausting and childish.”

Oscar’s response was quieter, but still audible.

There was a hesitation in his voice that I hadn’t expected. “She's cold... but I guess that's just how she is”

My heart thudded painfully in my chest, the pressure of the situation suddenly too much to bear.

I thought, no, hoped, that Oscar might defend me, at least show some understanding of who I really was, what I had been through.

But instead, it was like he was agreeing with Lando.

And with every second that passed, the pain inside me deepened, unbearable and raw.

Lando’s voice cut through the silence again, sharper this time.

“Whatever, man. Just keep an eye on her, alright? I’m telling you, she’s got her own agenda. You can’t trust someone like that. She’s been playing everyone, and I’m sure you’re next.”

I stood frozen in place, my heart sinking.

Oscar was quiet for a moment, and I could feel the crackle of tension in the air, even from where I stood.

Was he really considering what Lando said? Was he starting to doubt me too?

Finally, Oscar spoke, his voice quieter than before, but there was an edge to it now, like something had shifted inside of him.

“Yeah, I’ll keep an eye on her. She seems suspicious and untrustworthy.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

My stomach twisted painfully, and it was like all the air had been sucked from my lungs.

That was it. He didn’t defend me. He didn’t trust me.

He was agreeing with Lando’s words, buying into the idea that I was some sort of threat, someone who couldn’t be trusted.

The space between us that had once felt so close now seemed impossibly vast, like an insurmountable chasm had opened up between us.

I felt the sting of betrayal rush through me, even though I tried to swallow it down.

My mind raced. How could he believe that? How could he think that of me, after everything we had shared, the small moments of connection?

It didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t like me to be the one who couldn’t be trusted, but here I was, questioning everything.

Turning on my heel, I quickly walked away, the sound of their voices echoing behind me, but I couldn’t bring myself to face them.

I could feel the tears welling up, but I refused to let them fall.

Not now. Not when it felt like I had already lost everything.

As I made my way back through the hall, my stomach twisted with a kind of emptiness I couldn’t describe.

That was it. Oscar had chosen Lando’s side without hesitation. And that hurt more than anything.

The realization settled over me like a heavy blanket, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of being completely alone in a place I thought I had found some semblance of belonging.

I had hoped for more from Oscar, but now, I wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

What had we even shared if it could be so easily dismissed by someone who barely knew me?

Later that evening,

I found myself walking toward the tech area, my mind still reeling from the aftermath of everything.

The weight of the argument earlier that day had left me hollow, like a piece of me had been torn away and I couldn’t find the strength to patch it back together.

I wanted to drown out the pain, to lose myself in the data, in the work that always kept me busy.

But then, as I rounded the corner, I saw him.

Oscar.

We came face-to-face in the hallway, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly between us, the world around us fading as the air between us thickened with unspoken words.

My heart raced, pounding in my chest, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like a thousand-ton brick.

The silence felt suffocating, every second of it making me feel smaller, more exposed, more vulnerable.

I could barely breathe.

Finally, he spoke, his voice hesitant, as if testing the air.

"Y/n, I want to talk about earlier. Please."

I couldn’t even look at him. His words felt like a distant echo, like something I couldn’t quite reach.

The sting of everything he’d said to me earlier, the doubt, the mistrust, burned too fiercely in my chest for me to react calmly.

I shook my head, my throat tight as I tried to hold it together.

My voice came out barely above a whisper, thick with emotion.

“What’s there to talk about? You don’t believe me. You don’t trust me.”

Oscar’s face softened, his eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite name, but it didn’t matter.

The pain in my heart was louder than anything he could say. He stepped closer, like he couldn’t bear the distance between us.

His voice was pleading, desperate for me to listen.

“That’s not true. I said those things out of anger, out of frustration. Lando’s words... they got to me. But I swear, I don’t think you’re using me. I—”

I cut him off, my voice breaking with the weight of my emotions. I couldn’t let him spin it.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head furiously.

You’re just like everyone else. You heard one thing, and you turned your back on me.”

His steps faltered, and for a moment, I saw something like regret flash in his eyes.

But it didn’t change anything. Not anymore.

The damage had been done, and I couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt.

“Y/n, please,” he said softly, reaching out, his hand hovering near my arm.

“I didn’t mean it.”

But his words felt hollow now.

I didn’t want to hear him apologize. Not when everything I had worked so hard to build between us seemed to have shattered in an instant.

I felt the tears welling up, burning my eyes, threatening to spill over.

My chest felt tight, suffocating under the weight of everything I had been trying to keep buried.

“You did,” I whispered through the tears. “You believed it. And now I can’t trust you either.”

Oscar’s hand dropped as if the weight of my words had physically knocked it from him.

The space between us seemed to stretch, a chasm that no words could bridge.

His eyes flickered with something like frustration, but I couldn’t find the energy to care.

“You’re always so defensive, always so closed off,” he said, his voice sharper now, tinged with anger.

“It’s exhausting. I can’t keep up with this anymore.”

I felt the sharp sting of his words, but there was something else beneath it.

Something that twisted in my chest.

“Maybe it’s because you don’t want to,” I choked out, my voice cracking with emotion.

“Maybe you just don’t want to understand.”

Oscar’s eyes turned cold, and his voice rose, filled with a rawness I wasn’t prepared for.

“You think you’re so much better than everyone, don’t you? You act like you don’t care, but deep down, you’re just scared. Scared that you’re not good enough. You’re scared of getting hurt, so you push everyone away. And it’s pathetic.”

I froze.

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and my breath caught in my throat.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move.

I was frozen in place, each syllable echoing through my mind, digging into the parts of me I tried so desperately to keep hidden.

The parts I had tried to lock away from everyone, including myself.

And now, here he was, exposing them in the worst way possible.

I trusted him, but he used my trust in him against me.

My worst fears, my deepest insecurities, laid bare before me in the cruelest possible light.

I didn’t want to cry. I couldn’t. But the tears came, hot and fast, and I couldn’t stop them.

I had built so many walls around myself, so many layers to protect the fragile parts inside, and now they felt like they were crumbling away with each word Oscar spoke.

Oscar’s expression faltered as soon as he realized what he had just said.

His eyes widened in horror like he couldn’t believe the words that had just left his mouth. This wasn't him.

He reached out to me, but the instinct to pull away was stronger than anything I had ever felt.

My body jerked back, my anger and hurt boiling over in that single moment.

“No,” I spat, my voice venomous and raw. “Don’t touch me.”

His hand dropped like a stone, and I saw the regret washing over his face, but it didn’t matter.

Not now.

Not after everything.

It seemed like he was regretting everything the minute he realized he was losing me.

But the damage was already done, and there was no taking it back.

I turned away from him, the weight of everything crashing down on me as I walked away, the tears falling freely now.

My heart felt like it had been torn in half.

I didn’t look back, because I knew if I did, I’d crumble.

The pain was too much.

I was almost out of the hallway when I heard his footsteps behind me.

He was following me.

“Y/n, please,” Oscar called again, his voice breaking through the distance between us.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong. Please, just let me explain.”

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t listen to him anymore.

I had trusted him and believed that he saw me for who I was, and now… now he had shattered everything.

My heart felt raw, bleeding from the wounds he had inflicted.

I stopped in my tracks and turned to face him.

“You want to apologize now?” I asked, my voice trembling with the pain I could no longer hide.

“It’s too late, Oscar. You’ve already made your choice. You’ve already believed the worst about me.”

Oscar stepped closer, his face full of regret. “Y/n, I—”

“No,” I interrupted, shaking my head, my heart breaking in two.

“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep trusting people who turn on me the second something goes wrong. I’ve had enough.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

The silence stretched between us, and I could see the conflict in his eyes. But it didn’t matter.

The damage was already done, and I couldn’t forgive him, not now.

Not after everything.

With a final, bitter glance, I turned away and walked off, the tears still falling as I left him standing there, his apology hanging in the air between us, unanswered and unaccepted.

But one thing was for sure: I had to put myself first.

The end

[crookedteethed]

ᡣ𐭩 who do you love? . • ° 　 .　 *　: r. cameron

synopsis -- mistress! reader goes bonkers and films a surprise video for Rafe and his wife's anniversary. ۶ৎ

warnings -- 18+-mdni, smut (unprotected p i v), breeding kink, video voyeurism, infidelity, mention of alcohol usage, age gap, cursing, pussy whipped! rafe, homegirl is... yeah

other woman masterlist |taglist | based on this ask | wc: 1.7k

You knew exactly what you were doing when you typed her name into Facebook's search bar. Your fingers moved with purpose, guided by an obsession you couldn't shake.

There it was - Rafe's wife's profile, and right at the top, exactly what you'd been hunting for: a fresh post celebrating their decade of marriage, complete with a photo from their younger days when their love still seemed pure and untainted. You stared at their beaming faces, letting the bitterness wash over you.

Each scroll feels like turning a knife in your own heart, but you can't stop.

Their life unfolds before you like some twisted fairy tale: Rafe teaching their daughter to ride a bike, their annual trips to the Maldives, their matching Christmas sweaters with those damn Dobermans.

And her—always her—wearing that diamond tennis bracelet you once saw in his browser history, claiming the life that should have been yours.

This should be me, the thought burns like acid.

Your fingers hover over a photo of their Mediterranean cruise, her perfectly manicured hand resting on his chest, that massive engagement ring catching the sunset.

She has everything: the weekend brunches at that fancy place downtown, the Range Rover you've seen in their driveway, the three beautiful children with his eyes, the garden parties you watch from afar, and him—God, especially him.

The life that slipped through your fingers because of timing and trust funds. She had everything you didn't: old money, country club connections, and most crucially—age.

While you were still learning to drive, she was already the perfect socialite, the appropriate choice for a man of Rafe's standing. The Seventeen-year age gap between you and Rafe might as well have been an ocean—one that she had already crossed long before you even learned to swim.

Sometimes you wonder if that's what drew him to you in the first place: your youth, your naivety, everything that made you so different from her. Everything that ultimately made you impossible.

Your wine glass is empty again. When did that happen?

A tear escaped your eye as jealousy carved deeper into your chest, the pain spreading until you could barely breathe. Your trembling fingers found your phone, muscle memory still remembering his number after all these years. You knew it was wrong—God, you knew—but you pressed call anyway.

One ring. Two rings. Your heart threatened to burst.

"Hello?" His voice, still so familiar, sent electricity through your body.

"I—" your voice cracked, "I need to see you, Rafe. Please. I can't… I can't stop thinking about you, and I'm so alone tonight. Please come over, I need you."

The silence that followed felt eternal—like light years away, stretching between your world and his, filled with everything unsaid.

You could picture him there, standing in his perfect house with his perfect family just rooms away, probably running his fingers through his hair the way he always did when he was conflicted.

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you heard him move, presumably stepping outside or into his study. Then came that familiar sound—the slow exhale through his nose that you remembered from countless late nights together, when difficult decisions hung in the air between you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough with something that might have been regret or desire or both: "I'm on my way."

Three simple words that shattered whatever remained of your resolve. You ended the call before he could change his mind, before reality could catch up to either of you, before guilt could claw its way back in.

Your hands shook as you set the phone down, knowing that in fifteen minutes—twenty at most—you'd hear his car in your driveway, and everything would change again.

When he steps through your door, the world narrows to just this: his loosened tie, your trembling hands, the soft thud as his back hits the wall. "We shouldn't," he whispers, even as his fingers dig into your hips, even as he pulls you closer.

You silence his protest with a kiss that tastes like regret and wanting, knowing tomorrow will bring guilt but tonight—tonight belongs to muscle memory and bad decisions.

Your hands roam greedily over each other, ripping clothes away with primal urgency. Your mouths hungrily devour one another, teeth nipping at lips as you guide him to the bedroom. Your heart races with desire and anticipation, knowing what awaits in the heat of passion.

The phone you carefully propped against the lamp earlier blinks silently in the darkness, its camera catching everything. You position him perfectly in its view, letting him think it's just desire guiding your movements.

"God, I've missed you," he breathes against your collar bone, completely unaware that every word, every moan, every mistake is being captured. You almost feel guilty—almost.

Then you think of her Facebook shrine to their perfect marriage, and something shifts inside you—guilt crystallizing into purpose.

Your phone keeps recording in the darkness, anticipating to capture every betrayal, every whispered confession.

Soon, her perfectly filtered life won't matter anymore. Soon, you'll have something far more precious than any photograph: Rafe—cornered, desperate, and finally yours.

Without hesitation, you shoved Rafe onto your queen size bed. Straddling his naked body, you disregarded any notion of foreplay.

As much as you craved the feeling of his tongue on your clit or his thick fingers probing you, all that mattered was having Rafe's cock buried in your cunt.

"Damn, you weren't kidding. You really do need me," Rafe smirked as his palm immediately found its way to your dripping core, but to your dismay was swatted away.

With a seductive grin, cooed in your sweet, high-pitched voice that made Rafe's brain mush. "Un huh, now be a good boy and let me take care of myself," you purred, guiding his rock-hard cock to the entrance of your wetness.

"Are you going to let me do that?" Your tone was condescending, but it only fueled the intense desire between you both, and because Rafe's mind turned to mush the moment you said you needed him, he nodded, totally pussy whipped and enamored by you.

The sharp gasp that escaped both of your lips was matched only by the intensity of your desire.

Slowly, you sank down onto Rafe's throbbing cock, savoring the feeling of him stretching you just as he always did.

"You're so tight, baby," he groaned out, his voice dripping with lust.

As you remembered the phone set up hidden by your side table lamp, a mischievous thought crossed your mind:

"Am I tighter than your wife?" you asked, already beginning to rock your hips on his length. Naturally, Rafe's hands found their way to your waist, not to guide you but to bring you closer to his lips.

"So much tighter, shit," he breathed out between hot kisses, with each agonizing slow rock.

"You're gonna leave her for me, huh?" you asked, face to face with Rafe, cradling his jaw to peck his lips. Slowly, you began to pick up the pace. 

Your rhythmic movements escalate into frenzied bouncing, his hard length molding perfectly to your slick walls, stretching you to the limit. You lift yourself up and press down on Rafe's chest for leverage, driving him deeper and harder into you

Rafe's eyes rolled back as you bounced harder, your pussy gripping him like a vice. "Fuck, I… I don't know," he groaned, his hips bucking up to meet your thrusts.

You leaned down, your breasts brushing against his chest as you whispered in his ear, "Come on, baby. Tell me you'll leave her. Tell me I'm the only one you want." Your walls clenched around him for emphasis, drawing a strangled moan from his lips.

"God, yes," Rafe panted, completely lost in the sensation of your tight heat enveloping him. "I'll leave her. You're all I want, fuck!"

Hearing those words sent a thrill through you. You began to bounce faster, slamming yourself down onto his thick cock with abandon. Your breasts bounced enticingly and Rafe reached up to cup them, pinching your nipples between his fingers.

"Say it again," you demanded breathlessly, grinding your hips in circles. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours, baby," Rafe panted, thrusting up to meet your movements. "All fucking yours."

You leaned down to capture his lips in a searing kiss, your tongue tangling with his as you continued to ride him relentlessly. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with your shared moans of pleasure.

"Gonna cum for me?" you asked, clenching your walls around him. "Gonna fill me up? Gonna give me one of your babies?"

"Yeah, gonna stuff your sweet pussy with my hot load, fuck, I'm about to explode," Rafe moaned, his nails digging into your flesh, leaving red marks on your hips.

You reached down to rub tight circles on your clit, chasing your own release. "Me too, don't stop," you gasped.

With a few more forceful thrusts, you both toppled over the brink together, moaning in bliss as powerful waves of pleasure engulfed you. Rafe followed suit, releasing his hot and sticky load inside you, filling you up completely.

The afterglow lasts exactly thirty seconds before Rafe is already reaching for his clothes, his movements quick and efficient like this is just another business meeting wrapping up, breathing hasn't even steadied.

"I need to get back," he says, checking his watch. "We have dinner reservations at La Maison."

"Of course. The anniversary dinner." Your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears. "Rafe?" He pauses, shirt half-buttoned. "Did you mean any of it? What you said while we were…?"

He crosses the room, cups your face, and plants a soft kiss on your lips—the kind that feels like goodbye. Then he's gone, the front door clicking shut behind him.

You sit in the twisted sheets, his warmth already fading, listening to his car fade into the distance. Your hands shake as you reach for your phone and stop the recording. The email address you've had memorized for months appears in the recipient field without hesitation. You attach the video—forty-three minutes of undeniable truth—and watch the upload bar creep forward. In the subject line, you type five words that will demolish their perfect life: "Happy Anniversary, From Us Both."

Your finger hovers over 'send' for just a heartbeat before pressing down. Let her enjoy those reservation plans now.

Now he'll have to choose, you think, watching the loading bar reach 100%. And this time, he'll choose me.

a/n -- thanks for making it to the end, as always all likes comments, and reblogs keeps me motivated! 💕🫶🏾

taglist --

@rafestoothbrush @alexxavicry @trapistani @Hejsj @neslayuh @hotvampdragon @alyisdead @jelybely @elmolovesw33d @littlelamy @futuremrscameron @percysley @rrafeswhore

[scariusaquarius]

rehab. 3.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

-

A/n: I had someone on Ao3 ask me about how often this will get updated and my answer is that I don't know. My IRL can be pretty unpredictable and I do deal with depression on a daily basis. I'm going to do my best to update this while still working on my Leon Kennedy fic, Unlikely Salvation! Please do bear with me as I try to figure out where I want this story to go!

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

-

Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

-

Author: ScariusAquarius

-

rehab masterlist. chapter 1 / chapter 2

The lab was hustling with scientists, the Wakandan sunrise filtering through the enormous windows with an intensity that made Bucky eyes hurt as he stood by the cryostasis pod where the Winter Soldier would soon be housed.

The whole trek to the lab had been uneventful: not once did the soldier fight back. It seemed that the failure to complete her mysterious mission had caused her to shut down, and Bucky was tense as she was strapped down with multiple magnetic cuffs like the ones he and Steve used back in the quinjet.

Even with the super soldier serum coursing through her veins and whatever other enhancements she might naturally have or that HYDRA might have given her would prove useless. She was strapped down nice and tight.

There was a machine hovering over her knee, the tissue and bone beneath crunching and grinding as it was fusing back together, her expression unchanging despite her kneecap and patella being exposed. The air was beginning to smell of singed flesh and hair, and Bucky felt slightly nauseous.

Bucky hated knowing how much damage his arm could inflict; how unforgiving his grip was and how hard it was to regulate the strength at times so he would break yet another glass just by holding it and trying to take a drink.

And it had been so easy to crush her flesh like it was nothing.

"Howard? Howard, oh god...oh god, Anthony...!"

Bucky clenched his jaw, swallowing harshly as Maria Stark's voice whispered to him, and he was broken out of his trance by Shuri announcing.

"Once we are finished with her knee, I would like to begin deconstructing her mind. If efforts are fruitless, I would like for you to activate her again if possible. We might be able to figure out what her previous orders were and her intentions, history, anything that would prove useful to the eradication of HYDRA."

Steve frowned, asking as T'Challa simply stayed quiet, observing the Winter Soldier as she sat complacent and quiet; seemingly not hearing a word that they were saying.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? What if it doesn't work?"

Shuri replied confidently, flicking her eyes over to Steve before gesturing towards Bucky with a nod of her head.

"We will have to reset completely and start over. Sergeant Barnes' rehabilitation was easy due to the flaws within his programming that HYDRA was unable to remedy. However, we do not know what improvements have been made to HYDRA's algorithm since then. It will be challenging to separate the core person that this woman was before her programming, but not impossible."

T'Challa then asked, raising an eyebrow at Shuri as she shined a light into the Winter Soldier's eyes, taking down notes and recording her vitals.

"What if you are unable to separate the identity from the programming?"

Shuri sighed deeply, shrugging.

"She will have to be built from the ground up. This woman will be like a completely clean slate down to a new name if we are unable to figure out who she was before. I am already running the best biometric identification programs within our arsenal to figure out who she could have been. I would assume that Stark is also doing so?"

Steve nodded, replying as he watched the soldier closely as her eyes inconspicuously flicked to a scientist that readying a syringe.

"Yes, he's also got Nat looking through the database that we downloaded and coursing through any previous databanks we obtained from previous HYDRA raids."

Shuri then turned to Bucky, making him quirk an eyebrow up slightly as she regarded him with a raised brow.

"What is your take on this, Sergeant Barnes?"

All eyes were on him, and Bucky sighed slightly he stared down the soldier, watching the way her brow began to tense slightly the closer the scientist got. The second the syringe touched her skin, the soldier began to freak out.

Due to the cuffs restricting her movement, she resorted to smacking her back against the chair over and over, hissing and yelling loudly as the scientist jolted and stumbled back. T'Challa immediately shoved her down, Shuri exclaiming profanities as she snatched the syringe from the scientist and shoved it into the soldier's neck.

The soldier hissed and yanked her neck away, breaking the needle, and Shuri groaned, gesturing with her hands wildly.

"Really? Now I'm going to have to dig that out. You make things harder for yourself!"

Okoye quipped, her spear pointing towards the soldier as Steve and Bucky stood tensed and ready should the Soldier somehow get out of her binds.

"How primitive! She is like a wild animal!"

The sedative began to kick in, the woman's bucking gradually stopping, and she went limp within the chair, head rolling to the side as her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. Bucky's heart was racing slightly with adrenaline, and Steve observed.

"Seems like she knew what the syringe meant."

T'Challa frowned deeply, leaning back and brushing his hands off slightly as he glanced back at Steve.

"An important but grave detail: she must be remembering...or perhaps, it is a recent memory."

Shuri plucked the broken needle from the soldier's neck, humming.

"I will take it as a good sign that there is at least someone beneath the rubble. I promise you, Mr. Rogers, that I will do my best to find her."

Steve nodded before clapping Bucky on the shoulder.

"You going to be alright?"

Bucky glanced over at Steve, muttering truthfully.

"I don't want to do this, but I'm only doing it for you. I'm worried that she is going to somehow lead HYDRA to me and it's gonna be a shit-show all over again."

Steve was firm, declaring quietly.

"You know I wouldn't let that happen. I'd have to miss that big head of yours again."

"You're a goddamn punk, you know that?"

Bucky couldn't keep the smile from gracing the corners of his lips, and Steve smiled at him softly before hugging him firmly and backing away.

"Alright, I'm going to leave you to it. I'll check in periodically; let you all know what we find on our side of the world."

T'Challa hummed, walking towards Steve.

"I will accompany you. I would like to discuss some things before your departure."

Steve nodded, and the two men walked out of Shuri's lab. Bucky turned back around, making a slight face as Shuri cut away pieces of the woman's clothing, revealing a black and tight-fitting compression camisole.

There were numerous scars and marks all over her body, some jagged and unforgiving while others were clean and precise. Shuri hummed softly, muttering as her fingers grazed a jagged scar that ran beneath the woman's neck.

"The things this woman must have been through...HYDRA is truly despicable."

Bucky couldn't speak. Hell, he couldn't even think outside of the boiling hatred and rage that was beginning to consume him at the sight of the gruesome scars that covered her upper body. Bucky could only assume that it got worse beneath her uncut clothing, and he had to bite his tongue as hard as he could.

Whip scars, burn marks, mutilated flesh that never regenerated, her body was a canvas; a horrendous painting that HYDRA had taken delight in decorating. This was more than just punishment, it was a warning.

A warning that disobedience will not be tolerated.

How many times did they slash her throat for the scar to become so prominent? How many times did they burn her skin to the point that the serum couldn't work to regenerate? How often did they beat and prod and jab and shoot and stab at her until she was too weak to fight back?

In a morbid way, Bucky took it as a sign that despite her being activated and still dangerous, her history of resistance let HYDRA know that the person that used to be there still existed.

There was someone still underneath the rubble, as Shuri had put it, and Bucky hoped that Shuri could pull her out.

But even so, would it help? Would it be right to let this woman have to live with the memories and nightmares of what had happened to her? Was it right to subject her mind to the torture of HYDRA even after being rescued?

Was it right to try despite knowing how traumatized and desolated the woman was going to be once she was free? Hell, there were times were Bucky could still smell the scent of the cologne his Handler wore when punishing Bucky, and now Bucky couldn't stand to smell the scent without being pushed into a panic.

"Don't worry, White Wolf. I am going to do what I can to help this woman."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

His voice was choked, cracking slightly as he rushed to respond, and Shuri tilted her head at him, asking Bucky with a curious gaze.

"Then what is it that plagues you?"

"I just...is it right to do this when she's gonna have to live with the memories and the nightmares?"

Bucky felt ashamed by the frown that crossed Shuri's face, but was slightly relieved to know that the disappointment that flashed within her eyes was not directed at him.

"I understand the concern, and I understand that it will not be easy for her...but that is why you are here. You have survived HYDRA and are free of the programming they worked hard to instill within your mind. With living proof that persistence yields peace, I truly think that she may become a person again...it will just take time and a lot of work."

Bucky nodded, and Shuri was quiet for a moment before she murmured.

"While it may not seem fair to save her...it is truly a tragedy to deny her the chance that HYDRA never gave her."

The words left a profoundly bitter taste within Bucky's mouth, and he could distinctly taste copper from him biting into his cheek too hard. Shaking his head, Bucky looked away from the woman as Shuri began to assess her further.

"Reactivating her will come with a risk. I would only be able to activate her, but I don't have the knowledge to deactivate, if that's even possible. When I was activated...the longer I was out of cryostasis and hadn't been wiped, the easier it was to resist the programming. I don't know if it will be the same for her."

"As I said: reactivation will allow us the ability to communicate with her. She has not been wiped, it would seem, so it is possible that this woman knows something."

Shuri grabbed a butterfly needle and a vial, putting on gloves and tying a tourniquet around the woman's arm so that she could find a vein. Once she found it, Shuri inserted the butterfly needle, taping it to the soldier's skin.

"I am now going to collect bloodwork to run DNA diagnostics and input the data into the biometric identification program to see if we may be able to identify her this way. I'm also going to do some testing to see what serum she might have been injected with to trace it back to the creator."

Bucky nodded and sat back, watching and listening intently as Shuri described what she was doing and what the programs did on a deeper, intellectual manner. While Bucky was listening and trying to absorb the information, he couldn't stop glancing over at the scars that lined the woman's body.

Horrific couldn't even describe it. It made him sick to his stomach. If Shuri noticed that Bucky was slightly distracted, she gracefully didn't comment on it. Instead, Shuri tried to distract him the best that she could while the machine she was operating was taking a scan of the woman's brain.

After a moment, Shuri hummed, a perplexed look on her face as she sauntered around the hologram of the woman's brain, tendrils of red seeming to pulse all over the organ, and Shuri's brows furrowed as she thought to herself. Bucky asked with an intrigued look on his face.

"What is that?"

"This is a digital recreation of the woman's brain as well as the areas most affected by HYDRA's programming."

Shuri looked proud as she began to move the hologram around, zooming in and out of different areas and lobes before breaking it down into layers.

"Thanks to the work that I did for you, I was able to develop an AI that was capable of identifying HYDRA's programming, as well as detect the intensity and depth that it runs. It gives possible solutions and suggestions on what to work on first...and tells me when something activates the program."

Shuri's voice seemed to lower slightly, side-eyeing him for a moment before she looked back at the hologram, but Bucky didn't notice. Bucky was floored, in awe at the ingenuity of the AI that he couldn't help but to whistle lowly.

"That's incredible, Shuri."

"Please, compared to her, you were like a walk in the park."

Shuri waved him off before she hummed, pointing to a area that was largely red within the hologram.

"However, unlike your programming, her programming is much more complex. There are multiple layers where the programming intertwines with core pieces and memories, which will make unraveling the ties difficult. There might be parts of her that will not be salvageable."

Bucky pursed his lips slightly, shaking his head as he replied gently.

"Like you said: from the ground and up if needed."

Shuri smiled widely at Bucky, her eyes crinkling as she teased gently, pointing at him.

"See, now you are beginning to understand."

Bucky rolled his eyes before he asked as Shuri began to work, a screen popping up and flashing slightly.

"So, what is that?"

"If we are going to salvage as much as we can of the core person she was before she became a Winter Soldier, we will have to analyze every piece of her psyche. Unfortunately, I cannot do much with HYDRA's program basically firewalling me. It is like they added some sort of encryption to her so that any attempt of undoing their work would be unsuccessful or too risky."

Bucky tilted his head, becoming slightly confused as he pointed to the red parts of the woman's brain.

"Is that why those areas are red like that?"

"Yes. If you look closely, it is almost as though these red areas are wrapping around the parts that are otherwise untouched by HYDRA's program. If we can get past the encryptions, we might be able to get through."

Bucky nodded along, crossing his arms before he glanced down at the woman, asking apprehensively.

"Are you going to make me activate her?"

"For now, no. I do not think that it will be necessary. All I need to do is bypass the encryptions, break them down, and then I will begin to root out the memories with the most significance to her."

Shuri spared Bucky a glance, relaying to him honestly.

"If possible, I would like to keep you from doing so because of the mental repercussions activating her will have. I will entrust the process to Okoye if activation is the only option we have left."

Bucky shook his head, murmuring to Shuri as he glanced down at the woman again as her face scrunched slightly.

"No, I'll do it...let's just hope that I don't have to."

Shuri became quiet, staring Bucky down for a moment before she turned away and suggested.

"Perhaps you should see the Captain off. Breaking through the encryption will take time, and I can tell that you are starting to become brain-dead listening to me."

Bucky chuckled before bowing his head slightly, shaking his head.

"I'd rather not upset your brother by leaving you with her by yourself."

Shuri made a face at him, the expression reminding him of Steve pre-serum.

"Do you think I am not capable of defending myself? This is my territory, white boy."

Bucky raised his hands in surrender, wincing slightly.

"I'm sorry, your highness, but I've been on the receiving end of your brother's foot."

Shuri barked out a laugh, and Okoye made her presence known by snorting while a couple of the Dora Milaje stood by the entrance to Shuri's lab.

"At least he knows what he would be up against. Do not worry, Sergeant Barnes, I will stand watch. The Captain is about to make his departure."

Bucky nodded before expressing his gratitude, nodding gently to Shuri.

"Thank you. I'll be back shortly."

Bucky turned and left quickly, his steps quick and urgent as he arrived outside. However, the quinjet was already flying away, making Bucky purse his lips. T'Challa's voice greeted him, making the man look over at the King as he spoke.

"You just missed him."

"He's always running off on me somehow, so I'm not entirely surprised."

T'Challa chuckled slightly, before he glanced over at Bucky.

"How are you feeling about all of this?"

Bucky glanced over at T'Challa, regarding him with an exhausted look before he turned back front, watching Steve leave again.

"I'm worried, honestly. There's so many things that could go wrong. What if HYDRA is trying to find me and was using her to do it? HYDRA must know that the Avengers have been raiding the old facilities that aren't in use anymore, so why not leave her to be found and taken in?"

T'Challa hummed, clasping his hands together as he replied.

"Let them try. They will not make it very far."

Bucky pursed his lips slightly before he murmured.

"It's...strange, honestly...seeing this from an outside perspective. I knew that this was serious, but I wasn't aware of how bad it actually was. Standing on the other side of the glass...it's almost poignant."

T'Challa nodded, replying with a hum.

"When my father was killed and I was under the assumption that it was you in Vienna, a deep hatred rooted within me for HYDRA. While I understand now that it was Zemo's schemes...that hatred for HYDRA has never wavered. Even now when knowing the dangers that lie beyond those doors, I still hope for peace."

Bucky was quiet, listening intently to T'Challa's words as the king spoke, his brown eyes downcast as he continued.

"Nobody deserves to be subjected to such horrific torture."

Bucky wasn't sure on how to respond. Instead, the man just nodded and took a moment to breathe before he settled, glancing over at T'Challa.

"You're right, and if we have to start from scratch, then I'm willing to help how I can...both with rehabilitating her and eradicating HYDRA once and for all."

T'Challa nodded quietly before turning to walk back towards the lab, suggesting over his shoulder.

"You should get some rest...and maybe put that on ice."

At the mention of the wound on his temple, it began to pulse, and Bucky just sighed.

"I'll sleep it off...and thank you for listening."

T'Challa didn't respond, but a smile graced the king's lips as he disappeared through the doors. Bucky's shoulders sagged slightly, and he rubbed his temple gently, wincing when he pressed down to hard.

He had to admit: that woman could give a mean right-hook.

-

STORY NOTES: Bucky, T'Challa, Steve, and Shuri are all within her lab with the Winter Soldier. So far, the Winter Soldier has made no move. Shuri is using a machine that heals and reconstructs the soldier's knee, and Bucky is perturbed by the damage he had inflicted. He reflects on the hardship it took to regulate the strength of his grip in his metal arm; reminiscing about the difficulty of clutching a glass of water.

Shuri then tells the group that she would like to begin deconstructing the Winter Soldier's mind to get an understanding of her intentions, and suggests activating the Winter Soldier again should Shuri's efforts fail. Steve is apprehensive, and Shuri voices that if neither efforts are successful, then she will have to completely reboot the Winter Soldier.

Shuri elaborates that she is currently attempting to figure out the identity of the Winter Soldier, and makes a remark that she hopes Tony Stark is also doing the same. Steve comments that Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, is also combing through the databank Bucky had downloaded, as well as previously recovered databanks.

When a scientist attempts to inject a sedative into her, the Winter Soldier begins to resist; causing a scene and consequently breaking the needle of the sedative within her neck. Steve observed that the woman understood what the syringe meant, and T'Challa points out that it might be a sign that she is remembering.

Before Steve's departure, Bucky voices his fear that HYDRA is using her to get to him, and Steve reassures Bucky that he won't let HYDRA get their hands on him again. Steve exits with T'Challa, and Bucky and Shuri are left alone within the lab. Shuri begins to remove a bit of the woman's clothing, and more scars are revealed.

Bucky becomes upset by the sight of the scars, understanding what they meant, and Bucky begins to become apprehensive about saving the woman. Shuri reassures Bucky that what they are doing is right. Later, Shuri shows Bucky a digital rendition of the Winter Soldier's brain and explains what she is going to do in order to save the woman's core identity.

Shuri comments that Bucky should see Steve off, and though Bucky tries to get to Steve before he leaves, he is unsuccessful. Instead, he meets with T'Challa. They begin to converse with each other, Bucky revealing his concerns, and T'Challa reassures him that HYDRA would not make it far into Wakanda if they attempted to retrieve him. Bucky makes a final thought on the woman and reflects on her strength. End scene.

TAGLIST: @vicmc624 @tilldeathripsusapart

[frozenjokes]

it’s so over

convex week day 3 - embers/frost - prev/next

this one follows the prompt because he’s fire boy and he’s water girl trust @convexweek

Cub wasn’t used to being around this many people, much less talking to them, and so far from his sun he was cold, it was loud, and all of these things were making him quite irritable.

Apparently being on fire at all times was a ‘bad look’ and Cub should really try to ‘cool off’ lest people get the ‘wrong impression,’ but maybe Cub wanted to be on fire, maybe he was cold and angry and didn’t want to be touched not even on the shoulder, seriously would people mind their own fucking space, Cub didn’t care about the court of public opinion, he just wanted to be left alone.

His lawyer was alright at least, a star called Mumbo who took a similar form to Cub, which Cub assumed was common practice; it’s not like he attended many court hearings in his lifetime, being the sun was a full time job. Mumbo looked a lot like a human through the lens of someone who had never actually seen one, and only had it described to him from a friend whose cousin’s wife’s ex husband’s sister in law’s dog saw a human once, so, fairly accurate and appropriately unnevering. Long, lanky body, arms, legs, fingers, tiny eyes, squareish head. Despite looking like he might unhinge his jaw and swallow Cub whole at any given moment, Mumbo was well mannered and just a touch anxious, but he seemed to know what he was talking about at least, which would have been nice if some of the things Mumbo said didn’t make Cub want to leap over his desk, rip out his tongue and then gouge his own eyes out.

“Listen Cub, I think you have a pretty strong defense here. Besides being generally unpleasant, based on the more major accounts against you, I don’t really think you’ve done anything illegal per se, but the bigger problem here is that no one can stand you.”

“I don’t care.”

Mumbo knit his fingers, expression strained, “Well you should care, because Scar is going to build his case around well disguised personal attacks, and where he’s very charming, you are not. Scar is looking to win the public opinion and sway the judge and jury that way, which, given his long history of successful cases, you should be concerned. Scar is going to try to strip you of your position and possibly all future positions in desired systems, so if you don’t want your current fill-in to be the new Earth sun, you’d better pull it together.”

Cub frowned, deep. He really didn’t want that. She was so annoying, and so smug too, like come on, Cub wasn’t going to be gone for very long.

“I just don’t understand how Scar even has the grounds to sue me. My moons aren’t even moonionized, complaints ledged against me are few and far between, and I don’t go out of my way to be a dirtbag unless moons go out of their way to make themselves a problem to me.”

“These are all good points, but with moonion popularity on the rise and Scar being the moon that spearheaded that movement in the first place, I really wouldn’t come out and start talking about how anti-moonion you are.”

“I’m not anti-moonion, I don’t think suns should get to blow up their moons, that’s not cool, but I don’t think I should have to go out of my way to be nice either when I think I’ve made it extremely clear to the entire galaxy I don’t want anything to do with anybody because everyone sucks.”

“That’s certainly a stance.”

“It’s how I feel.”

“I wouldn’t bring that up in court either. Insulting the jury is a bad idea.”

“How do I get them to not dislike me then. I’m going to say right now that I will not put out any fires and I will not smile.”

Mumbo pursed his lips, fingers knitting tighter, “Well, I definitely don’t think you should smile in court, no, but it might help you not to look like you intend to kill everyone in the room and then yourself.”

“This is my resting face.”

“Your resting face sucks.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I would advise against telling the jury to go fuck themselves.”

Cub leaned back in his chair, exhaling a vent of hot air through his nose. He would try very hard not to tell the jury to go fuck themselves, but he could not express this thought out loud, so he chose silence.

“Right then,” Mumbo, apparently, was not one to let the silence lie, “Well I want to discuss a few other points with you, things I’m positive are going to be brought up in court, so please try to be receptive and honest with me, and remember that my job is to help you. First, for the more ambitious stars, Scar is going try appealing to them by making the argument that you hate your position in that extremely desirable system of yours, and the only reason you’ve commandeered it for so long is out of spite; you don’t want it, but you don’t want anyone else to have it either. I know it’s rumor, and I will make this argument in court, but that doesn’t necessarily-“

“No, that’s true.”

Mumbo gawked, at a momentary loss for words. “Seriously.”

“Well, mostly. I do like that system, I want to keep it. I like the Earth. But I will never give it up, never, because all those stars with their grubby little hands want it so bad, and they can’t have it because it’s mine. ‘You’re so sad looking for a sun, you should try smiling, you don’t act very much like a sun, you should really smile more, why don’t you blink, Cub?’ They will never see the Earth like I do. A moon would have an easier time witnessing my system’s life, and that’s perfectly fine, I like moons, it’s the stars that are having their penance paid. If you had a star on your back every day of your formative years telling you you’d look more sUnNy wiTh a sMiLe you’d be a soulless hermit too.”

When Cub looked up, Mumbo’s head was in his hands. “Don’t say any of this in court. Actually, do not speak at all in court, just let me handle it. If you must speak, deny deny deny. Lie. Anything but your true feelings please.”

“Are we done then?”

“Yes, we’re done.”

Cub got up from his chair, stretching. He felt a little calmer now; who knew it could be nice to talk about your feelings? Maybe it helped that Mumbo’s office had a similar fire to Cub’s sun back home, not nearly as hot as Cub preferred, but almost pleasant when compared to most other shared moon/sun/planetary environments. The familiar yellow orange of the walls and furniture made Cub feel at home, safe and relatively blended in, though that was only coincidence. Mumbo had a whiter fire to him, and stood out quite a bit against the backdrop. Cub couldn’t imagine wanting to be seen.

Just as Cub was about to leave though, the door to Mumbo’s office burst open and in walked a very jolly looking moon with half a face, his silver cold brilliant against the bright fire, but in a world of constant light, Cub couldn’t stop gaping at the inky dark that soothed his strained eyes.

“Mumbo Jumbo! Wow, you look terrible today! Tough case?” Scar grinned, leaning nearly all of himself over Mumbo’s desk, dark eyes utterly jubilant. Cub was so starstruck, he hardly grasped the implications before Mumbo spoke.

“Scar, I’m seeing a client right now, I told you to knock before you-“

“What client? I heard no talking, no one’s in the waiting room, and no one’s here. Y’know, Mumbo, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you just didn’t want to see me.” With a frown to match Cub’s own, Mumbo moved his files out of the way before Scar swooned directly on top of his desk, turning over with unnatural grace to lay on his stomach and kick his legs. “So.” Scar said, all movement stopping to accentuate the word before he started back up again with his legs, “How’s it going.”

“Bad. You literally have no case and it’s going bad. But Cub’s right there, he can tell you himself.”

Scar turned around and screamed, exactly the way he had when they’d first met, rolling off the back of the desk and directly into Mumbo’s lap. Emotionlessly, Mumbo scooped Scar up and set him on his feet. Cub still couldn’t stop staring.

“I think it’s against my best interest to speak to you,” he mumbled, silently pleased when Mumbo gave him a thumbs up. “Not unhappy to see you though.” Cub didn’t know where that last bit came from, but he wasn’t embarrassed either. He was speaking his truth, as he’d always done.

“That.. so..” Scar eyed Cub suspiciously, stalking around the corner of the room like a bobcat across from a cobra. “I hope you’d forgive me if I said I didn’t believe you.”

“That’s fine. We were done anyway, I just like a place that feels like home. Do.. whatever it is you were doing.. intimidation tactics or..”

“No, no, I really didn’t mean to intrude. I will knock next time, Mumbo, especially when your clients are.. so difficult to see.”

“You still won’t,” Mumbo sighed, as if resigned to the fate. “Cub, when Scar follows you out, keep your mouth shut. Not a word.”

Scar scoffed, mock offense, “I’m not going to follow him out, Mumbo, geez!”

“Well, the last reason I had to stay was the temperature, but you’ve gone and taken it down, so I’ll be going now,” Cub shrugged, giving Mumbo a small nod, “Bye.”

“Goodbye, Cub,” Mumbo sighed, and Cub was not at all bothered by the strain in his voice. Very good, very good, he was not here to make friends.

But just as Cub was leaving this star to travel to the one he was staying at nearby, Scar cut past, stopping him over the vast expanse of nothingness all around them. Scar looked brilliant on this backdrop, the light reflecting off him less intense, and the dark holes in his form as beautiful as they were unnerving. Cub very rarely looked at people’s faces when he spoke, but with Scar, he couldn’t stop staring. Maybe that’s why he missed the first thing Scar said.

“Hello? Hello hello? Earth to Cub, anyone home?”

“I’m here. Was leaving, though.”

“Humor me for a moment before you go then, will you?”

“I don’t think I mind, but my lawyer might.” Scar must have found this funny, but to Cub his laugh sounded fake. Though, so did his scream, and regardless of how exaggerated it sounded in Mumbo’s office, Scar had absolutely been frightened.

“Well then, Cub, I just came down to tell you that you do something many suns do that I fucking despise,” Scar continued on sweetly, never wavering, “Would you like to know what that is?”

“I don’t really care, honestly.”

“Well I’m going to tell you.” Scar clapped his hands together and Cub flinched at the noise, which seemed to please him. Bits of frost floated like dust off Scar’s fingers, and Cub got the sense that Scar’s anger was real. “I can not stand it when I meet a sun in their domain and I’m treated like the scum of the galaxy; useless, unimportant, insignificant, but after I reveal myself, after I drag them to court, suddenly everything’s so civil, almost nice, like I’ve earned your faux respect by evening the playing field, by meeting you face to face as a fellow, and not someone to stomp beneath your heel. I’ve forced you to care by bringing you here, yes, but when you’re bordering on friendly after showing me how you really feel, that makes my blood boil. So let’s cut the shit, alright?”

Cub stared, not that he wasn’t staring before, but this time it was a more confused kind of stare, one he made when someone had said something that didn’t make any sense. “Do you think I’m treating you differently?”

Cub squinted against the wave of icy fury that surged off Scar, his crooked smile forced and eye twitching. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“A little bit. I think this whole endeavor is a pointless waste of my time, but the only difference between then and now is that then you were an obnoxious pest looking for a fight, and now you’re still a pest, but there’s nowhere I can avoid the company of others, so I’m not too fussed. Comparatively, on the scale of bullshit I’ve come across after being forced to leave my sun, my encounters with you rank relatively low. You are cold, which I hate, but you’re also easy on the eyes, which is a huge relief everywhere.”

“I- I’m what?” The fierce chill that radiated from Scar’s form faltered, and Cub didn’t know what was wrong with him, but this was much better.

“Cold. Not as bad now, but it’s honestly cold everywhere here, so I’m eager to get going. Only thing keeping me speaking to you right now is that the star’s going to be so damn bright everywhere, and it’s rare to get reprieve like this. You forget what it’s like to rest your eyes, and then you remember, and you never want to leave.”

“I- Oh! Oh, right, I..” Scar bit his lip, glancing back and forth as if looking for an escape, “That.. That makes more sense. That makes a lot of sense actually, I did think you were looking at me weird, but not because- you know, it’s not very nice to stare.”

“I don’t particularly care, if I’m being honest.”

“You might give someone the wrong impression with a look like that.”

“Let them think what they think.”

Scar stopped for a moment, looking at the ground. He seemed to feel a little more awkward looking at Cub now, but that didn’t stop Cub from staring at him, gosh, his own eyes had never felt so free of strain.

“You know, Cub, I take back what I said here. I think you’re callous, but I don’t think you’re pretending. The circumstances then and now are different enough that if I really try to worm my way into this horrible little brain of yours, I almost see where you’re coming from.”

“Please get out of my brain.”

Scar laughed that fake laugh of his, but for some reason this one rang true, and Cub might have smiled, maybe, something unnatural definitely happened on his face, but he was too caught up in Scar’s infinite dark to be disturbed by it.

[poetry-protest-pornography]

So, my kids enjoy torturing me, so they put on High School Musical 2 -- I will be putting on headphones and writing -- but first I had to watch the I Don't Dance scene, aka the best song about dismantling top/bottom stereotypes and gay sexual politics ever featured in a Disney movie.

[mrsducky]

.

so I guess I'm unemployed now because my coworker and bosses husband, also my dads best friend who we've known for decades, the same man who's youngest daughter is almost the same age as me, decided to be a despicable gross loser and leave me a love letter on Thanksgiving in which he called me his "soulmate" because we shared music together and I drove in his stupid car twice

[blluespirit]

I sort of like the thought that Zuko and Aang take the Sun Warriors' warning not to tell anyone about the dragons a little more seriously��� and they keep it between them. Of course, they trust Sokka, Toph and Katara. Of course they know they wouldn’t tell anyone, but now three people (including Iroh) know the truth about Ran and Shaw. And that’s three too many when you’re trying to keep a secret.

(and there are other people at the temple as well - like Haru, Teo and The Duke - who, while trustworthy, aren’t as close to them as the others, and when it comes to secrets with as much consequence as this one, you can’t afford to take any chances.)

Furthermore, the culture within the Fire Nation since Sozin’s rein has been warped. The culture is not to respect the dragons as the original firebenders, it’s to conquer and kill them. It’s the ultimate proof of your strength as a firebender. All it takes is one mistake before rumour spreads, and people go looking for the ultimate hunt. It’s not something Zuko or Aang can risk.

Whether Katara, Toph and Sokka (and Suki) ever find out the truth is up to you. But post-war, after Zuko returns from a strange, poorly explained trip with a dragon, and eventually develops the ability to use rainbow fire, either the others have some questions about Aang’s knowing look, or they are finally let in on a monumental secret.

[randomnameless]

"Like, Miss “I already sent my troops to conquer your lands even if you are not the one harbouring the evil lizard lady I’m trying to get rid off” would really stop her war of conquest if the evil lizard lady dies?" You could say Clout's reasoning smacks of naivete.

Clout? Reasoning?

lol

Imo, in GW, Clout is playing on levels after levels of PR (like an onion!), and this "let's kill Rhea so the war will stop" is imo a PR excuse to justify invading Faerghus and getting Rhea out of the board.

Now, why the hateboner for Rhea herself, your guess is as good as mine (at least Supreme Leader has her "negative views based on Rhea's race", but I don't know it that's any better...).

(ramblings about Claude/Clout under the cut)

Claude isn't stupid (uh...) and knows Fodlan created the locket and the Officers Academy to fight back invasions of Almyra, and yet he seems to really believe (in FE16 at least) that Rhea is the reason why Fodlan apparently doesn't like foreigners, before discovering water is wet.

Worst reading, but one I can get behind, is Claude doesn't understand and resents the fact that Rhea, who is not a head of state, is listened to and loved by the randoms in Fodlan, she can influence them (only when they want to be infuenced though!) and the CoS, as an institution, is part of Fodlan's history and DNA/backbone.

If Claude wants to shatter everything to bring a "new age" where Fodlan will welcome with open arms their very friendly Almyran neighbours, Rhea has to be "shattered" too.

Take VW's ending :

Country, faith, history... All that had once formed the order of the world was wiped clean. The heroes whose very hands saved Fódlan from a dark fate commenced with the building of a new society. The leaders of this new, unified Fódlan began their walk down a seemingly endless path—one towards a world that would cherish differences in race and belief, one where all life would be valued equally. Those leaders clung to the hope that their path would not end with Fódlan, that it would someday span the seas to Dagda, and beyond the Throat to Almyra...

You get rid of the old and existing society/structure, to build a new one, based on lofty ideals, sure, and yet, again, how can you cherish differences in beliefs in you wipe Fodlan's faith, aka the thing people believed in? What about their history and individualities/differences ? It's wiped clean too?

A bit like Tru Piss's mistranslated ending where people thought it will erase retroactively Faerghus from history books, are we supposed to understand , from this ending, that Claude will erase Adrestia, Faerghus and Leicester from memory?

And the ominous last paragraph, what does it mean, they hope to export their path of "wiping clean" the world of "country, faith, history" too?

If we take this reading, Rhea and the CoS are inherent parts of Fodlan's identity and History. If Claude wants a blank chessboard to play "melting pot" with and ultimately add it to his future pot including Almyra, Dagda and whoever else, Rhea and the CoS, but also, the different states from Fodlan, had to disappear. Supreme Leader helped him with the "get rid of 3 states" and arguably with Rhea's death, so in a way, Claude reaps what Supreme Leader started.

But not to MAGA, to create a new land encompassing everyone (whether they want it or not!) and being one of its heads.

This is, imo, the darkest take/reading on Claude's situation and plans, but bear in mind yellow units in FE Jugdral (the game tool inspiration from Jugdral per the devs!) are antagonists, add to that Nopes and even FE16's Claude who, albeit not on the level of Supreme Leader, keeps his plans to himself - and always mentions tearing down the "walls" that separate Fodlan from the outside world, without ever mentionning the fact those walls were built for some reason.

It's not important anyways, and if you think otherwise, it's because you were led to think otherwise, we should all be friends.

Sure, interacting with outsiders doesn't contradicts Seiros's tenets, but in the end, what is Claude saying?

If I can realize my dream, Fódlan will be reborn. The old age will end and we'll welcome a new dawn.

The current Fodlan, that is supposed to follow Seiros's tenets will... end? Seiros' tenets says something, but they still need to be ignored to build a new world that will promote the same thing those tenets preached.

Hm.

The issue, imo, isn't about what is being preached, but with the "Seiros tenets" in themselves.

[thats-a-lot-of-cortisol]

2 & 3 from section 1 for peri and 7 from whichever section has a more interesting #7 for diodore -moss

oooh these are fun ones!

2. Describe their tent set-up (outside and inside) (Peri)

I think Peri's tent is constructed similarly to Gale and Astarion's (boxy, fabric walls, little covered area outside). Deep blue fabric w/ golden astronomical embroidery, mostly the sort of thing you see on star maps. Little golden tassles around the edges of the tarp (?) and the doorframe. He'd have a small, circular, dark wood side table short enough that you can use it sitting on the ground, and a dark blue pillow next to it; there would be some parchment and a bronze miniature astrolabe on the table. The inside would be just. full to the brim with the gaudiest night-sky-themed pillows you've ever seen. No bedroll, no palette, just a nest that would put those cube pits in trampoline parks to shame. There would be two bird perches for his familiar Medani: one taller one next to his tent and one shorter one under the overhang. The shorter one would have a crow-sized bow-tie hanging from it. Rugs on rugs on the outside area ofc. 3. What would their character quest be titled? Why? (Peri)

This is a hard one! His tav ending involves taking over the Waterdeep arm of the Harpers, so I think his arc would have something to do with that. He'd be pretty bitter about being dropped into another near-apocalyptic mess when dealing with the last one a few years prior was supposed to be a one-time thing. Something-something ptsd in a world that doesn't have the words for that yet, something-something 'once a hero always a hero', something-something the weight of responsibility...he's a planeswalker so I think part of it would be whether he decides to stay on Toril long-term and directly help rebuild the Waterdeep Harpers or if he continues to run travel around afterwards, so maybe The Far Traveller/The Far Walker?

Harpson/Fae-son are also potential options. "Fae-son" nods to him being a changeling without it being super obvious (like Astarion's "The Pale Elf"). It would also mimic his backstory reveals from RoT ("oh he's not 'from here' so, like, the Feywild" -> "OH he's not from here"). 7. Describe their arc. How would a player help resolve it? What choices can be made? Can your Tav be turned down a dark path, or pulled to a lighter one? (Diodore)

Buckle up because we're in for a long one here. I've thought about Dora's story arc a lot because she's the first of my tavs that I truly made for the game while having full control over her backstory, etc. (versus Corentin, who had their arc baked into the story as a durge). Dora's a paladin of Corellon (oath of ancients) and her story arc as a companion would have to do with whether or not she should accept capital-r-Redemption, the process by which a drow can be truly "freed" from Lolth and rejoin the ranks of the rest of elven society. It involves all of the Redeemed drow's memories being erased and them being reincarnated as a surface elf. The implication seems to be that without that, regardless of a drow's actions, they'd be thrown back to Lolth when they die? Or at least that their eternal fate is unknown (which is the way I prefer to think of it for. personal reasons). Under normal circumstances, Dora would be a long way from Redemption being presented to her at all (she's not even 200 yet and has only been on the surface for a couple decades), but like with the other gods' Chosen among the companions, near-apocalyptic circumstances tend to speed up those sorts of things.

Of course, you'd have the themes of faith & relationship with deity when they're all unequivocally real and are also mostly all assholes; maintaining or breaking generational cycles; facing the unknown; morality when none of your choices are "good" (and how that interacts with morality vs self preservation); power vs freedom; identity outside of the people who made you; etc. The choice would first be presented to her sometime in late Act I/early Act II, likely the first long rest after the group resurfaces from the Underdark and you've probably gotten some of her backstory already. I have no idea how Larian would have characterized Corellon, but he's considered one of the more benevolent/open-minded deities iirc, which could be interesting to see contrasted with Mystra, Vlaa'kith, and Shar. How much that open-mindedness would extend to a drow, even one who has been a faithful follower even before she escaped to the Surface (and who inherited that faith from her father), is unclear. At the beginning of the game she would be leaning towards accepting Redemption, despite her own misgivings about whether or not she would still be her in that case.

Her final decision (at the ending pier scene) would depend on the relationship she has with the PC and the other companions. Her best ending, imo, would be her not accepting Redemption but continuing to be a force for good. If she has a good relationship with the PC, she would have something to lose. I think seeing the House of Mourning would affect her too. After all, the thing Corellon is offering to her as a way to find peace is the same thing the Sharrans are using as a way to manipulate and control others.

She's viscerally aware of how she was socialized and very actively chooses "good", so pushing her towards a darker path would be incredibly difficult but not impossible. If you side with the goblins she'll leave immediately, and turn on you if she's in your party when you attack the grove. But if you decide to try and control the cult in Act II, depending on your over-all actions before then and how you've interacted with her, you could disillusion her to the point of convincing her to break her oath. That path would entail convincing her that controlling the cult is actually the best idea. I'm sure there would be other times that her oath could break that wouldn't necessarily lock her into an "evil" path, especially with how Oathbreakers are handled in the game. Knocking out Minthara instead of killing her outright and letting Auntie Ethel go in Act I instead of killing her are two things that come to mind.

If she doesn't choose Redemption she would be at the epilogue party, of course. I'm a bit undecided on what would happen if she does choose Redemption. She may not be there at all, w/ Jaheira, Halsin, Minthara, and/or Astarion mentioning running into her in her new, reincarnated state. Or she would be there, confused, and mention how the PC seems familiar in a way she can't quite place. In that case, she would ask them how they know each other and mention something about feeling a twinge of grief looking at everyone, but that she doesn't know why she feels that way. It would be up to the PC how much they tell her (if they tell her anything at all).

[ziracona]

Iirc Griffin did something similar in Amnesty, when Aubrey succeeded on a roll that should've saved another character's life, but it didn't work and I don't think they ever explained why

Yeah!! And in Amnesty, Ned used a point of LUCK. To get a 12. That in MOTW is a guaranteed success. You do not take harm in Protect Someone if you use luck. Also, a fucking shotgun does not DO 7 points of harm anyway. It’s 3. And he fucking KILLED him. Never forgiving Griffin for that one >.>

[jewishvitya]

A pro-Palestine Jew on tiktok asked those of us who were raised pro-Israel, what got us to change our minds on Palestine. I made a video to answer (with my voice, not my face), and a few people watched it and found some value in it. I'm putting this here too. I communicate through text better than voice.

So I feel repetitive for saying this at this point, but I grew up in the West Bank settlements. I wrote this post to give an example of the extent to which Palestinians are dehumanized there.

Where I live now, I meet Palestinians in day to day life. Israeli Arab citizens living their lives. In the West Bank, it was nothing like that. Over there, I only saw them through the electric fence, and the hostility between us and Palestinians was tangible.

When you're a child being brought into the situation, you don't experience the context, you don't experience the history, you don't know why they're hostile to you. You just feel "these people hate me, they don't want me to exist." And that bubble was my reality. So when I was taught in school that everything we did was in self defense, that our military is special and uniquely ethical because it's the only defensive military in the world - that made sense to me. It slotted neatly into the reality I knew.

One of the first things to burst the bubble for me was when I spoke to an old Israeli man and he was talking about his trauma from battle. I don't remember what he said, but it hit me wrong. It conflicted with the history as I understood it. So I was a bit desperate to make it make sense again, and I said, "But everything we did was in self defense, right?"

He kinda looked at me, couldn't understand at all why I was upset, and he went, "We destroyed whole villages. Of course we did. It was war, that's what you do."

And that casual "of course" stuck with me. I had to look into it more.

I couldn't look at more accurate history, and not at accounts by Palestinians, I was too primed against these sources to trust them. The community I grew up in had an anti-intellectual element to it where scholars weren't trusted about things like this.

So what really solidified this for me, was seeing Palestinian culture.

Because part of the story that Israel tells us to justify everything, is that Palestinians are not a distinct group of people, they're just Arabs. They belong to the nations around us. They insist on being here because they want to deny us a homeland. The Palestinian identity exists to hurt us. This, because the idea of displacing them and taking over their lands doesn't sound like stealing, if this was never theirs and they're only pretending because they want to deprive us.

But then foods, dances, clothing, embroidery, the Palestinian dialect. These things are history. They don't pop into existence just because you hate Jews and they're trying to move here. How gorgeous is the Palestinian thobe? How stunning is tatreez in general? And when I saw specific patterns belonging to different regions of Palestine?

All of these painted for me a rich shared life of a group of people, and countered the narrative that the Palestininian identity was fabricated to hurt us. It taught me that, whatever we call them, whatever they call themselves, they have a history in this land, they have a right to it, they have a connection to it that we can't override with our own.

I started having conversations with leftist friends. Confronting the fact that the borders of the occupied territories are arbitrary and every Israeli city was taken from them. In one of those conversations, I was encouraged to rethink how I imagine peace.

This also goes back to schooling. Because they drilled into us, we're the ones who want peace, they're the ones who keep fighting, they're just so dedicated to death and killing and they won't leave us alone.

In high school, we had a stadium event with a speaker who was telling us about a person who defected from Hamas, converted to Christianity and became a Shin Bet agent. Pretty sure you can read this in the book "Son of Hamas." A lot of my friends read the book, I didn't read it, I only know what I was told in that lecture. I guess they couldn't risk us missing out on the indoctrination if we chose not to read it.

One of the things they told us was how he thought, we've been fighting with them for so long, Israelis must have a culture around the glorification of violence. And he looked for that in music. He looked for songs about war. And for a while he just couldn't find any, but when he did, he translated it more fully, and he found out the song was about an end to wars. And this, according to the story as I was told it, was one of the things that convinced him. If you know know the current trending Israeli "war anthem," you know this flimsy reasoning doesn't work.

Back then, my friend encouraged me to think more critically about how we as Israelis envision peace, as the absence of resistance. And how self-centered it is. They can be suffering under our occupation, but as long as it doesn't reach us, that's called peace. So of course we want it and they don't.

Unless we're willing to work to change the situation entirely, our calls for peace are just "please stop fighting back against the harm we cause you."

In this video, Shlomo Yitzchak shares how he changed his mind. His story is much more interesting than mine, and he's much more eloquent telling it. He mentions how he was taught to fear Palestinians. An automatic thought, "If I go with you, you'll kill me." I was taught this too. I was taught that, if I'm in a taxi, I should be looking at the driver's name. And if that name is Arab, I should watch the road and the route he's taking, to be prepared in case he wants to take me somewhere to kill me. Just a random person trying to work. For years it stayed a habit, I'd automatically look at the driver's name. Even after knowing that I want to align myself with liberation, justice, and equality. It was a process of unlearning.

On October, not long after the current escalation of violence, I had to take a taxi again. A Jewish driver stopped and told me he'll take me, "so an Arab doesn't get you." Israeli Jews are so comfortable saying things like this to each other. My neighbors discussed a Palestinian employee, with one saying "We should tell him not to come anymore, that we want to hire a Jew." The second answered, "No, he'll say it's discrimination," like it would be so ridiculous of him. And the first just shrugged, "So we don't have to tell him why." They didn't go through with it, but they were so casual about this conversation.

In the Torah, we're told to treat those who are foreign to us well, because we know what it's like to be the foreigner. Fighting back against oppression is the natural human thing to do. We know it because we lived it. And as soon as I looked at things from this angle, it wasn't really a choice of what to support.

[robocops-a-christ-allegory]

I will read anything Jeff Lemire writes and I do think hes a good writer but I still standby hes kind of bad at endings and goes too hard on retcons

[pseudowho]

"Kento...can I...can I paint you?"

Kento glanced back over his shoulder, sleepy, to where you sat massaging knots out of his back. He didn't know why he'd bothered perusing his shelves beforehand; your hands had moulded and made him heavy, and he sunk, unbidden, his book forgotten and his eyelids made of lead, groaning in bliss.

Your eyes traced Kento's back...his arms...his hands. All ripped and reformed, broken and made stronger, the scars (both old and new), criss-crossing him, his life-story turned roadmap.

At some points, Kento's body seemed as though it would last centuries and end up in a museum somewhere, with futuristic admirers who did not know him as you did. At other points, he was just a porcelain man, full of cracks, to be handled with care lest he break.

Kento hummed; a cover-all rumble, unsure.

"...paint me?" He teased, a coy half-smile on the corner of his mouth. "Like one of your French girls?"

You laughed, kissing his shoulder blades, still stroking those seams of pink flesh with your fingertips. He shuddered, the hairs on the base of his undercut standing on end.

"Not quite...do you trust me?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

"Then just...close your eyes."

Kento huffed through his nose, leaning forwards on his elbows and clasped calloused hands. He heard you rattling around behind him, the tap running, the soft dompf of you resettling on the sofa. More rattling, and your quiet voice.

"Stay still..."

Kento jumped, shivering as the tip of a fine, wet brush licked at the skin on his shoulder blade. He hummed again, dubious.

"Oh...you meant paint me."

"Semantics."

"Bless you."

You laughed at his gentle idiocy. "Keep still."

In truth, as your brush traced idle patterns over his shoulder, his arm, and his hand, Kento didn't need to be told to keep his eyes closed even once. He meant it when he said he trusted you; and he meant it when your presence rocked him to sleep. Time lost meaning as he dozed, sat like The Thinker as you finally removed your brush from his hand.

"There. All done."

Kento opened his eyes...to art.

Patches of the back of his hand had been brushed matte with a soft jade green, fading out against peach flesh. Through the jade, where pink seams had once scored the skin, they now ran golden, liquid beauty joining the edges of his pain and history. And it was...lovely.

Kento swallowed thickly, laid bare beneath your eyes. He gently flexed his hand, seeing how the green and gold flexed with him, held together by your very own repairs. He tracked more and more patches up his forearm, his bicep, over his shoulder...

Kento was quiet, stoic, vulnerable. He whispered, as you took lamplit photos of your work. "I adore you."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Christmas had come and gone, and still, Kento did not allow you to touch him as he once did.

The air between you was as taut as the flesh of his left side. You washed the dishes, and he dried, kept company only by the hush of the taps and clink of the plates. Kento reached for a mug with his left hand, and, numb-fingered, dropped it with a spitting curse, to where it shattered beyond repair around your feet.

Barefoot, and pausing with an oh!, you lifted your foot as if to move, and Kento berated you, growling, snapping.

"Stay where you are."

"Kento, it's alright, I'll get it--"

"No. It's my mess. My fault. Sit down."

"Really, it's fine--" Your words cut off with a squeak, as one strong arm looped around your waist. Kento grunted as he lifted you out of the shards with ease, to his body, only to drop you to safety the moment your hands began to brush his bare chest.

"Sit down." Kento rumbled, dark and sullen, his one good eye glowering at you beside the patch. You prickled, rejected. You refused to sit. Watching Kento, as he finished vacuuming, your eyes drifted without thought between him, and your paint set in the chest beneath the kitchen cabinet.

On his way over to the sofa, Kento spotted you, and scoffed, hissing with pain as he dropped himself to sit. He sneered, nasty.

"Sorry, my love. Not enough gold in that box to repair me."

You gritted your teeth, your mouth twisted in disgust, tears in your eyes. You pushed your chair away in a tearful rage, and padded over to Kento, fast, determined.

The briefest flicker of alarm crossed his half-burned face as you straddled him, trapping him to the sofa with a hand on each cheek. You spat, forcing him to see you, gripping him down as he writhed to get away.

"Then I'll break into palaces. I'll rob museums. I'll be a thief in the night. Because they don't deserve it, not like you do."

Kento cursed at you, twisting like a rat in a trap, and you held on tighter, sick of being pushed away, and you forced the words out of you as tears spilled over to drop onto his chest.

"And if there's not enough gold there then I'll melt myself down, but you don't need gold because you're not broken--"

"--get off me-- let me go--"

"No." You cried, looping your arms around his neck, your core pressed to his. The air stilled, his rejection rejected.

You panted, your shoulders heaving, weeping into his neck. Kento and you sat this way in silence, the tap still running and forgotten, your sniffles muffled into his neck. You felt him soften, his hands coming to rest on your hips, stroking you.

Kento's voice was thick, agonised. "You...deserve someone whole."

"I don't want them. They're nothing to me. It's you, or no-one."

Kento's teeth bared, his face stinging as it crumpled, salty tears washing away the grief. He gripped onto you, the fracture not breaking under stress; the bond, golden.

And when you finally did paint him, how he shone.

[rememberwren]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Easy breezy beautiful premature ejaculation. Hypersexual!Simon/fem!reader. Discussion of edging. Cumming untouched.

-

“If we do this,” he says around his cigarette, “then we do it my way.”

“I’ve never done this before,” you admit cautiously, turning your hands palm up as if to show you have no weapons, no tricks up your sleeve. I’m innocuous, your posture says. His own says: I’m still deciding, with his tense shoulders and narrowed eyes. “This weird, femdom thing. So I appreciate your guidance. Because I know fuck all—“

“You’re no femdom—Jesus, fuck, I can’t talk about it anymore,” he grits out. He takes a step back and away, creating distance, exhaling a plume of smoke that makes him look strangely ethereal in the evening light. Against your will, your eyes flicker down to just below his belt buckle and oh god. He’s hard. 

“Just from talking about it?”

The look he gives you could melt ice. It could sublimate it. You cringe, knowing you were in the wrong, wishing you could reach out and snatch the words right out of the air. He’s trusting you with this. The last thing he needs is to feel like a joke. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I shouldn’t have—you’re not a, a science experiment or something—“

“Wouldn’t mind that so much. Might figure out what the fuck’s wrong with me. Less interested in being treated like I’m part of a circus troupe,” he grumbles. He drops the cigarette and grinds it to ash beneath his boot. He asks: “Inside?” 

-

Gingerly, so gingerly, he undoes the button of his jeans and unzips them. He holds his breath as he works the denim down his thick thighs. God, is he built: muscles made for more than just show. His history is inscribed on his body in its strength and in its scars, scars of white and pale pinks that darken to purple in the lamplight. He’s wearing boxer briefs, straining at the front from his erection, and they are soaked. You’re surprised that he hasn’t soaked straight through to his jeans. 

“Don’t look,” he grits out through his teeth. You look away, unsure where to cast your eyes to, and settle for shutting them. He explains: “Can’t take the way you’re looking at me.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, feeling your face flush hot. 

“Just—let me—” you hear the sound of fabric rustling. He kicks off his jeans—you can tell by the soft sound of them landing against the floor off the side of the bed. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck.” 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, eyes squeezed shut, hands clenching in your lap. 

“Nothing just—fuck. No way I’m going to last.” He sounds bitterly disappointed. 

“That’s the point of this, right? To get better at lasting?” 

He sighs, a long-suffering sound, like this discussion is well worn and frustrating to him. Something in you shrivels, and it takes your body with it as best as it can, sending your shoulders hunching inwards, your head ducking down. You pick at one of your nails by feel alone, eyes still closed, and nearly jump when his fingers brush your knee. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “You’re right. That’s what this is for. Might as well get used to embarrassing myself.” 

“That’s the spirit." 

He snorts. More fabric rustles, and at length he says: “Alright. You can look. Just…you can look.” 

You open your eyes hesitantly. His cock is right there—and Jesus. It makes sense, proportionally, but it is frightening in a very real sense. You’re already doing the math, measuring in your head and comparing to your past precedents. Ghost would have them all beat, quite comfortably, in length and girth. He’s cut, which surprises you, but isn’t a turnoff. He keeps himself landscaped nicely, which you appreciate, even if it isn’t necessary. 

He is flushed a ruddy pink, the head darker than the rest. As you stare, it jerks, a bead of precum welling at the tip. Suddenly one of his large, scarred hands reaches down and grips the base of his cock in a painful hold, hissing in a breath through his teeth. 

“Can’t look at me like that,” he admonishes again. 

“Like what?” you ask, a little defensive. You’re just looking! You have to look, right? 

“Like you want it,” he mutters. 

God, does he really have no idea? No inkling of how badly you want to sit on that monster in his hands? No notion of how wet you’ve been since your conversation in the parking lot? Sure you aren't like him, not about to spring off if the breeze was just right, but you are anything but unaffected. Still, it seems like the wrong moment to educate him on your attraction to him and his cock, so you do your best to morph your expression into one of unimpressed ambivalence and hoped it helps. 

“I’m ready when you are,” you say, interrupting his deep breathing exercises. He nods but doesn’t give you the go-ahead, not for another minute or two, until his chest stops heaving and he can remove his hand from the vice grip he has around his balls. His cock has a near purple tinge, and you wonder if maybe he should have rubbed one out in the bathroom beforehand just to take the edge off. Oh well, it’s a thought for next time. 

“Go ahead,” he says, like he’s giving you permission to pull the trigger on him during a game of Russian Roulette. 

You reach out—his cock twitches, a nice warm welcome if you’ve ever seen one, but you hesitate. Your hand is dry. Should you ask for lube? How does he usually jerk off? Dry? You have a feeling he doesn’t mind the discomfort; he seems like he has a self-destructive streak a mile wide. His eyes are fixed at a point on the ceiling, his chest unmoving as he holds his breath. You decide that some sort of lubrication is better than none—so you lick a broad stripe up your palm. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, a little punched-out sound. Sometime between opening your mouth and licking your palm, his eyes had transferred from the ceiling to your face, to the flash of your tongue and your wet palm. His eyes widen, irises swallowed up by the pupils, and he says again, more urgently: “Oh fuck.” 

He reaches down to grip the base of his cock again, but it is too late: he cums. His abs are thrown into sharp relief as he tenses with each pulse, cock jerking against his brutal grip. He doesn’t even jerk himself off—just ruins it as you stare with your mouth open and your hand wet, watching him splatter seed against the coarse line of hair that runs from his belly button to his cock all because he watched you lick your hand. 

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, throwing one arm across his eyes, breathing heavily. His mouth is flushed a pretty red, like he has been kissing. His hand clenches into a fist as he says: “I’m sorry. I tried not to.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, your nearly brain blue-screening from how turned on you are. You lower your hand and wipe it dry on your leggings. “That’s what this practice is for—so you don’t do it when it really counts. We can try again tomorrow or something.” 

He snorts. “Tomorrow? Give me five fucking minutes.” 

[frogmascquerade]

.