#and instead only teaches him how to mitigate it

[gutsby]

Trigger Tease

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your honeymoon from hell takes you straight to a strip club south of Madripoor, where Bucky teaches you how to give a lap dance, shoot a gun, and kill a man all in one night—and maybe agree to have his baby, too.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Oral (m! & f!receiving). Sex in a sauna. Sex in a strip club. Praise & degradation. Breeding kink. Daddy kink. Double homicide. Dickriding. Beefy, mob boss Bucky hates birth control and bad men—loves babies and killing HYDRA operatives for his wife.

Descriptions of violence throughout

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, but that was no matter. What counted now was making the shot, and getting it right.

You sincerely hoped you wouldn’t fuck this up.

It was no secret that the Barnes’ bloodline was steeped in dealing, stealing, gunslinging, and laundering cash. Staggering privilege, too. From the sandy shores of Curaçao to Luxembourg and Guinea-Bissau, any living heir to the dynasty could have expected to find safe refuge and respect just about anywhere that they went. It was all but engrained in their DNA at this point.

All that is to say, Bucky had no trouble finding a foreign hideaway in a pinch. He liked the Swiss Alps the best.

After your short and sweet conversation with ‘Joey’ over the phone—HYDRA hijacking the intercom system—he and Sam and Steve had made the split-second decision to reroute the plane to Zürich, and now you were here.

72 hours into a four-day ticking time bomb and totally clueless as to how you might stave off impending death, and mitigate other casualties, the best that you could.

The stress fucking with Bucky made it worth it, though.

In between breakfast and the start of your husband’s early briefing that day, you’d found yourself situated in much the same way you’d been spending a lot of time lately: pinned against the wall of a wood-paneled sauna, Bucky’s broad shoulders supporting both of your legs as he buried his face deep between your thighs. You sighed.

“Hold still,” Bucky grunted, voice muffled as he tried to keep your slick, squirming body in place above him.

You yelped and seized a fistful of his hair when he wedged his tongue even further inside you, nudging your clit with his nose almost too teasingly and deliberate.

“I can’t…help it,” you bit back, ignoring the brief glare you earned from your husband as soon as you said it, “Your tongue’s just so— s— James!”

This time, Bucky let out a full-throated groan when you yanked on those poor wet locks of his—‘Gonna make me bald by next Christmas if you keep doin’ that, honey’—and he pried his head from your legs just long enough to knock you flat on the sauna bench close by.

The western red cedar seared hot on your skin, already flushed from the exhaustion wrought by Bucky’s tongue; you hardly had the strength to hold yourself up when he pushed you onto your back and crawled over your body.

“How ‘bout my fingers, doll? Can you take a couple’a those for me?” Bucky crooned above you as he stroked your hair, bathed in pure sunlight pouring in from the windows. His voice was a touch more sympathetic now.

After all, this was your third orgasm of the morning. It really wasn’t fair for him to use that biological weapon of mass destruction he liked to call his tongue when he knew how sensitive your clit would get from just one ‘O’. Even his hands might be too much in your current state.

Bucky was busy peppering your skin with kisses, working his way from the base of your neck to the crown of your head, when you whimpered and tried to fight a smile.

“Finger,” you corrected him, “Just one finger, Barnes.”

You would’ve thought you’d just thrown your wedding ring in his face and told him to eat shit. Just one?

“How’s one finger s’posed to stretch you out for my cock, huh? Practically had you screamin’ when I stuck it in last night,” Bucky wasn’t one to hide his amusement, grinning even bigger when you swatted him on the arm.

“Who said anything about your cock?” You tried to keep cool as Bucky’s fingers trailed right back down to the place you felt yourself throbbing, aching for his touch, “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Meeting doesn’t start until I say so, my love,” Bucky reminded you just as his index ghosted over your folds.

In truth, he was willing to play this game any way, and for however long, you wanted it done, so long as he was the one bringing you pleasure all the while. Be that his cock, his finger, or all fucking five on one hand, Bucky just wanted to get you off. It was far better sustenance to him than the whole fucking meal he’d eaten that morning.

Bucky kept it down to one digit and lightly circled your bundle of nerves when he sensed you were ready.

You gripped his forearm and shot a quick look between your legs, still in disbelief as to how he could make you feel this good so soon after you’d cum twice before. You felt his lips drift over to yours and steal a few kisses.

“Always doin’ so good for me,” Bucky praised, moving his finger in circles. When you whined against his mouth, he pressed it even harder, “Such a good girl for daddy.”

“James,” you breathed, clenching your legs together.

“Everything OK?”

“Uh-huh.”

More than OK, in fact. That delectable coil of sweet, euphoric release was already swelling gently in your tummy. Bucky moved his finger even faster.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmured low in your ear.

Bucky loved seeing you try to articulate your feelings—relatively fresh and new to your world, still—while he was giving you pleasure. Adored the way you winced and whined and arched your back into his touch as a whole blustering hailstorm of sensations crashed over you.

He sank his tongue in your mouth as he kissed you, as if trying to extract the words from between your lips. Your response, in consequence, came somewhat stifled.

“Mm— feels so, oh—” Your voice broke off in a moan when Bucky tightened his circles, “—so good, daddy.”

“Wanna show daddy how good and cum for me?”

Bucky knew by the way you were whimpering under his hand that the tendril in your stomach had almost tripled in size. It wouldn’t take much to tip you over the edge.

“My sweet girl,” he said, rubbing your cunt at the same time he was stroking the back of your head, gently, “Feels so nice down there, doesn’t it?”

You rolled your hips against the bench and nodded. Your breaths were short and ragged, panting helplessly into Bucky’s mouth when he adjusted his hand just a little: pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit, with his index moving down to your entrance. Pushing inside you.

“Another,” you choked, not thinking.

Bucky met your desperate gaze and nodded, knowing this was exactly what you needed to make it over the precipice.

Still, he wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t tease just a bit.

“I thought my wife wanted one finger,” he hummed, brow pinching inward.

“No, no.” You could’ve shrieked when he curled the digit, “Want more— Bucky, please, please, I need more.”

Again, your husband appeared to nod in understanding, but his fingers didn’t budge. He worked his thumb a little faster and watched you writhe on the seat beneath him.

“How many, honey? Don’t wanna hurt my baby.” His words were all kindness, it seemed, but his tone laced with shameless condescension—the kind that said, yes, I know you need this, and no, I won’t indulge you just yet. Bucky was the worst when he wanted to prove a point. You could’ve ripped at his clothes and torn them in two if you weren’t both stark naked and shrouded in steam.

You opted to pull at his hair instead.

Bucky winced, but the smirk never left.

“I said how many?” he pressed again.

“Three. Four.” Fuck if you knew.

Your husband raised both eyebrows and hummed, a single finger still plunging in and out of your cunt at a rapid-fire pace. He teased the tip of another at your entrance and smiled even more when you whined.

“Needy little thing, isn’t she?”

“Bucky—”

“Just wants to fuck daddy’s hand to get herself off, hm?”

Bucky didn’t bother to mask his sweet, degrading tone any longer as he talked down and teased you to no end. It drove him half-insane to see you squirm around, rut your hips, let him say the filthiest fucking words he could conjure up, and just bob your head to whatever he said. His impeccant wife and her insatiable needs��Bucky couldn’t even begin to express how turned on the sheer dichotomy got him. He stared in your eyes, all glossy and soft, and felt his cock stand even more rigid on his belly.

He didn’t give a shit if he’d taunted you enough or not; he just shoved his middle and ring fingers alongside the first and clenched his jaw to start fucking you hard with all three.

Your whole face contorted with pleasure, tinged with the faintest shade of discomfort at the tail end of it. You’d forgotten how big his fingers felt all together.

“Bucky,” you whined, mindlessly clawing at the wrist that was moving back and forth, fast, between your legs, “B-Baby, slow— slow down a little.”

But Bucky was deep in the zone. He knew you wanted it too—sensed that you liked to play it safe when it came to your pleasure and grew a little timid at times it got to feel too much—and he needed to talk you through it.

Rather than turn his head and keep to himself as he got you up to your peak, Bucky pressed his face down to yours and nodded again—this time with a tender sincerity.

“Feel a little stretch down there, huh?”

You didn’t have to say anything, just whimpering in time. Bucky kissed your forehead and let you fold into him as his fingers wreaked havoc down below. He kissed you again, and again, and in between kisses, mumbled,

“That’s daddy’s sweet, needy little slut.”

“My perfect fucking wife, so good at taking my fingers.”

“Gonna be nice and stretched out for my cock, hm?”

Every syllable spoken aloud was like a brand new catalyst for your impending release. You barely nodded your head, opened your mouth and whined pathetically, but that’s exactly how Bucky wanted you. Exactly how you needed to be, bucking your hips in time with the cadence of his fingers fucking inside you, and soon, those whimpers were turning to moans as that soft little helix inside you reached its breaking point.

Bucky brushed once or twice more against your sensitive spot, and suddenly you were coming undone all over him—crying his name, clawing his skin, squeezing your legs so tight around his wrist you feared you might snap it in two, and then getting kissed again, over and over. Bucky soaked in your every sound, and the few tears that would inevitably spring to your eyes, like sweet nectar.

You were still moaning, curling your tongue feebly against his own and leaning into him as far as you could, when your husband slipped three fingers up between your mouth and his and pushed them past your parted lips.

“Suck,” Bucky said, clenching his jaw as he watched you, “C’mere, honey, taste your cunt on my fingers.”

You took him in and sucked your arousal off his fingers just like he asked. Took him by surprise and dragged a mindless, lazy, half-crazed and careless tongue all over his hand, where your juices had no doubt collected too.

That slutty, fucked-out look you gave him—like your brain had all but fallen out of your head with the orgasm he’d given you—was everything Bucky could’ve wanted.

He climbed on top of you and took the base of his cock, rock-hard and weeping tears of precum from the tip, almost drunk from the feeling himself. His mouth hung open as he dragged himself over the seam of your cunt.

“I need to fuck you now.”

Bucky’s words couldn’t have hung in the fog-infested air for more than a millisecond or two before he had you back in his arms and carried to the far end of the sauna.

At the door—or, rather, on it—with your back flush against the wood, you felt Bucky pin you in place with his hips and press his erection to that soft, cramped space between your bodies. You tightened your legs around his middle and sucked in a breath when you felt him pulse.

Then the head of his cock was circling that slick, taut ring of muscles like all hope for his future happiness lay there: right between your legs in the softest and sweetest recesses of your body he could reach. His eyes could’ve been engulfed in flames and still not betrayed a fraction of the smouldering desire that lay behind them now—he drank you in with a single look and sighed.

“Can I— do it, now?” The term ‘fucking’ swiftly lost all lustre when he was an inch from your heat and ready to press in; he just needed to be in you, a part of you, now.

“Yeah,” you breathed. You pressed your forehead to his.

Bucky ran his tip once more down your slit and had just begun to ease his hips forward when a moan snagged in his throat. He braced you firmer against the door, letting your arms drape over his shoulders, and was just about to slide his length inside of you, then—

Thump, thump, thump.

Three knocks in quick succession.

You jumped, the sudden raps reverberating up the door.

Bucky held you to him, tight, and planted a hand beside your head as if to hold the whole frame still. Then, through gritted teeth,

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Need you downstairs. Now.”

It was Sam.

“Can it wait?”

“No.”

Bucky frowned. Scratched the wood surface reflexively.

“Can it…wait?” he tried again, tone laden with a silent but pointed, ‘Is it urgent enough to drag me away from my wife when I’m less than an inch away from being seven inside her?’ Evidently, Sam got the gist, or was just keen to get him out, because he returned, quick:

“Yeah. Legal’s here.”

‘Shit’ was Bucky’s wordless expression below you.

Then a ‘Shit, shit, shit, just shoot me now’ kind of look that raised an eyebrow on your own frazzled face.

Wasn’t the arrival of Bucky’s legal team a good thing? He’d been agonizing for days, badgering Sam and Steve to no end over when they’d hear back from his retinue, and here they were. You couldn’t ask just yet, as your husband was lowering you to the floor and stepping back from the door, chest racked with a shuddering breath, but you wanted to know. You reached for a towel.

“Fine. Fuck. I’ll be right out.” As it was, Bucky had chosen to forgo the dry-off altogether and just started chucking clothes on his body, eyes roaming all over.

You turned from the sound of Sam’s retreating steps and found him moving fast, graceless—shoulders hunched, head bowed, pants wrestled almost angrily up his legs. He found his balance, barely, bracing his weight against the sink, then nearly tore the porcelain fixture off the wall with how hard he kicked it trying to get his left shoe on.

He muscled into his dress shirt and flushed bright red.

In a second, you had either side of the crisp white button-up between your hands, frowning.

“Any reason why we’re so upset?” you asked after a beat.

Bucky puffed a short breath over your head as you secured the first button. Then the next. Then the next.

“What? Apart from the fact I’m not balls deep and about to give you your fourth orgasm?” he grumbled.

You shot him a look.

“I mean it’s— not ideal, getting a visit at a time like this,” Bucky continued once he’d sufficiently contained half a smirk and could don a more serious look, “If we were getting any good news they would’ve just called.”

Hell, great news could’ve made it in an email. The whole aggregate of his legal team taking the trip from Brooklyn to Zürich meant that shit had most likely hit the fan in a big way. Bucky wasn’t thrilled to learn the ‘how’ just yet.

Instead, he cupped your cheek in one hand and brushed his thumb along its curve once you’d made it to the last button of his shirt. He started to lean in, hoping to delay the briefing downstairs with a quick diversion to your lips, but he stopped about an inch away from your face.

You’d lowered your touch, slipping it under the band of his boxers. He was still as hard as you’d felt him last.

Bucky let out a grunt when your fingertips grazed the soft tufts of hair adorning that part of his abdomen. He sucked in a breath when they sank even further.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” you said, voice dulcet and slow as you wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft.

Again, a sound rumbled deep inside Bucky’s chest, and the thumb resting on your cheek stirred. In fact, it had no other choice—your head was starting to move.

Descending, slowly. Sinking to the floor in front of him. Positioning yourself right above the bulge in his pants.

Now Bucky’s palm was laying flat on your head, resting light as it ever had while you drew him even closer.

“Baby—”

“Yeah?” you hummed, just then tugging him out and bringing your mouth to the swollen, leaking head. Bucky gripped a good handful of your hair and rutted his hips without meaning to, and you smiled, “Can’t have my husband showing up hard as a rock to his meeting.”

You were right. There was no way Bucky was getting rid of this wood without the help of his hand or one of your holes. And, under any set of circumstances, he would’ve much preferred the latter to the former. He groaned when you took his tip to your lips and stroked him softly.

You made remarkably quick work of the man with just a minute or two, your mouth, your hand, and a tiny bit of spit—a record-breaking feat, Bucky had thought to himself with some embarrassment. But you weren’t concerned with his stamina in the slightest, focusing instead on the ways in which you might maximize his pleasure in the same way he’d done for you. Stretching your lips, loosening your jaw, and taking him down as far and as frequently as you could manage without gagging around him, you had him good. Deep. All but aching for release as he took a firm hold of the sink behind him.

“That’s a—fuck, that’s a good…fuckin’ girl.”

You bobbed your head once or twice more, flitting your gaze to his face, and felt the warmth unload in ropes—glazing your throat and every soft, square inch of your mouth as he did. Practically flooding your tongue with his cum. Bucky groaned and made a fist in your hair.

“Baby…shit,” came the sound of disbelief under his breath when you pulled off just enough to breathe.

You were careful how you took in air; flaring your nostrils the slightest bit, feeling a twitch at the corners of your lips as you tried not to smirk. Then, with an obscene sort of precision and purpose, you gave something else a try.

You stuck your tongue out at Bucky to show him the warm, oozing load he’d just left in your mouth.

Your husband’s response was immediate: evidently, he loved nothing more than a show of himself inside you, displayed like a prize between your two rows of teeth. You watched him grit his own to suppress a moan.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he seethed. Still reeling from his high.

Then he paused, in awe for a second, before dropping one finger to your mouth and swirling his touch along the sticky, opaque puddle resting over your tongue.

You closed your lips around him, snug, and held his gaze.

A weaker man might have come undone. Bucky just let out a breath and smiled.

“If you wanna play show-and-tell with my cum I can find someplace to put that, doll,” he said, low as ever, then,

“C’mere.”

You didn’t need the powers of telepathy to understand what he’d meant. Should’ve known better than to dip your toe in the cumplay game with a man who arguably harbored the world’s biggest breeding kink and really wanted to knock you up. The realization had you back on your feet in an instant. Having swallowed fast, pried your lips off his digit with a pop, and licked the corners of your mouth, you rose without the threat of a second thought.

Your pale yellow dress was the first thing you grabbed—the first thing Bucky tried to yank off of your body when you’d slipped it up your legs and staggered backward.

“Not happening, Barnes,” you giggled, pretending not to see him advance when you stepped back.

But Bucky had never been big on civility in times like these. He lunged forward and nearly tore the barely-zipped frock off your frame, eliciting a shriek and another arch look from you as you started toward the door.

You were amazed you made it through—your husband had had to stop to tuck his dick back in his pants before stumbling after you—but when you took off down the hall, you knew it was only a matter of time before you heard his footsteps thundering fast after your own.

The tips of your toes had just barely grazed the first step down the stairs when hands seized your hips. You yelped.

“BUCKY!”

Whether on account of your own practiced agility, or the fact that Bucky’s palms were still sticky and slick with his sweat, you managed to wrest yourself out of his grip just long enough to get a start down the stairs.

“COME HERE!” Bucky boomed loud, trying his hardest not to laugh as he chased after you.

You screamed without meaning to. Yanked your wrist out of his reach when you’d made it to the bottom of the stairs and felt your husband close the distance in quick. You tried to be firm, insistent, primed with the kind of fine and unfuckwithable attitude that signaled you meant business. You didn’t, though—the series of giggles bubbling up in your chest said as much.

You descended the last step with a hitch, almost losing your shit within a foot of the landing, when Bucky scooped you up in his arms and held on tight. His lips were at your ear in a second, breaths coming in quick.

“Hell, I’ll give you one right here, honey,” he sneered before flipping you back around to face him.

He pressed you flush to the wrought iron railing, then over it, pushing you back bit-by-bit until you had no choice but to jump and latch your legs around his hips.

“James Buchanan Barnes, if you don’t—”

“Give you a baby right now?”

“—get off of me!” You were laughing now, squirming when he nipped at the space just below your ear.

One more second and he might’ve convinced you. Your Bucky was persuasive like that, too smug and self-assured for his own good but one hell of an advocate when he wanted to be. At length, he opened his mouth to take an even bigger, teasing bite, when a voice cut in,

“Barnes.”

He stopped. You froze. Together, you reluctantly turned your heads in the direction of the sound and found a keystone conference table situated at the far end of the room—seating a dozen-odd faces with identical, muted expressions of surprise. Mild discomfort, for some.

Wild discomfort for your mother and father, you saw.

Bucky set you down and simultaneously yanked the hem of your dress back into place. Flashed a smile for the ages and snaked an arm around your waist as he started to lead you over.

“Nat! Hi,” he tried, far too casual, “Long time no see.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard and hoped like hell your husband had remembered to zip up his pants.

The woman at the head of the table—the source of the voice you’d heard—raised a brow. One cherry-red curl from her sleek, cropped bob threatened to fall out of place as she tilted her face to regard you both. The smile Bucky proffered had done nothing to repair her glare.

Some wordless exchange passed between the two of them, and next, you felt a hand directing you to a seat across the way—Steve. Smug as ever. Smirking just then.

The empty chair beside your mother. The horror.

You were dimly aware of some introductions being made on your behalf and a round of awkward, disjointed congratulations around the table. Greetings from Nat, Sam, Steve—conceited little shit—a few you knew as Bucky’s groomsmen, a couple members of the security detail, and several more friendly, unfamiliar faces, including a smartly dressed blond named Sharon. Your husband had taken a seat by the latter at the end of the table.

“Momma.” You weren’t sure why you felt the need to whisper when the attention had turned back to Natasha and other matters, but you did, “Where have you been?”

Your mother and father were perched in their chairs like prisoners. There were no shackles to be seen but an air of discomfiture and compulsion bound to their every feature. You couldn’t be sure if it was humiliation on your behalf—they had just witnessed their son-in-law promise to put a baby in you for all present to hear—or something more.

For once in your life, you hoped it was just the prudish, sex-averse tendencies of the two rendering them silent.

You tried your mother again when she hadn’t responded.

“Momma.”

“Now is not the time.”

Her voice was clipped. Abrasive.

You knew better than to test that tone another time. You sank back in your seat and let your gaze roam the table, flitting between your father and Bucky a few more times than it probably should have. Surely, your dad, who had screwed Bucky over to hell and back, obliterated your wedding, and jeopardized your lives for a few more million in his pocket would have warranted some sidelong, hateful look from your husband. A glance or a stare, certainly something to show that he knew, and hadn’t forgotten.

No—Bucky was occupied with Sharon at the moment.

You watched your father twist his signet ring on his pinky, jerking the gold back and forth as if hoping for it to break, or save him. He didn’t look at Bucky, either.

“Natasha Romanoff is the Barnes’ retained legal talent for all things maritime crime and narcotics trade-related. Some estate planning, too,” a voice rumbled beside you.

You made a low ‘Hm’ to feign understanding of whatever the fuck Steve had just said, and nodded.

Then, when your eyes wandered left again,

“Sharon Carter, criminal liaison and kingpin informant. Been in bed with the Barnes’ as long as I can remember.”

He really couldn’t have used a worse string of words if he had tried. You cocked your head just slightly and stared at the pair. You considered holding your tongue.

“And she’s been in bed with Bucky how often before?” You’d decided against self-restraint for the time being.

Steve blinked a little harder.

“What do y—”

“I’m not asking if, but when, they fucked,” you interrupted.

Steve blinked again, as if to clear a string of cobwebs from his eyes, and couldn’t quite find the words to answer your question. Either the truth or some half-baked crock of bullshit—there was no in between.

“Once,” he answered, at length. Honest.

You figured as much.

In any other situation where you were faced with one of Bucky’s former fuckbuddies, you probably would’ve felt more than a twinge of jealousy. Might’ve even cast a dark look in the girl’s direction and willed her not to even breathe the same air as him. Then you remembered you weren’t fourteen years old and could behave with some modicum of maturity when it came to some old flame of your husband. They weren’t even sitting that close.

You winced when Bucky gave her shoulder a playful squeeze, though. That facial tic you couldn’t control.

“So to recap,” Natasha announced, having just plodded through a few dull formalities up front, “Barnes got the intercom call from Schröder at 1500 hours, Friday.”

Every head nodded.

“Schröder gave Barnes exactly ninety-six hours to recover the $90 million lost in the…mishap, in Brooklyn—” Natasha’s eyes flickered to your father no longer than a second, “—and today is Monday. We have twenty-four hours to come up with the funds, or face the…penalties of Schröder’s exploding offer. Whatever those may be.”

You knew what ‘those’ were. Ms. Romanoff was either too kind or too diplomatic to say it, you reckoned, but the threat Joey Schröder had made to Bucky had been patently clear: procure the cash or your wife’s family dies.

That was why you’d been so surprised to see your mother and father seated at the table that morning—Schröder had further stipulated that there was to be no contact between you and your parents in the time it took to come up with the money. You’d been completely cut off, in the Alps, since the day of the attack, left to wonder without reprieve whether HYDRA’s bloodless henchmen had taken hostages of your parents, let them abscond to Brooklyn, or simply killed them both and sent the rest of you all on a wild goose chase to get hold of the money.

Now if they’d only had sex once, why was she looking at him like that?—The intruding thought couldn’t be helped when you peered over again—Surely the most platonic and professional working relationships didn’t call for looks like that.

Shut the fuck up. Shut the entire fuck up, please.

The lives of those closest to you were on the line and all you could think now was how well you compared to this random woman in giving Bucky head? Brain fucking rot.

You scrunched your nose and turned back to Natasha.

“…and up until this morning, Schröder’s whereabouts were unknown,” she continued, careful as she spoke.

It seemed that part had caught Bucky’s attention, too, because he was tilting his head away from Sharon and shifting his gaze to the woman at the head of the table.

“And now?” he cut in.

“I’m getting there, James.”

Sharon smiled a little at that, tracing her nail on the notepad in front of her. She muttered something to Bucky, who disregarded her remark entirely.

“Do we know where Schröder is?” he barked.

Across the table, Sam shifted in his seat. He glanced to Natasha, then Sharon.

“I believe we have modestly reliable intel—” he began, only to have his speech mowed over by an impatient, increasingly irate Bucky.

“No. No— we don’t do ‘modestly reliable’ for this, Sam. We either know where the fuck the guy is or we don’t.”

That last fragment seemed to hang in the air a couple seconds longer than needed, and a tense silence fell over the table. It took a new voice—one you hadn’t heard much at all yourself—to reignite the conversation.

“I know it,” Sharon said, “I know he’s in Madripoor.”

Madripoor? The make-believe safe haven for terrorists? You couldn’t tell if she was kidding at first. Then Bucky flitted a look to the side, and his expression was grave. Natasha’s, too. Maybe there was a Madripoor after all.

“Or he will be there, most likely, tomorrow night,” Steve interjected. The hands that had been folded neatly in front of him were now tapping a light and mindless beat on the table, “He’s got the Foxy Den rented out for a…thing.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Where else but a titty bar would Joey host his ‘things’?” he muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

So Madripoor was real, and it had strip clubs. Wonderful.

It seemed Natasha was keen to regain control of the conversation, because she presently broke in,

“Keep in mind that time is of the essence—a private flight from here to the Indonesian archipelago is sixteen hours minimum. We most likely can’t afford to fly private, b—”

“Since when the fuck can’t I afford to fly private?” Bucky spat.

You hated how short and plainly nasty he was being to all those around him. If you hadn’t known any better, you might’ve thought these folks were at fault somehow, but they weren’t. Your father, the real culprit, was sitting right under Bucky’s nose, and he wouldn’t even look in his general direction. Your husband flared his nostrils with a new surge of indignation, and Sharon patted his hand.

“She’s not talking finances, bub,” the blond started, “She’s saying your jet is on a no-fly list, we don’t have time to charter a new plane, and there’s a hefty fucking bounty on your head if you ever set foot in Madripoor. We need to get you on a commercial flight, undercover.”

“Fuck that.” Bucky’s response was reflexive. He rose fast.

If your parents could have appeared any more stiff and uncomfortable you might have mistaken them for two charming, thoroughly terrified wax figures. Your father continued to fiddle with his ring as he watched Bucky.

Natasha tensed as well. As soon as Bucky was up on his feet, pacing around at the end of the table, she was urging him to relax, Buck, this isn’t anything we haven’t done before—sit down, please. Bucky didn’t sit, and he most certainly didn’t relax, but he did kick a stool across the room.

“I am not going back to that shithole.”

The stool tumbled onto its side, one leg splintered in half. You made a mental note to look into some anger management classes. Your parents, along with most of the table, flinched at the crashing sound, while your husband stood, supremely agitated, and did not even regard the broken chair. He turned away from Natasha.

“Yeah, well, that ‘shithole’ is our only hope of getting Schröder behind bars and you out of custody, Bucky,” Natasha called as he started to pace away.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky tilted his head to the side. He contemplated snagging a bottle of Macallan 25 off the bar cart by the window but decided against it.

“Have you been listening to a word of what I’ve said all weekend?” Natasha returned, almost as biting, “Turned on MSNBC or CNN or any other news outlet in the last forty-eighty hours?”

She dropped her own notepad on the table and scanned the area in search of something else. Sam and Steve took that as their opportunity to jump in.

“Bucky,” Sam started, calmly, “There were over a dozen foreign attachés and two heads of State at your wedding, half of whom are now being hospitalized for injuries they sustained in the attack.”

“So?” Bucky snapped.

His eyes were already trailing back to the cart.

“So you think the U.N. Security Council was just gonna let that slide?”

“Two-thirds of its members have been up in arms, practically chomping at the bit to get someone pinned for the fucking thing—that leaves you or Schröder on the chopping block,” Steve chimed in.

“So one more federal probe. What’s the big deal?” Bucky hardly realized he’d taken a tumbler in his hands.

Just as he’d turned to pour himself a drink, guided more by bare muscle memory than anything else, Natasha raised a manila folder—the item she’d been looking for. He’d filled his glass half full when the folder was flung his way like a frisbee. He narrowly saved himself a papercut—or ten—by ducking his head, almost spilling his drink.

“The fuck, Nat?!” he bellowed.

“Extradition, Bucky. Search warrants for your Brooklyn residence, all your money service businesses up the Eastern Seaboard, and a whole hell of a lot of other financial records that we do not need dredged up in this mess.” Natasha pointed to the folder on the floor, which had just spilled a litany of documents at his feet.

“Let them.” Bucky wasn’t fazed by the warrants, walking over them as he drank, “I’m not going to Madripoor."

This time, it was Sharon's turn to roll her eyes as she swiveled in her chair to face Bucky. She was turned from you now, but you could almost smell the smug, knowing look she raked over your husband as she uncrossed her legs and leaned back.

"We don't have time for this," she said, coolly, "If you have any hopes of getting the Counter-Terrorism Committee off your ass and Schröder in custody, you'll listen to Nat."

Bucky paused, weighing her words in his mind before meeting her gaze again. He brought his glass to his lips and drained it.

Then, perhaps feeling a bit emboldened by the idea that she was the only one to have shut Bucky up—to have made him listen, as it were—Sharon piped up again. You didn't need to see her face to know for certain there was a smirk etched across it,

"Don't look so glum, honey. We have no choice here."

It startled every last soul at that table, yourself included and Sharon especially, when the cup in Bucky's hand sailed across the room and shattered on the edge of a cabinet close by. Before the glass had so much as splintered and scattered half of its jagged shards along the floor, your husband was stalking, then stopping, then looming over Sharon with an implacably dour look. And a jaw set tight as you'd ever seen it.

"My choice," he seethed, so low the words almost came out in a murmur, "is to protect my wife. Whatever you, or Natasha, or anyone else has in mind comes second to that. Do you understand?"

Sharon nodded that she did.

A hushed silence fell over the room once more, only now its duration was greater, and the cause of it—your red-faced, fuming husband—had turned his back to the group and was retrieving from the bar cart another glass. Another drink. Natasha followed his path with a vigilant eye.

"Bucky," she said.

Bucky didn't answer. Filled his new glass to the brim.

"Bucky," Natasha tried with a little more volume and vigor.

Your husband lifted the cup to his mouth and started to guzzle, against every shrill and helpless plea from his liver, you guessed. You wanted to object, to take leave of your seat as quick as you could and knock the thing out of his hand before he could finish, but Natasha had you beat—not with any physical act but a word to slow him down: "Barnes."

Then, a few more to get him to stop entirely:

"Look. Over there."

She pointed to a slip of paper somewhere at the top of the shuffle.

Bucky shifted his gaze to the floor. You saw him lick both corners of his mouth, bathed in whiskey residuum and a light, nascent spatter of stubble. He looked almost menacing in spite of the grin that kicked up.

"What's this?" he murmured.

"The terms of Schröder's newest offer. The one he made this morning."

Bucky's second glass was discarded in an instant.

He dropped to his knees, seized the paper in his hands and pored over the bare, 11-point Times New Roman typeface like it was the single most precious set of words in the world to him. There were several mountains of text, and you sensed he couldn't begin to under the legal jargon with just one cursory look.

"What? What's'it mean?" Bucky wouldn't tear his gaze away, even as he shouted to Natasha.

Your own eyes probably should've been fixed on Bucky, or in your lap, or out the window, reflecting in silence on what the fuck could be going on and why it felt as though things were suddenly coming to a perilous head. Instead, you pivoted to Natasha. Her face was tilted to you.

Then she spoke to Bucky, still crouched on the floor a few feet away from her, but she kept her focus on you. She spoke carefully.

"Schröder won't take the money, Bucky."

"What?"

Bucky's gaze combed over the page, desperate to make sense of what was printed in front of him—"The hell's this all mean, Nat, tell me what it means and what he wants, for fuck's sake."—and he flipped the document. Read some more. His eyes flitted from line to line in a full-blown terror.

Then the eyes stopped in one spot.

Bucky stood.

Fisting the letter in one hand and making a wild, inarticulate gesture with the other, he probably could've seared a hole in Natasha's head with the force of his stare. She refused to meet it.

"This is a joke, isn't it?"

All of a sudden, your father leaned over your mother to you,

"We can make it work. We can keep you—"

"Hey. Don't talk to her. Don't fuckin' look at her. Is this—"

"—safe. We'll keep you safe, darling, I swear."

"—some kind of sick fucking joke?!"

You stared at your dad in disbelief. Bewilderment. Then you chanced a look at Bucky, who had all but gone blue in the face as he approached your father from the opposite end of the table, letter still crushed in his hand.

Your father averted his gaze.

He knew.

You saw him flick the gold signet on his pinky once more, and for reasons you didn't yet understand yourself, you couldn't look away from it, or him.

Surely this scared-shitless son of a bitch could speak to you now. He'd have to. There was no way he wouldn't when the problem was staring him right in the face and his son-in-law was practically apoplectic with rage in front of him.

Something clicked in Bucky's brain.

He knew.

Your husband’s breath caught with the full weight of the realization, and he blinked. He didn’t hesitate; he simply sidestepped Sam and Steve—who had stood as soon as they saw the look of understanding cross over his face—and he seized your father. You heard a scream, most likely from your mother, and you saw Bucky swing, but the act barely registered as real until his fist first cracked against your dad’s skull. Again. And again. And again.

Somewhere in the raucous din and sounds of punches, kicks, and muffled groans, a discharge of blood, and the dim recognition that some of the stuff was dousing you, too, you managed to make out several words, disjointed:

“—FUCKING KILL YOU—SOLD HER—SOLD HER?!”

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, it was true, but it was an alter-ego he’d been given from his earliest days as a made man. A caricature of himself that was to represent everything he did and was capable of doing in places like Madripoor.

You didn’t know that side. You didn’t like that side.

It was Bucky, and it wasn’t—pummeling your father’s face in the ground after learning that he had offered you up, again, in satisfaction of a debt. Sparing no feelings when he spoke to Natasha, Sam, Steve, Sharon, or anyone, making clear his wife’s safety was paramount.

Maybe you were meant to feel proud. Or flattered. Or safe. But oddly, the longer you’d stared at the bloodied, bruised fist he held above your father’s face and the half-deranged look of anger on his own, the more you began to wonder if the fury was for your protection, or simply a knee-jerk response to the thought of losing a possession. A mere object that he couldn’t bear to part ways with.

You had thought long and hard about where the Soldier stopped and Bucky began. No matter where you landed, you were far from comfortable with the conclusion.

Now, even as you stood two feet away from the man in an upper-level lounge of the Foxy Den, roughly half a day removed from the whirlwind turn of events that almost sent your father to hospital, you hardly knew what to say.

“Zip me up?”

The closest thing you’d had to conversation in hours. Bucky obliged.

You viewed your new dress in the mirror from the side and made a face. Pretended to examine the tight black number but were really just zeroing in on the sight of Bucky’s knuckles as he dragged the zip up your back. He hadn’t bothered to mend his hands, and you hadn’t thought to offer to bandage them up. You tried not to stare.

The hands paused at the top of your dress and froze.

Then crept back slowly, taking the zip along with it.

“Wanna—?”

“Bucky!”

One low groan, followed by a palm to his worn and wearied face. When you spun around, he didn’t move.

“Are you serious?” you bit.

“Will you talk to me now?” Bucky retorted.

To be fair, neither he nor his Winter Soldier persona knew how to solve the silent treatment from a pissed-off wife. This was brand new territory—being ignored for hours on end—and frankly, he had thought a playful request for sex might make you more amenable to conversation.

He had thought wrong.

You stared daggers at his handsome face and raised a finger as though to warn him, then stopped. Opened your mouth as if to speak, then appeared to decide against it. A steady, pulsing bass from the floors below was all that could be heard, and momentarily, you were reminded of why you were all here in the first place:

Locate Schröder. Corner Schröder. Capture Schröder. Bring the bad man to justice—or else just pump the motherfucker’s head full of lead and be done with it.

You weren’t too familiar with the particulars of the plan, but that had seemed to be the heart of it. Bucky never intended for you to stray from the safety of the lounge upstairs, where half of his team were casing the club through dozens of surveillance cameras, and he would likely take off with Sam and Steve the second you’d finished dressing. Now would be the time to talk.

And you planned to. Eventually.

For now, though, you’d let him sweat it out.

You had long envied women with effortless sex appeal and charisma. The kind that seemed to be made for the stage, capable of transfixing any audience, or individual, with little more than their aura alone. You’d never felt a fraction of that allure emanate from yourself before, personally, but looking at Bucky now brought you as close as you’d ever been. He was enthralled by your every move, he was intrigued at all times, you could see.

He was visibly aroused before you had even touched him. You knew it was cruel and unkind before you were even fully conscious of what you were doing, but you did it.

Someone had to teach this man how to control his anger—and his urges—somehow. Who better than you?

You drew closer to Bucky until your fronts almost touched.

“Baby,” you murmured. Simple, nearly plaintive.

Bucky blanched. Could it be? Had his bullshit gambit actually paid off and made you want to talk, or possibly do more? His hands immediately went for your hips, but you were quick to shove them off. You poked one finger to his chest and shook your head.

“We can talk,” you said, measured.

You pressed into his sternum and pretended not to see a short-lived look of defeat, followed by confusion, cross Bucky’s features. He let you walk him back a step or two.

“Okay. What about?”

Where the hell could you even begin?

“Sit first,” you urged him.

It was then that he realized you’d been walking him toward the plush sectional couch behind him—a cozy little touch to the VIP room only marginally diminished by the fact that it was coated in liquor, coke, and glitter. Bucky sat down anyway.

You didn’t follow, choosing instead to stand as you appeared to…scratch something on your back? Your husband looked on in muted curiosity as you reached behind yourself and tilted your torso just slightly.

Then he heard a zip. A hitch. Another, longer drag.

Bucky knew he was fucked before you ever slipped the dress off your body. You were to make quick work of it, eyes never leaving the man in front of you as you peeled the fabric down your legs and off of your frame entirely. When you were down to just your underwear, you hadn’t even needed to see his face to know exactly where his gaze was likely to land—this part was new to him. You kicked the dress aside and let him stare.

To be fair, it wasn’t every day he got to see a Ruger LC9 strapped to your thigh. Hidden in plain sight now that you were stripped bare before him in just your bra, panties, and garter-like holster across the top of your leg.

“Where’d you get that?” Bucky nearly choked, eyes wide.

“TJ Maxx,” you huffed, “Where the fuck do you think?”

“I never said you could— And Sam and Steve—”

Bucky paused, suddenly aware of how indignant and stupid he was starting to sound. He had given orders to the rest of his team not to let you carry a gun under any circumstances, but here you were. If he weren’t so violently aroused by the sight of you wearing the thing, he probably would’ve been fuming.

“A couple guys from your security detail were kind enough to make an exception,” you smiled, words verging on smug, “And who’s to say what I ‘can’ and ‘can’t’ do, hm?”

Bucky looked as though he were priming himself to stand when you lifted one stiletto to rest between his legs on the seat. A silent and quasi-sweet threat in one gesture.

“I didn’t say you can’t— well—” Bucky faltered at the last.

“You just said you never gave me permission!” You threw your hands up in exasperation, “That doesn’t sound very equitable to me, James.”

Bucky let out a frustrated sigh of his own.

“C’mon. You know what I mean, honey…I just…want to keep you safe. You know that.”

“Self-defense is a pretty integral part of safety.”

“No one’s ever taught you to shoot!”

“You never bothered to ask!”

This was getting a little too aggressive and Jerry Springer-eqsue for your liking. Not nearly sexy or seductive enough to be heading in the direction you wanted. Bucky always brought the bickering out of you, but you had to stay strong. Slow and steady and all that bullshit.

So, before he could respond to your last remark, you lowered yourself over him. Brought both legs to bracket his hips and hovered carefully in place above the bulge in his tactical pants. When he swallowed beneath you and raked his gaze over your body, you felt a twinge of relief.

You sank further down. Dragged your lower half over his own and earned a groan from deep within his throat. Again, his hands flew to your waist to get a good grip, but you pried them off before they could ever fully sink into the flesh.

“What?” Impatience palpable in Bucky’s tone.

“No,” you answered simply.

“No?”

“No, you don’t get to touch me. You don’t own me.”

Your husband shifted under your body, hands helpless at his sides and masseter muscle visibly clenching beneath the skin as he gritted his teeth. He shook his head.

“I never said that I did,” he managed, after a pause, “Baby, I love you.”

“And beating the shit out of my dad was your special way of showing that?”

“That wasn’t—”

“Or snapping at Natasha. And Sam. Steve. Sharon,” you added emphasis to the last name without really meaning to, and Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. I…lost my temper, I—”

“Couldn’t control your anger. Or wouldn’t. All because my dad made some stupid deal with a man and offered me up as collateral.”

“Because Joey wants you for himself!” Bucky snapped, voice suddenly raised to a near-deafening pitch. He shifted his hips and inadvertently grazed the heat between your legs, drawing a subtle pinch in his brow at the friction, “The deal your dad made was to give you over to Schröder in satisfaction of his own fucking debt—you think I was just gonna sit by and let that happen?!”

In spite of the animosity, you pressed your body to his even harder and watched him fold—if only slightly. He breathed a sharp inhale through his nose and flexed both his hands, as if wanting to make fists. However, he knew better than to move himself around at a time like this.

“What? Like the deal you made with him?”

Your words were clipped, almost cruel. You knew it would hit a nerve in Bucky, and sure enough, he met you right where you wanted him: enraged.

“That’s fucking different,” he seethed, “I would’ve paid your father’s debt without— without anything in it for me.”

“But you didn’t, and you got me.”

“And I love you. I don’t wanna lose you.”

The abrupt vulnerability in his voice was all but agony to hear. For a second, it seemed the anger had fled—or at least been eclipsed by some softer, sweeter shade—only for Bucky to blink again, shake his head, and wear that stupid, hardened look that said, ‘I am not losing this.’ Your hands reached for his belt and started in on the zip.

“You have a real fucked up way of showing love, James.”

To your surprise, Bucky let you continue, unhindered. Blue eyes meeting yours in a cold look.

“Makes two of us,” he mumbled, shrugging his boxers and trousers out of the way anyway.

That was probably true. No person in their right mind would think fucking their husband was the safest, most surefire way to let him know they were pissed at him, but both you and Bucky were working on communication skills, still. You’d get to healthy, non-sex-fueled fights at some point.

As it was, Bucky was fumbling around your thighs, trying to pry them open even wider for better access through your panties. That you allowed, but the second he tried manhandling you over his crotch, you pushed back.

“I wanna do this— without your help,” you said, firm.

Somewhat begrudgingly, Bucky agreed. He let you line yourself up with his length, brace your weight against his shoulders, and when you paused, he made a soft, ‘Hm?’ and glanced down where you looked. Before you could remove the pistol from its holster, he set his palm atop the cool metal.

“Leave it,” he murmured.

His eyes flashed with desire. It was almost more than you could bear, despite the plain fact that riding someone with a firearm strapped to your thigh probably violated every NRA gun safety rule known to man. Whatever.

You lowered yourself onto Bucky, slow, and sucked in a quick breath as he filled you. Your husband groaned.

“Fuck,” followed shortly thereafter, almost timid to crawl out of his mouth as you sank to a fully-seated position on top of him. He gripped the armrest beside him.

When your hips first stirred, you thought the man might burst a blood vessel trying not to move right along with you. You pressed a hand to his chest and reminded him, gently but with purpose: let me fucking do this, Bucky, and he relented. Fisting the couch cushion in something close to a death grip, he nodded his head and heaved a short breath and watched you all the while, grinding on him.

“My pretty…pretty girl,” he managed through his teeth.

He was doing better than you expected. You watched his face contort with pleasure when you lifted yourself up to the tip of his cock and slide back down. You squeezed his shoulders, and you let out a low whimper yourself, and dammit all, you felt that pesky fucking knot already forming in the pit of your stomach. You glanced down and frowned, wanting this to last so much longer.

Fortunately, when your eyes found Bucky’s again, you got the sense that he was in the same boat as you: brow furrowed tight in concentration and lips parted slightly, panting in time with each one of your movements.

“Baby,” he said, the single word treading close to a plea. He paused, dropped a glance to the spot where your bodies were coupled, and swallowed. He cursed aloud, then continued, quietly, “Baby…’m’sorry.”

��Sorry for what?” You bounced a bit faster.

“For— fuckin’ hell, honey— for being a…dick.” The last part of his sentence was pierced by a grunt and a moan, but you heard it just the same.

You clenched around him and tried to keep steady. Manage a small, shit-eating grin above him, even.

“Being a dick?” you repeated, pretending not to know what he meant. When his cock grazed over a particularly sensitive place inside you, you just swallowed the moan and kept going, fingers taking hold of some short tufts of hair at the back of Bucky’s head as you rode him.

“Possessive. Controlling. Kind of a—” Bucky paused to grunt when he bottomed out inside, hands aching to hold you, “—piece of shit.”

Finally, you were getting somewhere. Not nearly close enough to cure the rage or the dark, grating impulses churning inside of him, but good enough, for now.

You reached for his hands and set them over your hips.

The next most natural thing was to lean down and kiss him—let his tongue invade your mouth as soon as he’d caught your lips and show you, with a wordless and fast-moving show of affection, that he missed you. And meant what he’d said. With his hands moving quick to cup your cheeks, hold you to him while he kissed you and stroked deep inside your walls, he gripped you tighter than he had in a while. You could feel strips of tension and desperation bleed through his every fingertip.

“Wanna…fuckin’ kill anyone who even thinks…of— fuck,” Bucky’s words were almost slurred at this point, so close to the point of release it seemed every wild and wanton thought that crossed his mind was likely to dance off his tongue, unchecked. You loved to see him in it this deep.

You also had to remind the murderous alter ego that violence was not the answer…always. You let him pull you closer, bodies pressed flush against each other while you fucked, but you made sure to tilt his chin up to yours so he could see the expression on your face as you spoke.

“Hey,” you pinned him with one stern look, “No murder.”

Bucky frowned.

“Yes murder,” he retorted.

You sighed.

This shit was worse than teaching a dog not to bite.

Instead of pulling back or being strict this time, though, you decided you’d give positive reinforcement a try. You squeezed his short locks of hair, gently, and rolled your hips even tighter to his, eliciting a stuttered groan. You bounced up and down on his cock, pulled him into your chest, and brought your face within an inch of his.

“Promise to be good, and I’ll let you cum inside me,” you murmured into his lips. Not the wisest offer you’d made to date, but one that Bucky seemed to want more than the air in his lungs the second the words escaped you. He pulled you in for a kiss, immediately.

“Fuck, you mean it?” he breathed, in between each sloppy, frenzied movement of his mouth.

“Yeah,” you tried not to grin at how eager he seemed, “You’re gonna apologize to everyone, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky barely seemed to register anyone or anything but you and your pussy at the moment, yearning for the go-ahead to let himself free inside you. With a nod of your head, you’d let him start meeting your motions with gentle thrusts of his own, and both of you were teetering precariously close to the edge with that added pressure. In spite of both your hot and heady, near-anoetic states, you endeavored to hold out a little longer, legs aching.

“Gonna try and talk to Schröder first?” you panted.

Bucky rutted into you hard, lips twitching into a frown.

“Doesn’t…deserve it,” he grunted, barely able to get the words out as he grabbed your hips and thrusted harder, “A fucking bullet between the eyes is what he needs.”

You eyed him soberly, or as serious as you could manage with the force of his strokes nearly sending you into a spiral. You fought back a moan and gripped him tighter.

“Bucky.”

“Bunny.”

Damn, that name.

“Promise me you won’t kill him—or anyone—tonight.”

“Baby—”

“Promise.”

His thrusts were getting sloppier; with his hands hoisting you just above him and his cock practically drilling into you now, speech and coherent thought were some of the toughest things to accomplish, but he tried it, anyway. Bucky would swallow his pride and accede to his wife, no matter how fucking badly he wanted to cum—and kill that Russian mob boss with both his bare, bloody hands.

He could be better than the Winter Soldier. He would.

With a rough, labored breath, Bucky pulled you in for a kiss and felt you squeeze around his cock like a vice. Still thrusting, clutching you, kissing you hard, he saw both of your releases coming in fast and had to act even quicker.

“I— I promise,” he stammered.

That was all either of you needed, or could bear, quite frankly. In the next second or two, you felt a cord snap in your lower half and a deep, punchy flurry of pleasure follow shortly thereafter, fingers sinking deep in Bucky’s shoulders as he bounced you on his cock and held you close. With your walls still pulsing around him, you felt him chase his own high at a breakneck pace, shooting his load inside you a moment later. It was bad, it was brash, it was a really fucking dumb idea to be playing around with the odds of making babies at a time like this, but it also felt good. Exhilarating, even, feeling him empty his balls in that space between your wet, aching walls and filling you up with his seed.

Maybe just one little mini-Bucky wouldn’t—

STOP.

You barely had the energy to acknowledge, much less arbitrate that bone-crushing conflict between your brain and reproductive organs, so you shut the thoughts up with a quick, messy kiss to Bucky, whose chest was still heaving from the peak of his release, holding you to him.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Maybe even two—

FUCK YOU.

The internal war wouldn’t go away that easy, it seemed.

You kissed Bucky long and hard regardless, hoping the shit would sort itself out before you really had to think. Or worry. Or plan. It was dumb and a bit short-sighted, but feeling that hot, erratic pulse between your legs did a pretty good job of making it seem just fine for right now.

Bucky’s expression was lax. Soaking in the feel of your cum-painted insides still squeezing around him, gently. Had he been anywhere but the heart of Low Town on a covert mission in a strip club, hunting down the head of HYDRA with a whole troupe of trained assassins, he probably would’ve liked to stay that way a little longer. But, as it was, he could already hear folks filing in and out of the lounge, footfalls growing heavier as his team loaded up with guns, grenades, and whatever other weapons they could fit beneath their formal attire.

“Don’t look so sad,” you said as you lifted off of Bucky. Carefully pulling your panties back into place as your husband watched you do it, practically forlorn.

“Too late,” he returned in half a groan, yanking his own clothes where they needed to be and trailing a look up your legs, “Might feel better if we tried it again, though.”

“I bet.” You pulled your dress over your head.

Your husband had just tightened his belt and was rolling his shoulders to get a knot out of his neck, it seemed.

“What are your thoughts on ‘Bucky Jr.’?” he asked casually.

“Don’t start with this shit.”

“Jamie for a girl, maybe?”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your baby talk and death threat tête-à-tête continued for quite some time—just a couple minutes, but they felt like years to you—and before long, you were rubbing the gun under your dress and casting a glare in Bucky’s direction, and he got the sense that it was time to head back to the group. He looped an arm around your waist and led you out into the main space.

The living room was little more than a makeshift headquarters at that point. You’d been expecting to see more faces, but the only ones you found were Sam, Natasha, and a few silent, beefy individuals you assumed were part of security. Where Sharon and your parents had gotten off to was anyone’s guess. You took a seat on the couch.

“Anything yet?” Bucky questioned, approaching the panel of surveillance screens with a wary eye.

“We’ve had intermittent visuals on the second floor for forty minutes or so—” Sam motioned to one screen on the left, “—but Schröder hasn’t moved. Hasn’t done anything but bullshit and booze and buy rounds for his group. Won’t even talk to the dancers, which is weird.”

From what you’d been told, the goal was to get Schröder off the second floor, up to one particular private suite on fourth, then send in an agent dressed as a bottle girl to make entry as soon as the rest of the party had arrived, keeping in contact with HQ, and Sam, via PTT earpiece all the while. The details from that point were hazy, but you’d gotten the sense that someone—or, more likely, a sizable and duly-equipped group of someones—was lying in wait somewhere in the suites surrounding them. Steve had been tasked with leading the incursion, though where he could be found, or whom he was with, remained largely a mystery to you. Recon in a bustling, crowded area with music blaring on all four sides was a formidable undertaking, and you could tell both Sam and Natasha had been having trouble keeping tabs on every player. They seemed on edge, monitoring the screens.

“Won’t talk to the dancers?” Bucky’s brow pinched in.

“Won’t talk to anyone outside of his inner circle,” Natasha said, grim, “Which leads me to think he’s not staying here long. Probably called his associates in for a speedy-quick deal because he knows he’s being tailed.”

“Hasn’t engaged with any of our undercovers?” Bucky pressed.

Natasha and Sam shook their heads. Your husband groaned.

“Then how the hell are we getting him upstairs to the champagne room? If he hasn’t budged and doesn’t look like he’s planning to stay?”

The looks on the faces in front of him said there wasn’t one readily available answer—or any answer at all. Bucky turned back to the screens and seemed to survey the whole panel, gaze cooling with the first inkling that this operation may be classed a failure in the very near future.

He barked some half-coherent babble about strategy, security, and failsafes, then barked for Steve.

And, as if on cue, Steve appeared at the threshold of the room a moment later, breathless and slightly flushed.

“Rogers, you’re suppos—” Sam started, eyes widening at something you couldn’t quite discern from his arrival.

“I know, I know,” Steve cut in, fast, “Want the good news or bad news fir—”

“Just spit it out,” Natasha said, preemptively unnerved.

“Schröder’s headed to the suite right now—”

Bucky raised both eyebrows at Steve as he continued.

“—but they won’t let Wanda in.”

‘Fuck’ was the first audible word from your husband, then Sam, in short order. Wanda must have been the agent playing bottle girl upstairs. This didn’t sound good.

“Why the fuck won’t they let her in?” Bucky snapped.

“Someone might’ve tipped his security off. Or else they’re just being extra cautious about who’s let in.”

Steve fiddled with one cufflink on his suit and tried not to appear too despondent, but the implications of this single event were huge, you could read on every face in the room. Wanda had been meant to do something important before the rest of the brigade mobilized—take some key step that couldn’t be omitted from the plan.

“So we retreat.” Natasha was not one to mince her words, per usual, “Get your guys out of the suites now.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“No,” he said, sharply, “We’re not doing that.”

“Bucky.”

“We’ll get someone in there. We’ll find another way.”

Your husband was already pacing the space in front of you, and you looked on with uncertain eyes. You chanced a look to Natasha, Sam, and Steve, all of whom shared similar, albeit slightly more wearied, expressions as they watched and murmured among themselves.

“None of our people are getting up there, Barnes. Schröder’s got a goddamn sixth sense about our agents or something,” Steve said, at length.

“They’re all in masks—for a fucking masquerade—and we can’t get one person in?! In-and-out, that’s all it needs to be,” Bucky growled.

“We can’t get in there, that’s the point,” Sam sighed, “Masks or no masks, they know our people too well and won’t let us through.”

“We can at least try, for Christ’s sake. That’s what we came this whole fuckin’ way to do, right?”

When no one said a word in response, Bucky scowled,

“Right?”

There was a lull in the conversation that seemed to last for minutes, when, in reality, couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. Tensions were high. You could tell from the look in Bucky’s eye he was trying not to lash out as he normally would, but in no time at all, you saw a fractional break in his resolve. You feared he might fly off the handle, or else compromise something that couldn’t be spared at a time like this. You swallowed.

“I’ll go.”

It was stupid.

Every face turned to regard you as if you were stupid, you assumed as soon as the words had left your mouth.

But then, much to your surprise, Steve was perking up, eyes suddenly brighter as his gaze tilted to you.

“She could,” he said, shortly.

“Should she?” Sam seemed to murmur at once.

“Sure, why not?”

“I can think of plenty reasons why not,” Natasha was quick to counter, but beneath that pensive expression, you could’ve sworn you saw the smallest degree of contemplation. Even hope, from the looks of it.

‘NO’ was Bucky’s wordless, immediate, and resounding answer as he kicked whatever furniture—a footstool, this time—was closest to him and sent it flying toward the door. It seemed that self-control of his had worn off fast.

“No,” he affirmed in a word a second later, jaw clenched, “She is going nowhere near that suite.”

He didn’t even spare you a glance while he spoke. He was too busy eyeing the others, Steve specifically, as his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths and a light, blooming tinge of pink rose the length of his neck. If it weren’t for that staunch and menacing look on his face, he would’ve almost looked cute, you mused to yourself.

But, pretty man be damned, you wouldn’t stand for being ignored. Fuck that noise.

“I will,” you returned, a little more resolute this time.

Now Bucky had no choice but to pivot to you. His expression softened some, but not by much.

“No,” he said, again.

“Yes.”

“Baby—”

“Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me, Barnes. You said someone who wasn’t an agent could make it up there, and I can do it. Or try, at least, like you just said.”

If your attention hadn’t been fixed on your husband, you probably would’ve caught sight of more than one thinly veiled smile from the group around you. Natasha, in particular, all but tickled to see someone stand up to Bucky and give him a taste of his own shit—and live to tell the tale. The sight of her boss’s eyes almost glossy in the first tender look she’d seen from him in years was almost too much to bear. Steve stood grinning beside her, and Sam narrowly stifled an exhale of amusement. Neither you nor Bucky flinched from your positions.

“We can’t risk you being around him. They’re already all on high-alert,” your husband said after a calming breath.

“As are all your trigger-happy comrades waiting just ten feet outside the door, right?” you replied, “What is it, like, five, ten of them in total?”

“Twenty,” Steve interjected. Bucky shot him a look.

“I don’t care. I don’t want you up there when that fucker was just trying to— to kidnap you last week. I’m not—”

“Right. Right. Trying to kidnap me, not kill me. If Schröder wanted me dead, he would’ve made pretty quick work of that before,” you cut in, tone a touch more deliberate, “Even if he sniffs me out, he’s not gonna screw this whole deal by hurting me now.”

But the mere suggestion of harm to you had seemed to raise every hair on its end for Bucky, and then he was shaking his head, evidently more stubborn than ever.

“No, fuck. Don’t start,” he snapped with his newfound indignation, then, quieter, “Please…don’t, honey.”

You wouldn’t bow that easily.

“Why not?”

Truly, Bucky couldn’t be certain if it was the lilt in your voice, the pinch at the sides of your lips, or simply the sincerity consuming your eyes as you spoke to him, but the man could not stomach the thought of you, his own wife, being a stone’s throw from mortal danger and beyond his protection—or control, he wasn’t sure which one of the two was more dominating. Some cruel and unforgiving knot inside him came to tighten, and twist, and, nauseating as it was set on escape, the white-hot surge rose like bile in his throat. Before he could stop it, the words were spilling out through his teeth like froth:

“Cause I fuckin’ said so, that’s why. That’s it. It’s settled. You’re not allowed anywhere near him, you hear me?”

What Bucky hadn’t expected was the swift ascent back to your feet. The cool and almost careless expression as you rose, as though his words hadn’t registered at all.

He certainly hadn’t expected you to check him with your shoulder as you passed, knocking him slightly off-balance as he turned, in shock, and watched you give him one manicured middle finger over your left shoulder.

“Rogers, I’d like you to escort me upstairs.”

Worst of all, Bucky hadn’t expected Steve to listen.

Fortunately for him, the night was still young and with it, more than ample opportunity to be proven wrong again. And again.

“And again,” Steve murmured low in your ear as you walked side-by-side down the corridor on fourth floor, “If you get even the slightest bad feeling, you leave.”

“Might as well dip right now,” you muttered, adjusting your mask. Your attempt at humor fell flat with the man.

“I’m serious. We’ll be right outside and listening in from headquarters, but HYDRA is not a faction to fuck around with, or underestimate—as I assume you know by now.”

You did. Or would, eventually.

After the mask, you were busy trying to yank the back of your cocktail waitress dress to cover the full swell of your ass, not just the upper two-thirds. Unsurprisingly, it was a tougher task than you had been prepared to handle. Your new heels were tight and impossibly high, your new dress a mere scrap of pink fabric riddled with sequins and glitter, and your mask—holy fuck, were you glad Mardi Gras was not a year-round affair. Bucky had insisted on the fluffiest, stuffiest, full-face covering to ensure that no one would be able to recognize you, but in exchange for your anonymity, you had had to give up breathing, it seemed.

And then there was that vial of poison between your tits.

Sam had assured you that it was a nonlethal dose before handing it over; Steve had urged you, discreetly, to pour Schröder two for good measure. Natasha had overheard the latter and threatened legal action if he ever tried killing a target without her permission. You hadn’t spent much longer getting ready in the bathroom after that. Then you’d brushed past your husband the second you’d stepped out and strapped that last, semi-lethal ‘accessory’ to your bra before taking the lift upstairs.

As it turned out, you weren’t able to escape him entirely.

While you walked with Steve, Bucky was in your ear.

Literally—the man was talking nonstop through your earpiece and clearly had no intention of shutting the fuck up anytime soon. You silently wondered if there was a way to adjust the volume on the gadget as you ambled along.

“Honey.” There was a slightly more mechanical buzz to Bucky’s voice over your private line. You ignored it.

“So just find the cup he’s drinking from and pour the serum in?” you reiterated to Steve for the third time in the last ten minutes.

Your companion nodded, rattling off a few extra precautions while Bucky’s tone rang out a bit louder:

“Honey? You there?”

At last, you stuck your finger to the tiny flesh-colored device in your ear and snapped, “What?!”

“I love you.”

This fucker.

“I love you too. You’re still high on my shit list, though,” you answered, low and begrudgingly.

“Did I hear ‘hit list’? You’re gonna let me tap that later?”

If you didn’t have about fifteen different reasons to hate the man’s guts, you almost would’ve chuckled. At length, you muttered a quiet, ‘Kiss my ass, Barnes,’ and turned back to Steve, who was just then leading you closer to a room roped off and marked ‘EXECUTIVE SUITE.’ Your stomach did a flip as you paused around the corner.

“Right there. All you gotta do is knock and say a guy named Zemo sent you,” Steve spoke slowly, as if he were teaching arts and crafts to a five-year-old and not a woman about to embark on a high-risk sedation mission.

You nodded and took the silver tray from him carefully.

All the platter contained was an oversized bottle of Brut and a silver bucket, but damn if it didn’t feel like you were carrying the world and some change on that thing. You shifted your weight from foot to foot and turned in the direction of the door just a few yards away.

The time for painstakingly descriptive instructions and pep talks was long past you now. You nodded to Steve one last time and started to wobble over.

The entryway was flanked by two muscle-bound men. You approached with a smile.

“Hi. Zemo sent me.”

You didn’t know who the fuck Zemo was.

You hoped they wouldn’t ask, or notice how stilted and awkward you’d sounded just then. You swallowed a peach-sized lump in your throat and smiled again.

The one on the left grunted. The one on the right gave a nod. Without a word spoken between them, the former opened the door and made way for you to step over the threshold. You couldn’t help but notice both with their eyes trained straight on your tits as you passed by.

There was no way that had just worked. No pat-downs or harrowing threats? Not a single, searing interrogation into your identity or what you might be there to do?

Men were dumb, you decided, far too easily deceived by a decent pair of tits—HYDRA security personnel or not.

But you already knew that. You stepped inside.

The fetid stench of half a dozen blazing cigars and booze spilled on every surface were the first to greet you. A wave of smoke, then a bone-jostling bum bum bum to the beat of what sounded like a Don Toliver song came next. You almost couldn’t bear to make your feet move.

But then, shortly, you had to because a shrill, shimmer-doused beauty was waving you over toward the kitchen.

“Ba-by!” she shrieked, gesture growing frantic, “Bring it over!”

You walked with the tray out in front of you, careful with your steps across the sticky floor. When you made it over, where one other girl was stirring wildly at some concoction on the counter, you stopped, and had only to stand for a second longer, because the redhead that had beckoned you was taking the tray, setting it down, and grabbing something thin and pointy. You’d barely even registered it as an ice pick until the thing was thrust in your face.

“Crush it up,” she ordered, one curt nod toward a block of ice nearby. Evidently not giving a shit who you were or where you’d come from either. You guessed Wanda had just gotten unlucky, or they’d all stopped giving a fuck once Schröder’s men had really started drinking.

And drinking they had been, as your eyes surveyed the scene. Half-naked women with fully-clothed men, dressed head to toe in the finest of suits that were probably soaked through to the bone with sweat and Stolichnaya. You almost shivered at the sight of all the masked, wildly gyrating pricks, fumbling desperately through one verse of ‘After Party.’ You could vomit.

But where was your prick? That grimy little shit, Joey.

“Back of the room by the couch,” Bucky said, as if he’d read your mind.

Then a beat.

“Wait. Shit. That isn’t him. Schröder’s over by the door.”

How many tall, lanky blonds could there be in this place? You cast a sweeping look across the room and received your answer in less than two shakes of a lamb’s tail—there were a shit ton of Joey lookalikes all around.

“Careful. Mr. Schröder’s been on edge all night. Might bite your head off if you stare too long.”

The girl that was stirring had apparently caught you looking. She set the spoon aside and turned, but not before chancing a quick glance at the man Bucky had identified to you as your target. The man lifted his gaze.

You chipped away at the ice even faster.

Crush the shit, make a drink, pour the serum, and get it in him. Now. Don’t draw his attention just yet, though.

Something in your head told you to steal another look. You knew it was a bad idea, but you went on and did it anyway—and fortunately, felt a wave of relief at seeing that he’d retreated somewhere back with his friends. The ice pick in your hands made it through the last block.

“I’ll serve the shots, you bring the bottle to Mr. Pierce.”

Mr. Who?

“One of Schröder’s associates. Roll with it.”

It was Natasha’s voice now. Measured, but tense.

“He’s the older gentlemen straight ahead. He probably ordered the champagne for him and the others.”

That was Sam. You could only imagine how all of them looked huddled around the surveillance panel with the transmitter to your earpiece being passed about from person to person. The grip Bucky must’ve had on his gun, or his switchblade, or whatever weapon he could seize to make himself feel a little less helpless. But he was—as were you. And truthfully, there was nothing either one of you could do about that until Schröder was in custody. This was the first step toward reaching that goal.

So you walked with the bottle, now bathed in a tub of ice. You tried to keep steady, but the staggering drunks all around were making that tough, to say the least.

When one man struck you straight in the chest, elbows jutting out as he danced, you stumbled back a step. Nearly lost the tray for half a second, then recovered.

Until the dipshit hit you again.

This time you truly almost sent the bottle sailing for the floor, grip slipping on the tray and knees buckling underneath you as the force of the blow set you back. You bit a quick, ‘Fuck!’ in the air, seized the platter twice as hard and braced your weight against something firm behind you. A shelf, a TV stand, or something. Maybe a half-wall if you were lucky enough not to have careened against some expensive piece of furniture. You sighed.

“Everything alright?” a voice rumbled behind you.

Or a person. Yeah, a person would be pretty fucking bad to bump into at a time like this. Your whole body froze.

You turned.

“Ye-es sir. Yes, sir.” You quickly righted your tone the second you realized it was someone important.

Not Schröder, but someone who seemed to be big-name enough; you just weren’t sure who. The man smiled down at you from under his Venetian mask.

“Is this for me?” he nodded toward the tray, half-teasing.

You swallowed.

“Are you Mr. Pierce?” you asked.

The man’s grin stretched even wider.

“Nope, I’m Ward. but I can take you to Pierce.”

For the first time that night, your heart swelled with some promise. You thanked him quietly, gratefully, then made as if to follow him back through the crowd, when all of a sudden, you stopped. That heartfelt swelling in your chest halted right along with it. You almost dropped the tray.

“Schröder!” Ward bellowed.

No, no, now you were actually going to lose your shit. There was no way in hell you were keeping a grip on this silver little plate any longer without crying or screaming or shitting your pretty, pink, sequin minidress right there. You almost shrieked when a hand reached for the tray.

“Pierce got you doing all the heavy lifting, huh, honey? The bastard.” Even through his own ornate mask, you could tell Joey was grinning—glinting with conceit, as was his prerogative. He took the load off your hands.

“Take it easy now, he’s just—”

“Staring at your rack. Pull your top up, baby, please.”

The chatter in your ear had switched from Sam to Bucky at nearly lightning speed. You glanced down at your cleavage and tugged the fabric up quick, heart beating even faster underneath it.

In front of you, Joey Schröder was all teeth. A gruesome spectacle in spite of its seemingly benevolent intentions, one smile could have turned your stomach sideways. And it did—you wanted to throw up again—but you knew you had bigger fish to fry, and evil mobsters to poison. You didn’t flinch when Schröder nudged you in the shoulder and made his way ahead, coaxing you to follow.

You didn’t tense and didn’t protest. Didn’t blink when he led you straight through the party, around a few topless performers on poles, and into a backroom lounge.

In fact, your mind practically sang as he led you inside.

It was just every other nerve, muscle, and trembling tendon not under the immediate control of your brain that needed soothing. You could’ve sworn the men on the couches would see your legs shaking as soon as you trudged into the room and sniff you out on sight.

But if they had, they didn’t show it.

No one moved when you entered, save for a few lopsided grins and tilts of happy, masked faces. Sizing you up. Drinking you in. Far too easily mistakable for a band of apex predators that had just caught wind of their next meal, and not a room full of sleazy Russian mobsters. You bit back your grating disgust with a smile.

“Got a present for ya, Pierce,” Schröder announced.

A honey-blond head flecked with silver and white sat up from the sofa. Presumably the one who’d ordered the champagne.

“Oh yeah? What’d ya pay for her?” he returned, mouth curling up in a wicked smile.

Even above the booming music, you could make out peals of laughter as the men around you shared in some lewd, crude comments and several whispers exchanged between them. You would’ve liked to grab your bottle by the neck and break it over the nearest patron’s head, but then you remembered yourself, and your mission. You stilled beside Schröder and let them crack a few more tasteless jokes at your expense. Schröder chuckled and set the tray down in front of a thoroughly amused Pierce.

Then he grabbed you by the waist.

“Right. I forgot to ask—what is your price, sweetheart?” he said, swiftly pulling you up to his front.

Your hands flew to his chest reflexively. Your nose scrunched in a wince at the sound of an electric shout:

“GET HIM OFF OF HER!”

“Bucky, hey, hey, we can’t just—”

“NO! THAT’S NOT PART OF THE FUCKING PL—”

The line went silent. You scratched at the space behind your ear, trying hard not to betray any pain on your face, or the fear for what might be going on downstairs.

Clearly, you failed on both fronts, because Joey’s grip only tightened. He peered down at you, curious.

“You deaf or somethin’, sugar? What’s your price?”

You batted your eyes, momentarily struggling for words.

But then, somehow, you managed to choke out, stomach churning with bile:

“Whatever you want, sir.”

You felt your soul drain out through the soles of your shoes as you’d said it. Something fell from your face—most likely a light behind your eyes and any semblance of self-worth as you stood before the man who had tried to buy you, drug you, and kill half your family, and then pretend like you wanted to dance for him, or do more.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t right by any means, but it was all just roleplay.

Roleplay.

You had to keep telling yourself that as you let Schröder’s hand glide up your spine and grip the back of your neck, tilting your head up to his. It was just like your husband and his cold-blooded Winter Soldier persona, you tried to convince the increasingly frightened voice in your mind. Just like him, just like your sweet and soft and sadistic—

“Bucky,” you whispered unconsciously.

You knew he couldn’t hear you now. It was almost insane to think anyone could save you now but yourself.

“What?” Joey exhaled sharply.

You froze in fear.

“Five hundred bucks,” you corrected your error quickly.

You weren’t sure Schröder was convinced.

“Five hundred bucks for one lap dance and some fun?” he scoffed. Then he squeezed your neck a little tighter and drew your face within an inch of his own. You could feel the hot puffs of breath, smell the rancid liquor on his tongue, but you stayed where he held you in place and tried not to grimace when he said, “That’s a damn steal.”

Your lips were shaking something awful under your mask. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what kissing this vile, soulless bastard would taste like, but you feared it might come sooner than you knew, because Joey was drawing you even more rough and tight into his chest.

Just when your mouth was less than a hair’s breadth away from his, though, you heard a woman’s scream.

Then another. And another. And another.

Before long, almost half the suite had erupted in shrieks, it seemed, and the sounds of their horror were shortly supplanted by a series of explosions. And gunfire.

Johann Schröder dropped your body like the worst habit known to man and went bounding away from the turmoil as fast as he could. This time, you did trip over your heels and took a nasty little nosedive to the ground. Fumbling, crawling, then sliding across the shag carpet on your belly with your eyes in wild search of somewhere to hide.

You spotted a coffee table and muscled your way over.

“SCHRÖDER!” a voice roared from somewhere behind.

Again, you knew better than to look, but the fear of not knowing who, or what, might be barreling your direction at any second outweighed more sensible considerations. You stole a look over your shoulder and nearly screamed.

A man with a pitch black balaclava stormed into the lounge and wasted no time setting sights on his intended target—raising a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun to his face and firing the second the impulse struck.

You watched a once-handsome, lively, and drunk man turn to shredded, fleshy carnage in less than an instant and fall right beside your head with a thud. Your hand was your only defense to keep the shriek inside your chest, but even that blockade was crumbling fast as the blood-soaked assassin wrenched the body in the air.

The gunman tore the mask from his victim’s head and inspected the face—or what was left of it. He cursed.

You could tell from your close proximity to the blues of his eyes, and that sigh, you wouldn’t need to ask at all. You just sat there and stared, knees hugged to your chest as Bucky threw the body back down as hard as he could.

“FUCK!” he bellowed, voice flooded with rage.

Steve stumbled in with his gun at the ready. He eyed the man on the floor, then you, then a dozen other flailing, desperate partygoers trying to escape the suite all around you. You just drew in even tighter to the table.

“What happened?! Where’d he go?”

Rogers, like you, seemed unable to look away from the carcass, but for entirely different reasons. He appeared to be studying it just as your husband had been.

“It’s not Schröder!” Bucky yelled.

“Where the fuck’s he— shit.”

Suddenly, an unknown assailant opened fire on the two men from the opposite end of the room. Both dove for cover, but not before Bucky grabbed you and dragged you, full-force, behind the sofa. It didn’t seem there was time for sweet words or consolations, his eyes wide and half-crazed as they bore into yours just in front of you.

“Don’t move,” he barked, readjusting his grip on his gun in one hand and feeling around all over your sides with the other. On seeing and feeling no trauma, he nodded his head and moved his hand to your cheek, just briefly.

“Honey, I need you here—right here for me, alright? Don’t move a muscle,” he spoke low as Steve covered from above, rapid-fire shots ringing out on both sides.

Rushed and furious as he was, he couldn’t help but linger on that face a half-second longer than he intended. You were shaking your head and hugging your knees, meeting his eyes with what seemed to be reproach.

“You promised, Bucky,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

You were in shock, that was what it was, he kept telling himself. You didn’t know what you were saying, and he needed to turn away to help Steve, but then you were eyeing that body—that man he could’ve sworn was Schröder when he’d pumped him full of bullets—and you were turning back to him with unmistakable disgust.

He would’ve fallen to his knees and begged his wife for forgiveness if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand. Like your life and his, and Steve’s—and Sam’s, now, bursting onto the scene with a semi-automatic rifle of his own as he helped his friend gun down the last of the stragglers. Bucky knew he had to help them, too.

So he’d stumbled back on his feet, less conscious than acting on pure impulse, and he joined in on the gunfire.

He reckoned he liked it. However long it lasted. He just rolled his shoulders once and sent the rounds flying; he ducked and he moved and he stood and he crouched and he fired every shot as if it were as easy to him as breathing. He didn’t think. When the three of them had cleared the lounge, and Sam and Steve tore off toward the two or three remaining rooms at the rear of the suite, Bucky still wasn’t fully present in his body. All he knew was that his clip was near-empty and his side was in pain—and the room they had emptied was safe. For you.

For you—where the fuck had you gone?!

Bucky barreled past the spot behind the couch where you were supposed to have been, but weren’t, and made a beeline for the closest room over. And nothing. More empty, threadbare, and bloody rooms filled with bodies that didn’t belong to you, and shortly he was yelling for Sam or Steve or anyone in that massacred suite to help him find his wife. The breaths in his chest were heaving.

He turned once, twice, eyes roaming wildly and hand grabbing fast for more ammo. He couldn’t find any more. Beads of sweat began to collect on his brow, and just when he turned to call for backup once more, he paused.

In his periphery, he saw two forms.

He stopped fully and turned to the side.

If it was fear he had felt just then, he wasn’t aware of it. Instead, it seemed a white-hot and blinding ire had taken over, and rather than grow timid, or afraid, he went cold.

“Bucky…don’t,” you managed in a strangled, hoarse tone, throat visibly contained by a blade being held to it.

Behind you, a man stood masked and unflinchingly calm.

Bucky knew that wouldn’t do—no matter how hard or helplessly you pleaded with him then not to do it, please don’t do it, Bucky, please. All he heard in his head was the throb of his pulse, and all he saw before him was red.

He fired without a second thought.

The round just grazed the edge of the man’s cheek.

Bucky swore. Tried to fire his gun again. It was empty.

Still not thinking, much less hearing his wife’s desperate cries for him to spare the man’s life, he grabbed the smallest, sharpest object that was closest to him and charged your would-be attacker head on.

Both men fell to the floor, but only Bucky was mobile.

Only Bucky held the weapon now, as his opponent’s knife had been lost somewhere in the skirmish, and he was wielding it now faster than he ever had before, he thought—an ice pick, of all fucking things—driving it into the man’s face and neck and chest without the slightest regard for anything else.

Somewhere far outside his mind, he heard you scream. Felt you claw at his arm, grip at his shirt, make some wild, shrill, and vehement pleas that he couldn’t begin to understand in this state, and he continued. Hadn’t even considered slowing down until the man’s carotid was shredded in two and spewing blood all over his front.

Bucky couldn’t be sure how long it lasted like that; all he remembered was stumbling back, energy spent, fist still holding the pick and eyes duly glued to the body he’d just stabbed through and maimed until no life was left.

He saw you crawl over the body.

He wanted to warn you not to touch it. Lifted a hand and tried his best to form words, but nothing came out.

He watched you lift the mask.

From that point on, he was certain he had to have been seeing things that weren’t really there. Trauma-induced psychosis, he tried to assuage himself silently—that was the only explanation for the scene unfolding before him. Surely it couldn’t be you cupping that face, pinching that skin, shaking that cold and lifeless, blood-drenched frame beneath you as a sob racked through your own.

That signet ring on a pinky couldn’t have been real.

Bucky didn’t want to believe that gruesome discovery made manifest before him—in many ways, he couldn’t—but then it was painted clear as day as the cries endured, nothing changed, and a helpless, frantic wail rang out:

“DAD!”

—

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[the-copycat-hero]

AU where Toga is a student at UA and Monoma is the UA spy and part of the League of Villains

Toga's parents freak out upon seeing their daughter drinking blood, but rather than responding in the worst way humanly possible they actually try to seek help.

Vlad King, who also has a blood-based quirk, takes a particular interest in their case; he ends up serving as Toga's mentor and teaching her how to mitigate her bloodlust.

when Toga applies to UA later on, Vlad is also assigned to be her common room teacher.

Monoma, in contrast, spends years facing relentless bullying and scorn from his classmates, who either think his quirk useless or villainous.

he finds no support at home, where his cold and distant parents only pay him mind if it is to reproach him for something he has done or been falsely accused of doing at school. (as it turns out, [Copy] makes him the perfect scapegoat.)

Monoma's pain and resentment grow and grow, but he is initially determined to become a hero and prove everyone wrong regardless.

his dreams are ultimately crushed when, at nine years old, Monoma accidentally copies and activates a destructive quirk at one of his parents' work parties. in a series of horrible events, he ends up scorching a majority of the family manor to the ground, killing and/or seriously injuring the dozens of individuals trapped inside.

as Monoma is staggering from the scene, he is found by Compress, who takes one look at this sobbing, shivering child covered in soot and decides to take him under his wing.

Compress doesn't actually recruit Monoma to join the league - he just took him in because it felt like the proper thing to do - but Monoma finds out about Compress's involvement in the League and refuses to be left out.

the League insists on Monoma carrying a weapon, so he learns how to fight with a staff and some short daggers.

the League has Monoma apply to UA to serve as a spy and he ends up in class B; Monoma ends up fostering a deep distaste towards class A because everything about Bakugo pisses him off, and no one around Bakugo even attempts to keep him in check. (it reminds Monoma a lot of his old bullies and how everyone just sat back and let them treat him so horribly. all heroes are the same, huh.)

while at UA, Monoma does NOT present himself as someone with a copy quirk. instead, he carries around a marble that Compress gave him that contains someone with a teleportation quirk so that he can copy it instead. (the distance that Monoma can teleport is greatly reduced since he is copying the power from the marble and not directly from the source, but he's able to work with the short range).

despite his best efforts to remain focused on the task at hand, Monoma ends up befriending some of his classmates. (uh-oh).

some notes

even as a hero student, Toga still struggles with a lot of stigma surrounding her quirk and ends up falling for Midoriya when he expresses nothing but awe over her abilities

Toga also falls for Uraraka who, despite initially reacting poorly to Toga's quirk, is someone that Toga feels a deep connection to. (it's the rivals-to-friends-to-lovers, 100k slow burn scenario that Toga has always dreamed of)

Monoma is still drawn to Shinsou (it is a Universal Constant); he sees Shinsou's performance at the Sports Festival and is instantly smitten. it helps that he still feels that connection to Shinsou, RE: having "unfavorable" quirks.

the fact that Shinsou is NOT in the hero course while some of these other clowns are only feeds into Monoma's growing hatred towards the heroics system as a whole.

[rosethornewrites]

NR, E, & M reading since 2/15

Finished

Not Rated:

Second Madame Nie update, by nirejseki

Prompt: I'm still in love with Second madam nie. Anything from her POV, maybe including her favourite person, nie mingjue?

No Loss, by eb4life (24 chapters)

After being forced to remain stuck in his wolf form by Madam Yu, Wei Wuxian conforms to her wishes of making it appear that he's runaway from home by doing just that. When he's God knows how far from home and manages to get captured by the knights of a king he's only heard rumors of, Wei Wuxian expects to be killed or imprisoned as the king's personal attack dog. He doesn't expect to move from "exotic pet" to "closest friend" within only weeks of his stay at the king's side. This story is inspired by Bisclavret.

Explicit:

vintage youth, by sami (3 chapters)

After thirteen years spent believing Wei Wuxian was dead, Lan Wangji isn't going to let a minor detail like Wei Ying is a fugitive from the law come between them.

all the trembling ways, by typefortydeductions (🔒)

"Lan Zhan. I haven’t -- I mean, I’ve kissed people! But I’ve not. Not anything else.”

Wei Ying can’t look up. He can feel how hot his cheeks are. His whole face must be burning. He wishes he’d worn something else, something less obviously wanting.

“Not anything?” Lan Zhan breathes. He sounds -- Wei Ying isn’t quite sure what he sounds, but it isn’t disappointed. He risks a peek upwards, through his eyelashes, like Lan Zhan’s face will be more bearable in the diffuse. Lan Zhan’s mouth is open slightly. Wei Ying shakes his head, and Lan Zhan’s hands come up to his cheeks, tipping his head back up.

“Wei Ying.” he says, softly, and leans in to kiss him. It’s softer this time, but just as deep, his tongue sweeping gently along Wei Ying’s lower lip, coaxing. Showing, Wei Ying realises. Letting him learn. He feels the heat rise again, but it’s different this time, contained, somehow, by Lan Zhan’s firm hands, the warm press of his chest.

“Will you let me show you?” he asks."

//

Lan Zhan teaches Wei Ying how to feel good.

Mature:

At the end of all things, by Entityx (🔒)

Lan Wangji is aware that he is not the only one who is left haunted by constant bloodshed.

Everyone has changed over the course of the Sunshot Campaign. However the one who underwent the most drastic change was undeniable.

It's subtle- he's still friendly and boisterous with members of his sect. But he is not truly open anymore. Gone is the optimistic boy who radiated sincerity with every word. Instead he is replaced with a hollow imitation, with a smile cracked at the edges, and a laugh that is too hollow to fool anyone.

if you could see the man I am, by sami (2nd in a series)

Lan Wangji spent thirteen years believing Wei Wuxian was dead.

Unfinished

Not Rated:

The Devil That You Forgot, by pottedplnt

Wei Ying has always been a smart child, so when he finds himself back on the streets he was taken from, he decides to make the most of it. Even when he's half-starved, severely injured, and just thrown into the worst place he can think of, he'll come back. And god help anyone who gets in the way of his peaceful life.

The worth of a life with no regrets, by SnowdropsAndDreams

It was hopeless. Utterly hopeless.

The night hunt had gone disastrously wrong and Wei Wuxian's tiny pebble of a core isn't enough to save him. But Jiang Cheng will be damned before he watches another sibling die in his arms, especially one that miraculously came back from the dead.

"I'm going to die here, Jiang Cheng. We both know it. But unlike last time, I'm going to make it meaningful."

"I know of a forbidden array that can turn back time."

"Didi, do you want to come with me?"

Or, a time travel fix-it fic where Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng work together as brothers.

Explicit:

The Second Hand Unwinds, by trulywicked (🔒)

Sent back in time without his husband after a night hunt gone wrong, Lan Wangji is determined to ensure that Wei Wuxian’s safety and in the process hopefully mitigate, if not prevent, the war.

Through marriage among other things.

Heart of the Beast, by WaitForTheSnitch

“Wei Ying?” Nie Mingjue prompted him gently. “Where are your parents?”

“They went on a night hunt,” Wei Ying said, a bit evasively.

“Your parents are cultivators?” Da-ge asked in surprise. “Did they leave you here while they hunted? When did they go on their night hunt?”

“Four summers ago,” Wei Ying said a bit uncomfortable.

“Four summers ago,” Nie Mingjue repeated. “What are your parents’ names?”

“My mama is Cangse Sanren and my baba is Wei Changze,” Wei Ying told him, and recognition registered in Nie Mingjue’s eyes.

“Wei Ying,” Nie Mingjue said, sounding a bit regretful, “Your parents aren’t coming back.”

Or, Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang run into Wei Ying while in Yiling and decide to bring him home. And it changes everything.

Mature:

A twist in time, by Souldealertm

Wei WuXian and Lan WangJi got their happy ending, however the pain and loss of the past is still haunting them and many others. The previous generation has messed up horribly and caused the generations to come great pain. Now some of the people from the previous generation have gotten a second chance to fix everything and give their children and grandchildren a better future.

fighting for both of us, by chocosmei

When Wei Wuxian loses control to the Yin Tiger Tally at Nightless City, possibly his last siege of this life, Lan Wangji tries to take the Yiling Laozu to safety by trying to hide him. Without success and finding no other option, he will take the most dangerous risk, trying a method that he doesn’t even know if it’ll work:

An unknown talisman.

In hopes of this being their last chance to surviving, but feeling extremely miserable for resorting to something as dangerous as demonic cultivation, he takes Wei Wuxian’s injured body in his arms, takes his sword “Bichen”, and cuts his own fingers just enough for them to bleed tiny bloody droplets. He takes the talismans written with his and Wei Wuxian’s blood and activates it before anyone can reach them and stop Lan Wangji. The voices of his Shufu, Xiongzhang and elders disperse to complete silence and darkness.

[hwaightme]

Your fan, Seonghwa (part 2, series finale)

(part 1) (your fan ml)

🛸 pairing: seonghwa x nerdfluencer & physicist!reader 🛸 genre: romance, fluff, mutual pining 🛸 summary: a bulletpoint-style wordstream of what it would be like if seonghwa was stanning you 🛸 wordcount: 6.0k 🛸 warnings/tags: language, noraebang chaos, mc knows too much, seonghwa is a star, IT ALL COMES TOGETHER, crossover hours, is it christmas again? 🛸 taglist: @doom-fics @layzfeelit @acciocriativity @izuijin @justhere4kpop @honey-lemon-goose @i-luvsang @jcngh0-hq @black--awsum @jackinmyarea 🛸 a/n: HI! THIS IS THE END (hold your breath and count to 10) oh my word... I am so unbelievably grateful for all of you, for your love and support, for inspiring and for believing. Without you, none of this would have happened. Much love, and biggest hugs, and stay tuned for more to come in the future!!

You needed to act quick if you were going to solve anything. Time was against you, considering that in a month’s time ATEEZ were going to be going on tour, and you needed to write another chapter of your thesis that discussed experimental set up and some predictive modelling.

As you watched your computer crash yet another time, deleting the data that you had implemented into the physics simulator engine, you decided to give up for the evening and figure out how to get your plan, your life experiment, running.

Your thoughts had drifted to trying to immerse yourself in Seonghwa’s world. You were clueless when it came to music, and aside from listening, did not do much else. But what you were always ready for, was others’ enthusiasm, You wanted to see that glint in Seonghwa’s eyes return to him, you wanted him to be himself and to be proud of what he had achieved.

You were no stranger to creative ruts, to self-doubt and trying to pretend to be someone you were not. It was almost a rite of passage in STEM, and you could only imagine how intense it could be in the creative and liberal arts. In that state, one tries to remove themselves from what they can actually do, steps away from that they have overcome and believe that the work of others is something they need to measure themselves against.

This was what you had observed in Seonghwa, and this was disconcerting. Of course, you appreciated the fact that every time you called, and met, he could impress you with his newly acquired knowledge in your subject… but at the end of the day… it was something you already knew. It was something that was second nature to you, and removed his own beauty from the conversation. You stared liking Seonghwa not because he was an astrophysics enthusiast (especially since when he tried to be, it was evident that it was giving him unnecessary amount of stress), but because he was himself. That adorable nerd sitting in front of a camera having the time of his life assembling Lego. That more than cute man who was over the moon when you were raving with him about the lightsaber he had as part of his collection. The wonderful, brilliant, Seonghwa who had so much to share with you, so much to teach you, but instead was hiding his genius away. The last thing you ever wanted to do was to change him, so for the sake of humanity and the universe not exploding, it was time to act.

After a quick ideation session, your intentions and your plan was clear – but, you needed to go to a more public space for it, and every fibre of your being was screaming THIS IS A RISK. But a risk you were willing to take, and were ready to go through every mitigation strategy in the risk assessment framework that you had drawn up on eight post-its you had stuck side by side on your desk. Though, prior to doing any of that, being the certified adult and professional researcher you were, you needed permission for this to go ahead. You had already heard from Seonghwa about the number of times that his members had caused unnecessary chaos, and you were not about to join the ‘horsemen of the ateezpocalypse’ ranks. You needed to call the captain.

You were lucky that most of your friends had an equally strange schedule that made one question what time zone they actually lived in, so your close bestie who owned ‘dream-ity’ and had the patience of a saint to be able to handle none other than Jung Wooyoung, had sent over Hongjoong’s number at lightning speed, though not without trying to figure out why exactly you needed it. She already knew that you were ‘seeing’ Seonghwa, but none of the details. Neither you, nor the eldest member, apparently, were cracking about anything more ‘tea-esque’ that was going on between you.

She did initially offer to send you her boyfriend’s number but considering that Seonghwa had explicitly stated that that certain someone was the equivalent of his personal sleep paralysis demon and the real reason why his hair for the comeback was stark white (“it is not dye nor bleach, it is Marie Antoinette syndrome”), you politely refused, insisting to ‘go see the captain’, channelling your inner Karen.

Seemed that Hongjoong was also an interesting character who was able to respond to you in thirty seconds, at four in the morning. At least your friend had an early opening shift and needed to travel, this man was just night owling like you. Little did you know that this was the case because Hongjoong already had your number after ‘lovingly’ interrogating Seonghwa after your first meeting.

You had opened up the conversation by introducing yourself, stating your interests, and apologising for the disturbance. You had also inquired whether it would be possible to set up either a meeting or a call with Hongjoong, to discuss the details of your proposition, seeing as you needed approval and it may be easier to explain verbally. Hongjoong was pretty straightforward in his response:

<hongble telescope> call in 2 min?

<you> yes please thank you!

And in exactly two minutes, you were ‘face to face’ with none other than the captain of ATEEZ, who appeared to be located in his studio, hunched over just a little and in dim lighting. To be frank, you were not any better – you were still in your office, illuminated just by a couple of desk lamps, and were also gremlin-like in your posture. It was odd how, in some senses you two were alike.

“So, how is the woman who is making Seonghwa turn into a physics student?” Hongjoong joked, though it did not make you cheer up one bit. You felt a pang of guilt in your heart, and decided to launch straight in.

“About that. I have been quite concerned about Seonghwa recently.”

“In relation to physics?”

“Yes.”

Hongjoong ran a hand through his hair and looked off into the distance momentarily.

“Well, he has been kind of… out of it lately. I mean, when it comes to stages and stuff he is chill, because you know, professional and music is his passion and all that, but in the dorms, you are right he is a lot more isolated.”

“Yes, well, I am to blame for that, and I want to fix it.”

“Since when are you to blame? If anything, it is his choice so he should like… wake up.”

“Well, it is hard to kick away something that someone wants to do subconsciously, and I do not want to come across as the centre of the universe by no means, but when a person does something to try and impress you, you cannot help but feel responsible.”

“You know what, I like your approach. That’s admirable. Okay, then, go on. I am interested to hear what you are thinking.”

“Well, I want to prove to Seonghwa that he does not need to pretend to be someone who he is not. I really could not care less whether he knows anything about my line of work or not, what I want is for him to be happy.”

“You are just green flagging your way into my grumpy old man heart.”

“How are you old, Hongjoong? You are just caring-”

“Okay Y/N you are just going through a check list of how to make Hongjoong happy at this point.” He grinned and exclaimed, intertwining his fingers and leaning back in the spinning chair.

“Well, hah, I guess it is easier to do when you mean it. So, well, my point here is that… I need to take him to this one location that is a little bit more public, but I can assure you I will do everything within my power to make it safe.”

“Hold on, hold on, do you need to do that?”

“It is critical. There needs to be a little bit of a shock to the system but it is only beneficial.”

“Okay, now I am not so approving. How do I even know I can trust you? Being nice is one thing, being reliable and trustworthy is a whole other area. What is the deal? What do you know, or what can you do to prove that it will be okay?”

Frankly, Hongjoong was already pretty confident in the fact that he would be able to entrust Seonghwa to you – the eldest member’s heart was already in your hands, so what was the problem with just letting you two go for it? Hongjoong wondered whether he was being stopped by his frazzled nerves, which had been put through challenge after challenge with each of the members – even himself¸ in this chaotic journey to find and fight for love. But he needed to act in the role of responsible leader, so back to listening to you. How were you doing to impress him?

You needed to think fast. Here, every word mattered. Expressing your affection and concern was easy enough, since it was at the forefront of your mind, but here you had some six dimensional chess to play, and your opponent was a master – taking one look at the ATEEZ lore was enough, and how it was going to play out was going to be quite impressive…

Oh.

That was right.

You knew the secret of the lore.

That’s it.

You thanked your ability to hyperfixate for helping you go over all the diaries, the interviews and the albums and mvs and shorts that were linked to the story of ATEEZ. You were no stranger to extensive lore and saga-like evolution. You were a Star Wars fan, for goodness’ sake. On top of that, why had you studied the theory of relativity and quantum physics if you were never going to use it for the most abstract and obscure reasons? You felt as though you had just gathered all the infinity stones together and were about to snap an infinity glove. You looked straight into the camera with a soft smile gracing your lips, and began.

“Well, I am not sure about physical proof, but in terms of theoretical knowledge and carrying on the story of ATEEZ, I could talk you though a couple of my ideas that may or may not serve as proof for my understanding of the depth of your group, the importance of paying attention to the details, and future-forward ideation.”

Hongjoong did not look particularly impressed, since he had listened to enough ATINY explain to him some outrageous interpretations of the lore, that were anything but correct. But he was intrigued enough to motion to you to go on. And that, was when he had signed up for the shock of a lifetime.

You launched into a monologue that first, briefly summarised the relationship between every era, every little diversion and even the selection of concepts for stages. You were showcasing that really, to you, it had been simple all along, and you had been merely enjoying how they were executing what was already out in the open. When you transitioned smoothly into expressing your musings on future releases and the avenue down which the story will go, Hongjoong was dead quiet, and even stopped rocking in his chair. His jaw began to drop as you revealed a specific detail that was meant to be a plot twist – he had envisioned ATINY’s reaction so many times, and had been keeping this a secret even from his members, and here you were, saying it right back to him. Just who were you?

He was equal parts impressed and terrified, since you were a walking computer of ATEEZ knowledge. You could basically compromise the entirety of KQ with the amount of information you held. There was no choice now, it was not even a matter of trust – it was basically essential that you joined them at least for the sake of being silenced. He recalled how he had said to Seonghwa that he expected you would know at least a bit of the lore to a high level – well, he had never expected you to be able to lead a discussion on it. Hongjoong now desperately wanted to invite you to a chat with him and the CEO. This was essential for the business.

“Well, these are just my thoughts and feelings, of course. So take it with a pinch of salt.” You finished, smoothing the creases at the bottom of your shirt, a habit you had formed to calm your nerves during presentations.

“That is one big pinch of salt, Y/N. I think I will have to have you sign an NDA for that. And jeez, this has probably been the most original way someone had ever pledged allegiance to the ATEEZ mission… ever.” He whispered, suddenly looking a LOT more tired than he did at the beginning of your conversation.

“Thank… you?”

“Yeah… uh… so… where was it you wanted to go?” he recalled that he had not even asked what the public space was.

“Noraebang.”

“What the fu- did you actually just make my soul leave my body to ask if you could go sing some songs with Seonghwa?” he face palmed and massaged his temples. Damn, you really were a STEM person. Very careful. Though he could vibe with that – Seonghwa was not kidding when he said you were a mature and responsible human.

“Uh… well I needed to check with you because this is a venture outside of more secluded locations, I needed to hear your thoughts on whether it would be okay for Seonghwa to appear in a noraebang, how and when it would be possible-”

“My one request is you don’t talk lore with the guy, because I still want to maintain some authority. And ask him to take you to KQ at some point after, and I can arrange a meeting for then. I am not kidding about the NDA.”

“Sure. Thank you. Then the rest is… up to me?”

“Yes, go wild. Well, not wild, but I assume you know what a ‘safe and secure’ wild is?”

“That is basically what physics is.”

“Understandable-”

“-have a great day.”

“Yeah you are a walking green flag in my eyes, Y/N. I’ll text you some of the times when Seonghwa is free this week so you can organise the noraebang date, m’kay?”

“Perfect, thank you so much!”

When you ended the call, Hongjoong yeeted himself onto the sofa, face down, and began to run through the conversation that he would have to have with management – ‘big reveal an astrophysicist knows more than the group about the storyline that the group follows’.

-

Seonghwa was not enjoying the continuous winking from Hongjoong, not one bit. In addition, the fact that, upon receiving some kind of message on his phone, Wooyoung entered full sneak and snoop mode and kept on infiltrating the eldest members’ room – fifteen times in the last hour, to be exact, did not bode well for Seonghwa’s sanity. Though at least the latter member appeared to still be clueless, and pestering Hongjoong more than him.

And it only built up come the time of Seonghwa’s date with you. You had suggested to meet right outside the dorms, saying that it was going to be a surprise. His mind went right back to high school when there had been pop quizzes and surprise assessments – totally not emotional trauma speaking for him there. He recalled you had talked about some kind of conference, or convention related to space research – what if you were going to take him there? As much as he was into seeing you be very excited, and he was interested in the reality that inspired some of his favourite things on the planet, his brain would erupt or turn into goo from that much content.

He already had a hard time reviewing the online flashcards that he had created for whenever you would mention some kind of concept or word that he did not quite understand. Though you did not do it often, and never, ever did the horrid thing of overusing complicated terms just to put yourself above someone, he still went out of his way to study the thing that appeared to come naturally to your after so many years of practice, study and beyond impressive dedication to the craft. He felt that you deserved more than he could offer, that you were on your own gorgeous wavelength, and that he could only dream to reach it – if it could happen at least sometimes, that would be enough.

“Dude you are actually scary, why are you looking at that?” San slinked right up to him, pointing at the screen where there was a diagram explaining redshift and blueshift.

“Because I am ascending, San.”

“Hwa, you are not a scientist so why are you-” Mingi, who was in the process of trying to sneak a snack from the kitchen in his pocket, called out, but was quickly cut off by Hongjoong, who was standing right by his room’s door.

“-because he is respectful. If you guys had as much dedication as the guy then maybe, just maybe you would be able to carry the lore or at least pretend to understand it.”

“Why so salty?” San interjected, allowing Mingi to complete his mission without being spotted.

“Excuse you that’s called being well-seasoned.” Hongjoong retorted, not being quite sure what he meant but at least it was not salty.

“Ah yes, something that a near-retired gent such as yourself and a Thanksgiving turkey have in common.” Wooyoung appeared out of his room, shooting finger guns at the captain.

“Nah turkey doesn’t do it.” Yeosang called out, only having tuned into the conversation once something bird related was mentioned.

“Yes you guys, we have all converted to ‘blue bird’~” Yunho imitated Yeosang’s line in Halazia, deepening his voice. He was currently splayed out on the living room couch, trying to control his rage as he was repeatedly losing to Jongho at FIFA.

“We are not EATING the BLUE BIRD you GUYS!” Hongjoong sighed and tried to end the conversation.

Seonghwa sent him a grateful glance for the effective de-railing. As the members disappeared back into their respective corners of the dorm, he settled back down into one of the dining room chairs, only to be joined by Yunho, who decided to ‘take a break because he was not really feeling the game at the moment’, much to Jongho’s amusement.

“Hey… all okay?” Yunho whispered, making sure that others would not overhear their conversation.

“Yeah.” Seonghwa locked his phone and placed it face down. He tried to muster a smile, but it was a little challenging given that he could not figure out what he was going to face this evening.

“How are things with her?”

“Good. Thank you for driving me those last couple of times by the way.” Seonghwa tried to bring up the positive. Yunho, though he was able to choose violence, ended up being incredibly supportive of Seonghwa and his seeing you. To the point where he was competing with Hongjoong for best advice giver and most encouraging homie.

“Oh no problem at all. It its just awesome to see you so smitten, really. Just let me know if you need anything else, like ever. I’ll be there.”

“It really means a lot. But today she is taking me to some mystery location apparently.”

“Well you know hyung and I are right here, just sound the alarm and we will speed to wherever.”

“What would I do without you, Yunho?”

“Take the taxi.”

“Respectfully, bruh.”

“What, am I wrong?”

“Nah.”

“Good, let’s stop being sappy and get you ready, yeah?”

“READY FOR WHAT?” of course Wooyoung had to have listened into the conversation, and was more than ready to learn the ins and outs of what kind of stuff has been going on with Seonghwa.

“Seonghwa, do you want to-”

“It’s a date, Woo. It’s a date.”

“CAN I COME?”

“NO, YOU CANNOT!?!?!”

At least now he did not need to spend the next two hours stressing, but instead fighting a barrage of questions coming from all directions at once. At least Hongjoong and Yunho were already in the know, and Yeosang and Jongho were just not bothered enough and respected a thing called privacy (also known as – they will not hear the end of this from Wooyoung later anyways, so why bother now). So, he was getting it easy.

-

Out of all the places in Seoul where you could have taken him out on a date, a noraebang was probably one of the furthest down on the list. You had never explicitly expressed any interest in performing music or signing or… anything to do with you personally engaging in the art. You had given him the impression of exclusively being a listener, rather than someone who would belt songs into a microphone in front of a TV screen for fun. But he was not complaining. This was right up his alley.

You had taken every precaution, even if it meant paying a higher booking fee, checking the blueprints of the place to make sure you went down corridors with less people, choosing a noraebang that was primarily automated with little staff… you wanted this evening to be about Seonghwa and him having fun, rather than him having to worry about everything and everyone.

It was nothing short of brilliant to watch him as he ambled down to the room under the neon lights, excited at every piece of décor, and poking you a little whenever he would hear snippets of songs that he recognised. It was like someone had pulled a switch inside him, and the previously distressed and anxious Seonghwa was nowhere to be seen. This was the power of passion, and of music. And you felt beyond guilty for somehow having had played a part in making him believe that you did not want to see this.

Though nothing was explicitly your fault, and you did talk with Seonghwa about his life and abouthis career, you felt like you could, and should have tried harder. He deserved so much more than what you could offer, so you were willing to do anything to simply make him smile. And a trip to the noraebang was, as it turned out, a fantastic start.

You two had started off the evening with a couple of classic 90s hits, Dance with DOC by DJ DOC and I Know by Seo Taiji and the Boys, which progressed to Seonghwa fully serenading you with Perfect Man by Shinhwa, which you had picked because “haha, Seonghwa – Shinhwa sounds similar”, not realising that your ears were about to be blessed. Then you had made the discovery that Seonghwa was a girl group dance machine, and from Wonder Girls, to miss A to 2NE1 you two were losing yourself in the music, with Seonghwa actively trying to teach you key points of every choreo. As you came closer and closer to choosing more recently released tunes, however, you noticed a lull in Seonghwa’s enthusiasm. He appeared to be hesitant in carrying on with your concert, glancing at you more often, asking if you were okay, if you were happy, what your preferences were.

As minutes turned into an hour, and then were beginning to approach the second, he started getting worried about your interest. Were you doing this because you actually wanted to, or because you felt pity for him and wanted to ‘bring yourself down to his little bubble’ and have a good sing-along. Long rumination session short – he needed a reminder for just what he had achieved.

With every look he was sending in your direction, you were getting more and more annoyed. Not at Seonghwa, but at the fact that he was so quick to disregard his brilliance. Compare himself. View himself as someone who had 'not done much'. While being humble was admirable, and how he was grateful to everyone who was helping him made your heart swell, he was approaching irrational levels of self-disregard.

"Hey, Seonghwa. Can I quickly tell you something?"

"Oh if you are tired we can-"

"What makes you happy?"

"What?"

"What makes you happy?"

"Uhm... is this a trick question?"

"This is not a quiz, Seonghwa. What I want to hear is the truth. Otherwise, I will just try to answer for you.”

"You?"

"Smooth, but scratch that for a second. Does music make you happy? In another life, would you still be ATEEZ?"

"...Yes."

"Good! That is what I wanted to hear. So why are you not living it when you are with me?"

"But I... well... we bonded over space? And Lego? And sci fi and... things not to related to music... so I decided that this was what would help me be closer to you."

"I am glad that it helped us bond, I really am. But at the same time, I am upset that I made an impression on you that this was all I was interested in. I know you go out of your way to learn more about what I do. I know that you spend hours picking apart the vocabulary, the ideas I drop without thinking. I know that you care so much and put that above what you love. But this is consuming you. I am so sorry for it. I am taking away from your happiness."

"But this is not... your fault? In the slightest? I want to learn more, and I want to know what you like-”

"Relationships are a two-way street, Seonghwa. So, if there is imbalance, I am to blame too. I like you for who you are, not for who you try to morph yourself to be. I am an idiot for not diving into music until now. I am upset at myself for not enabling you to shine to the fullest. Seonghwa, you are radiant. You are the most hardworking, respectable, persevering individual I know. You remember those times you mentioned how you approach practice? Passing it of as nothing special? Well I can guarantee you, you are one of the few who is so damn passionate and so deeply caring about the future, about ATEEZ, about music. You breathe this, and I want to see more of it. You deserve more than what the universe has to offer, and I as an astrophysicist can say that. And you, as an idol, singer, rapper, performer, dancer, artist, role model, actual model and SO MUCH MORE, can do me a favour and BELIEVE IN YOURSELF AND LOVE WHAT YOU HAVE ACHIEVED. You have so much to be proud of, and yes, I understand that sometimes there are days where you doubt yourself and are down in the dumps - hell, I have been there myself, but just know, that even if you feel that way, neither your fellow members, nor I feel the same. You are a guiding star for many, and the one I will always look for in the infinite expanse."

"I... I really don't know what to say.... Y/N..."

You could see that Seonghwa was beginning to tear up - you had expected for him to be the type of person to take such things more deeply, but did not predict that you would be misty-eyed right there with him. Before either of you became a sobbing mess, Seonghwa pulled you close, and into a tight hug. The way he held onto you alluded to a sort of fear. A fear that this was all an illusion. That it could disappear in the blink of an eye. But you were never going to feed into that. Instead, you moved your hands to cup his face, and stared deep into his eyes, finally closing the space between you with a sweet, reassuring kiss, full of love and promise.

--

You upheld your promise to Hongjoong, and had asked Seonghwa whether he would be comfortable with showing you around KQ. This had led him to immediately calling Hongjoong, who, much to his surprise, had apparently already organised everything for the same day next week, and now was simply asking Seonghwa to send his regards and warn you that you were probably going to be ambushed since the rest of the guys were going to find out pretty quickly. Oh, and that you had a meeting at two thirty in the afternoon, so better be at KQ by then. After ending the call, Seonghwa turned his head, eyes wide as a saucepans:

“Since when are you business partners with Hongjoong?”

“Probably since I had to call him to ask if it would be okay to organise this.” You gestured all around you, struggling to keep a straight face as EXO’s Growl played in the background.

“And what kind of meeting is he talking about?”

“Long story short I apparently need to sign a non-disclosure agreement. For… reasons.”

“No way. No freaking way you actually did it!” he exclaimed, putting his hands on his head.

“Did… what?” you tried to hide it since Hongjoong had asked you to not tell Seonghwa the specifics, but his reaction was too cute to resist.

“There is literally only one reason why he would want you to join in on some intellectual property protection schemes, and that is if you somehow managed to crack the lore. So… my darling has the ATEEZ multiverse in her hands isn’t that neat?!”

“I said nothing, by the way.”

“I don’t need you beefing with Joongie so neither of us know anything.”

--

Did you overprepare for what was supposed to be a casual visit? Yes. Did you regret it? Hell no. So, you lugged a heavy tote bag around with you with a great sense of pride, from room to room, studio to studio. Seonghwa asked you a couple of times whether it was too heavy or not, but you stated confidently that it was for an eight makes one team kind of moment.

The gifts contained in the tote bag were a collaboration between eight people, after all. It was not too hard to get in touch with everyone, and they were more than invested in the idea of figuring out a meaningful expression of gratitude. This was how, in a week’s time you had managed to coordinate the ultimate deliverable, exclusively for ATEEZ, and absolutely top secret.

Seonghwa managed to force entry into what had been planned as a meeting between you, Hongjoong and the CEO only, and ended up sitting in a corner, just loving the fact that you were his girlfriend and were so immersed in his work, as spooky theories and future release plans were being hurled around the room. Being sworn to secrecy had never felt as good for you as it did now, and the joy written across Seonghwa’s face as you ended up being able to uphold a discussion about some obscure science fiction anime that the CEO was a fan of served as further motivation.

After finishing the meeting and making your way to a staff-only cafeteria for a late lunch together with Hongjoong and Seonghwa, you were stopped on your tracks by a very distinct shout from behind you.

“SPACE RACE!?”

“Oh so you were not kidding when you said they interrogated you huh?” you turned to Seonghwa after having registered that the rest of ATEEZ were about to stampede you.

“Yep, and that, my dear, was Wooyoung altering you of his presence. Whether you stay still or run it does not really matter. He has you on his radar.” Seonghwa warned you, placing a hand on the small of your back.

“And his girlfriend is my friend.”

“You have too much power, I respect you.” Hongjoong whispered as the three of you turned to greet the rest of the members.

Yunho pushed himself through, introducing himself as the designated driver to a lot of your functions with Seonghwa, for which you bowed to him and thanked him. Yeosang mentioned that your work was very cool, and how he had read your interview in a science magazine published a few months ago, which took you aback, but made you feel honoured. The rest of the members were equally polite, though Jongho was the only one who managed to control his volume when greeting you.

“So, you here to talk science?”

“Only science that’s related to ATEEZ, so if you follow Hongjoong, Seonghwa and I to the cafeteria, I shall share all.”

And who would not sign up for a little mystery?

Once everyone had sat a large table, and were more or less settled down, you finally felt like you could reveal what had been prepared. But, not before quickly shooting a text to a group chat of all your collaborators: “it is happening”.

After looking around the oversized bag, you finally took out gift number one. It was a miniature FIFA World Cup style trophy, engraved with ‘ATEEZ’ and ‘8 makes 1 team’ right at the base. You noticed Jongho go pale, just as you had expected.

Then, there was a game for the console. A side project which a high profile game developer who you admired had been working on for what had been a few months apparently, but managed to wrap up in the time you had set – a Super Smash Bros style multiplayer, but with the boys as the playable characters. Yunho began to look side to side, trying to figure out whether it was only him to realised exactly who was behind this gift.

The next gift was a double combo – it was a CD, recorded by a rapper that was currently rapidly rising to fame, together with a well-designed booklet on the inside, containing the lyrics translated into seven other languages. Both San and Mingi melted into a puddle at the side, punching each other out of excitement.

One of your favourites was a present from your good friend at ‘dream-ity’ – an array of cookies with ornate icing designs, made to look exactly like the various editions of all albums that ATEEZ had ever released. You could hear Wooyoung whispering to himself ‘this cannot be happening and when did she have the time’ over and over again.

Next were eight custom jewellery pieces, matching bracelets for each of the members that were from a not yet available, highly exclusive collection from ARNURI. You had no idea how you had convinced the designer and owner of the brand to just gift that on a whim, but seeing just how Hongjoong.exe ceased to work explained it all.

Was it possible to make a mini magazine in the span of a week? Apparently so, especially when an expert has access to top quality blackmail material collected by none other than Yeosang. And that was exactly what he gravitated towards as soon as you produced it out of the bag. He leafed through page after page, seeing a collection of inside jokes, quotes and memes from both the internet and from his stories of the boys, and was near tearing up.

Seonghwa was staring at you, flabbergasted as you produced a framed mini poster. While the rest of the members were cooing over the various ATEEZ-themed presents, you looked at him, and quietly explained:

“So, this… this is a star map. Basically, how the sky looked like above Seoul, South Korea when you guys made your debut. And under this,” you turned the poster the other way around, and from behind the frame produced a certificate, “is a document confirming you having your own personal star, named after ATEEZ. So, here’s that.”

He covered his mouth with his hand, stifling a gasp.

“Eight makes one team?” you tried, noticing that all the members were either texting, or already calling their special people.

Seonghwa reached over to you, gleaming, thanking the universe time and time again. As he took your hand in his, and looked into your eyes, making time freeze, he whispered:

“Something tells me it’s sixteen.”

[shirohige-pirates]

Birds of a Feather

CisFem Reader x Marco

CW: Violence, blood, language, adult themes and scenes. 18+ only

Summary: Life has not been kind to you. After a string of bad relationships, you're a little jaded and a little depressed in all honestly. The worst day of your life seems to be the turning point, but the roller coaster ride that follows could either throw you soaring free, or have you caged forever?

Tag List: @clumsyraccoon @mfreedomstuff

Chapter 33: Options

Waking up was rough. The strange sensation of your dream clings to you and it takes you a minute to realize you’re even awake at all. The pain in your body is foreign because you didn’t feel it while you were in the Library - or the dream Library - and the sheets cling to you in a way that feels too heavy. Like they mean to consume you in retribution.

It takes a moment longer to realize you did not sleep in your bed last night. That the odd feeling of the sheets was because you were in someone else’s bed. Confusion shifts to understanding as you piece together the events of the night before. Pain zings through you when you move too quickly and you let yourself sink back into the mattress.

Marco took you to his family’s home because it was closer than your home. He’d used his devil fruit’s powers to ease your wounds, but it had sapped what was left of your strength. Even so you still hurt, but that was a testament to just how roughly you and Teach had clashed. At the end of things the only thing keeping you moving was adrenaline, and with that gone even rest couldn’t stave off the ache of your one-sided fight with Teach.

You stared at the ceiling and wondered idly if he was really dead.

It was true that you didn’t know much about your own devil fruit because of your fear of getting caught. You never shared the Library with anyone else, never mind throwing someone in there on their own. You didn’t know if that space really would eat someone to incorporate their knowledge or not.

You only even knew you could turn into an owl because you felt the need to do something and had ducked into the Library to test things out. Past actually changing into the shape and changing back, you’d never done anything else.

You’d spent years trying to make sure no one even knew you had a devil fruit, and while that hadn’t worked out for you, you’d like to think you at least mitigated the risks.

A soft knock at the door precedes Marco entering. He smiles when he sees you’re awake, tray of food in his hands.

“I wasn’t sure if you were still sleeping, yoi.” He explains, setting the tray down nearby. “And I didn’t want to come in without warning.” He sits down on the edge of the bed. “How’d you sleep?”

“Well enough.” You answer, wincing as you sit up.

“Hey, no, hold on.” Marco’s hands are on your shoulders, but you shift and give him a reassuring smile and he helps you sit up instead of trying to get you to lay back down.

“I’m just stiff from sleeping.” You reassure him. “I mean, things still ache, but nothing feels too bad.”

“After you eat we’ll need to change your bandages anyway.”

You start to remind him he’s a veterinarian, and then you remember that he spent years as the doctor on an Emperor’s ship. “What time is it?”

“Close to ten,” he answers, setting the tray across your lap. “It was after one when we got back here, yoi. Ivan wants you to call him once you’re up for it. He’s been coordinating with Vista about getting us to Drop Island without anyone noticing.”

“Vistaaaah- ah, one of your many brothers.” You nod as you begin eating. “I remember you talking about him. I…” You stop, looking down at your food. “You never mentioned Teach, I really should’ve known better.”

“I should’ve told you about him.” Marco insists, sitting at the end of the bed. “I knew he was focused on his goal, but I didn’t think it was going to be to such an extent.”

You shake your head. “With how everything came together for him, it was probably for the best it unfolded the way it did. I don’t want to think about how poorly things could’ve gone if they’d happened differently.”

Marco concedes the point, checking his phone as you eat and moving the tray aside once you’re done. He takes your hand, leading you into the hallway and down to a nearby bathroom. You realize quickly how large his family’s estate must be when an auxiliary bathroom has as much space as this one.

Marco helps you strip, and carefully removes the bandages from you. He strips as well, and gets the shower running. It’s certainly big enough for both of you, and the lip edge is set low.

“Pops and the nurses stayed on this floor while he was still alive,” Marco says, answering questions you haven’t even asked yet. “This bathroom was made for easy access for Pops and the nurses. Afterward I used it when any of the kids got hurt. The room right across the hall is set up as a small clinic space.”

“This place is bigger than I thought.” You laugh nervously as Marco moves you both into the warm water, and starts carefully cleaning you up.

“Yeah, it’s 248,000 square feet.” You freeze in place and Marco nearly snorts. You look at him and his control breaks and he laughs.

“Are you-.”

“I’m not kidding, yoi!” He insists, laughing more despite it. “The Moby was over two million square feet, the house is small comparatively. We couldn’t convert the entire ship, and the manor only has five floors.”

“Only.” You nearly choke the words, letting Marco help you wash up. You’d be more useful if he hadn’t nearly broken your brain with statistics about the house. “I knew this place was going to be large, I guess I just didn’t realize how large.”

“Well, the entire estate is almost a hundred acres, and there’s a few smaller houses.” Marco says, grinning and you put your face in your hand. “The manor’s only home to a few of us, and some of my married siblings live in other houses on the land.”

“You weren’t worried about your brothers,” you begin, as Marco starts to rinse you both off. “You were worried I’d see the size of this place when you came here to grab your clothes and a toothbrush and have an existential crisis.” You tease.

He laughs, giving you a quick kiss before trading places with you so he can clean up. The shower area is so large there’s a little ledge you can sit on while he washes up.

“Honestly I hadn’t thought about it,” he admits sheepishly. “I was worried about my brothers so much I didn’t even think about the impact the manor would have, yoi. We’ve been here for a long time now, and there’s so many people it just doesn’t feel fancy.”

“It feels like home.” You say and Marco pauses for a moment before smiling and nodding.

“Yeah.”

You lean against the wall as Marco goes through his own routine. You grin after a moment and tilt your head a little.

“Don’t rush on my account.” You say, biting your bottom lip when he looks over his shoulder at you.

With a smile he turns and faces you. “You can look, mi cielo, but until you heal you’re not doing much more than that.”

Your grin breaks into a wide smile. “If I work up enough of an appetite I might actually keep you under me for once.”

You see a few small flames lick Marco’s skin as blush rushes to his cheeks. His expression is mostly unchanged despite the other things he’s not controlling well, and he returns his focus to cleaning up. You take the win for what it is, stretching slowly and trying not to let the aches in your body ruin your brightening mood.

The shower cuts off and Marco gives you a hand up. It’s frustrating how much you ache, but considering how things could have gone, this was a small price.

He’s careful as he dries you off, and you barely twitch or flinch.

“I knew when I healed you as much as I could last night that I wouldn’t have to worry while you slept, but this is worse than I thought it was.” There was anger in his voice, and you could feel the heavy warmth of his flames. The pains and aches ease, and for a brief moment almost vanish entirely.

“I can’t sleep all day again.” You warn softly.

“Aye,” he replies, leaning forward and kissing the back of your shoulder. “I’m not going to exhaust you. You swelled up and bruised bad while you slept, I’m just going to do enough to lessen it before we wrap you back up.”

There’s a long quiet moment before the warmth of his flames fade, and you can feel the leftover pain settle back into your bones.

“I’m going to throw him into the ocean.” He growls through grit teeth, fingers tracing very carefully over your back. You tense, thinking about your dream and Marco’s hand rests a little heavier against your back. “Sorry, pretty bird, it’s not a pleasant topic, I know.”

You shake your head. “That’s… not it.” Breathing in slowly you let it out and turn so you’re facing him. “I had a dream last night, and… I don’t… I don’t know how to say this, but I think Teach is already dead.”

Marco’s brows raise, and after a moment’s consideration they furrow a little. “What makes you think that?”

“I dreamt the Library ate him.” You admit, looking up at him sheepishly. It sounds wildly improbable when you say it out loud.

The look of shock on Marco’s face almost makes you smile despite the heavy topic. “Ate him?” You nod. “… It does that?”

You shrug. “I don’t really know what it does. I rarely used it, and when I did it was just to read. I used it once to transform just so I knew what that was like, but I’ve been trying to live like I don’t have a fruit for ten years. I don’t really know what it can do.”

Looking away from him you start to speak and stop a few times before sorting out what you wanted to say. Marco waited patiently, as he always did.

“It’s not: What if I killed your brother,” you finally explain. “It’s: What if he only died because I didn’t learn how to control my ability?”

Marco leans forward, wrapping his arms around you and letting you rest your head against his chest. His embrace is careful, gentle where it needs to be, and holding onto you as tightly as he dares to in the places he can. He kisses the top of your head, mindful of the cut that’s going to be healing for a few days yet, even if he tends to it every day.

“What you did brought you to me,” he says quietly. “Every choice, yoi. Whether Teach is alive or not doesn’t matter to me as much as your being here right now does.”

“But -.”

“You didn’t kill him.” Marco interrupts, leaning you both back so he can look into your eyes. “Whether the Library did, or we have to later, you’re not at fault.”

You know he’s trying to console you. You don’t doubt that he means what he’s saying, but the weight of it all is too heavy. You’ve done a lot to keep yourself alive, but you’ve never had to make such a choice. It’s never been a matter of someone else’s life or your own.

What gave you the right to put yourself above another? Teach had certainly done things you couldn’t see as being right, but by the letter of the law you were the one with a bounty on your head. Was it immoral for him to turn you into the Government? Was it immoral for you to want to live peacefully regardless?

Was the only way to answer that with someone’s death?

“There had to be another way!” You finally shout. Marco’s fingers slip between your own and you can feel the building turmoil inside you subside a little from the gesture.

“Wasn’t there?” You ask quietly. “Isn’t there?”

“There are always options, mi cielo.” His face is twisted with painful understanding, and he caresses your cheek with a warm hand. “Living is deciding what options you can live with.”

“I didn’t pick this, though.” You press your lips together, holding back tears of frustration.

“No, you didn’t. Teach did.” He insists, leaning down and kissing the tear that escapes your eye. “We’re heading to Drop Island later today.” He explains, kissing your forehead. “I’d rather you stay here, but-.”

“No one else can open the Library.” You interject, nodding and leaning against him.

“I don’t mind losing… ta’ someone like that.”

Teach’s words echo in your mind from the dream, that crooked smile burned into your senses. It was like he was at peace, like he knew that such was the possibility of his choices, and if he was going to die then at least he was dying in a way that didn’t bother him.

“I’d want to be there anyway.”

“Oh?”

You nod, staying tucked against him. “Whatever is decided, whatever’s happened or not, I want to face it with you.”

Marco rests his chin carefully on top of your head, keeping you close for a minute before re-bandaging your wounds. You’re both quiet as he works, and you don’t complain when he helps you get dressed. No matter how the day goes, it’s not going to be easy.

But at least you won’t be alone.

[vampire-meta-knight]

Let's Make Cute Sweaters!!!

Listen up Tumblr, your local goth is going to teach you how to make an applique and sew it onto a sweater or sweatshirt.

Yeah, my pumpkin's wonky, but he's my Special Little Guy, and I love him.

I used plain, Time And Tru sweatshirts from Walmart that only cost about $10, but you can easily thrift a sweater or use one you already have that needs a little spice. The tombstone is made with felt, and the pumpkin is made from a plaid fat quarter--I will explain both methods, as they differ slightly.

Felt (the easiest): Find or draw a template (I searched tombstone templates for mine), cut it out, then use it to cut out the same shape from your felt of choice. If you want to embroider any details on your applique, like I did with the RIP and cracks, do that before sewing it onto the sweater. Put the sweater on and pin the applique where you want it to sit (doesn't have to be on the center--you could easily do elbow patches or a little patch off to the side), then do a blanket stitch by hand around the border for a decorative, clean way to attach it. I used 4 strands of embroidery floss in a contrasting color on the tombstone and six strands on the pumpkin--I think four works perfectly fine and is a little less bulky. Embroidery floss comes in every color imaginable and is pretty cheap, so you can experiment with color combos or even use multiple colored threads. You're welcome to play around with stitches and find something that works for you if you don't like the look of the blanket stitch, you can use a sewing machine instead, or you can safety-pin or fabric-glue the applique on if sewing isn't for you.

Optional: I sewed lace trim around the neckline and added a tiny bow for extra cuteness. If you're going to add lace trim, keep in mind that unless you're using stretchy lace, it'll hinder the stretch of the sweater. To mitigate this, I stretched the neckline a bit as I sewed and used a zig-zag stitch with my machine (you can sew it on by hand, too, just using wider stitches). I also must mention that the neckline on this sweater was decently wide without stretching, so even though it can't stretch as far anymore, it's no trouble getting it over my head. If you're using something with a tighter neckline, or tight cuffs on the sleeves, that really needs to stretch, then use stretchy lace or none at all. Bows are still something you can add that won't affect the stretch, so go wild with bows, buttons, safety pins, and all manner of little trinkets!

Cotton: The attachment process is still the same as the felt method, but making the applique is a little different. Since cotton isn't as sturdy as felt, and it frays, you need to prepare it differently. Before you cut out your shape, iron on lightweight fusible interfacing (sold at Walmart--make sure it's compatible with woven fabric if your fabric isn't stretchy and knit fabric if it is). I've made appliques without interfacing before, but they'll hold their shape much better and be sturdier if you do use it, so I recommend taking the couple extra minutes to iron it on. On the wrong side of your fabric, iron on a patch of interfacing large enough to fit your shape, let it cool, and then cut out your shape. I used an X-acto knife to cut out the face of the jack-o-lantern, which did pretty well, but did cause a bit of fraying that I cleaned up with my fabric scissors. To seal the edges, you can sew a zig-zag stitch around them, use an overlocker/serger, or use Fray-Check or fabric glue. I chose to do a zig-zag stitch so it'd be less noticeable under my blanket stitch, but I've used my serger in the past, and it looks nice, too--especially if you use a contrasting color. Now the process is exactly the same as the felt one.

Remember, it's perfectly okay if it has that "homemade look," and it doesn't need to look perfect or symmetrical, by any means! This is about having a fun little project to do while watching a show or some YouTube videos and sipping on some hot cocoa, knowing that you'll get a cute new sweater out of it that'll be unique and your own. And it's also okay to use it as stay-at-home lounge wear if it looks as wonky as Mr. Crooked Smile the pumpkin over there. Have fun, learn new techniques, and make happy little accidents!

Happy crafting!

[inklesspen]

Points system for HP AU fics

Fics have five points. Spend them wisely.

Identity games:

2: WBWL/Not the BWL

2: Cis female Harry

1: Trans female Harry who transitioned (including socially) before Hogwarts

2: Taken in by the Grangers before Hogwarts

1: "Lordships" are a thing

2: Harry's multiple Lordships means he needs multiple wives

2: James and/or Lily were secretly bad people

1: Harry has siblings

That's not how the Force magic works:

1: Single-participant magical oaths

2: Magical oaths can determine the truth of a particular claim (instead of requiring particular actions)

3: Author forgot that purebloods aren't actually better than muggleborns

1: "Family magicks" exist in any sense other than "we invented a spell and we only teach it to our family members"

1: Magical cores are a thing

3: Magical capacity (or strength of a magical ability, etc) is measured in percentages

3: Soulmates (in the sense of "the universe has assigned you a partner") are a thing

Albus Dumbledore School of Manipulation and Head Games:

2: Dumbledore obliviates Harry to keep him on the path

3: Dumbledore deliberately weakens Harry's magical strength

2: Anyone uses love potions, loyalty potions, etc (except for instances which occurred in canon, such as Romilda Vane's attempt) to control Harry or his friends

1: Dumbledore has deliberately crippled Hogwarts' curriculum to keep people ignorant of various things

2: Dumbledore has arranged marriage(s) for Harry

10: Dumbledore engineered Tom Riddle's rise for his own reasons

Misc:

1: Harry has a non-canonical disability (pre-Hogwarts)

3: Dursleys are sexually abusive

2: Harry, while 16 or younger, is paired romantically/sexually with someone 19 or older (exceptions for de-aging iff the author does it well)

1: Overly helpful goblins

3: Actual UK royals intervene in the magical world

1: Fictional UK royals intervene in the magical world

2: Actual UK politicians (prime ministers, for instance) intervene in the magical world

1: Hermione is shamed for her ignorant attitude toward house elf slavery

2: Frequent SPAG errors

10: Characters all sound exactly the same

1000: Muggleborns come from house elves pouring liquid magic in the water supply

Mitigating Factors:

+1: Author has written other fics I've enjoyed

+2: Fic involves time travel

+1: Fic has a really cool worldbuilding element (such as the broomsport "gliding")

+1: Tonks is nonbinary and this actually gets explored

+1: Harry is a metamorph

+1: Ginny retains parseltongue after the diary incident

+1: Harry and Delphini have a positive relationship (friendship, family, w/e)

[kellanved-ammanas]

Big Problem Chapter 2/5 - A Way Out

Pyro didn’t know a lot about mines but one thing he did know was that they weren’t tunnels. While some could certainly have multiple entrances or even cut clean through a mountain or whatever that wasn’t always the case. And thus taking the risk of dragging Medic – potentially with a cut off limb – deeper in the hopes an exit was down there somewhere wasn’t appealing. Even if there was, it might be a multi-hour long walk. Bad all on its own but it would also put them further away from the rest of the team who were probably looking for them by now. Their best bet was getting through the cave-in.

Naturally there the risk that the robots were still out there, waiting for them. How likely was that? … No way to know for sure but probably fairly low. Who in their right mind would wait around after a big explosion caused a cave-in to see if anyone crawled back out however many hours later? Assuming he and Medic hadn’t survived would’ve been a pretty safe conclusion to come to – it was pure luck that they had after all. Also, the rest of the team was still out there somewhere and thus should hopefully be keeping the remaining robots busy. So that was the direction Pyro was going to try to go in.

The question of how was pretty obvious upon taking stock of everything they had available to them; fireand a handful of explosive flares. Each individual flare didn’t make a huge explosion by itself but taking them apart and combing them might be enough to get them out without bringing everything else down around them.

After pacing out the entirety of the cave-in one more time to make sure he wasn’t missing anything important, he returned to sit beside Medic and told him the plan. “I’ll do it on the other side.” Medic was near one of the mine’s side walls, giving a decent amount of room to set off an explosive that shouldn’t be of much risk to him. “And maybe, I could make a smaller explosion to free you.” That would risky but as long as he was careful about where he set it off and how big it was, it should be less risky than chopping off Medic’s entire lower leg.

“Do you have enough to do that and ensure we get out?”

Pyro took a breath to say, ‘yes’ because he wanted that to be the case but well… “I don’t know. It depends on how thick the cave-in is and uh… it might be too thick to get through at all.” In which case their situation would go from bad to worse.

“Then don’t risk it. Put everything you have into getting us out.”

“But…”

“But nothing. This is the only exit we know exists so we should we should do everything we can take it if we can instead of dragging me who even knows how many miles to something that might just be a dead end. We could wait for the rest of the team to come rescue us but they don’t know we’re in here. Why would they think to look for us on the other side of a collapsed mine entrance?”

He was right because of course he was, he was almost always right. In this situation, doing everything they could to get through the cave-in was wise. On the other side were their allies and thus a ride back to base where safety and medical care would be. So… “Okay.”

With no time to waste on further deliberation, Pyro set both lighters – still with their pretty dancing flames but how much longer would the fuel in them last for? – to either side of him. Far enough apart that he would be able to see what he was doing while also mitigating the risk of blowing up the explosive while he was still working on it.

Next, he laid out everything he had. If asked to make an explosive like this in a non-emergency situation he’d have been confident in his ability to do it. But here and now, when it was life and death, he wasn’t so sure. If only he’d pushed Demo to teach him more about this kind of stuff. He’d only really wanted to learn how to make the explosive flares and everything beyond had just been for fun. When he got out of this, he’d go back to ask for more lessons in making explosives, just in case it ever came in handy again. For now though, he only had what he currently knew so, in hopes that it would be enough, he set to work.

He worked in silence, taking all but one of the flares apart to combine them into one big flare that wasn’t really a flare at all. Medic was silent too, uncharacteristic for him when he didn’t have much to do. A worrying sign but likely he was just in a lot of pain; his foot was crushed and his leg was broken so of course he wasn’t in a talkative mood. It would’ve been nice to listen to him ramble about something though, it’d make the atmosphere less heavy. But Pyro focusing solely on what he was doing was probably for the best anyway.

Thankfully, it didn’t take him too long to finish. In fact, it seemed to have been almost too easy. Something so important to get right should’ve been more difficult than that, right? Apparently not though. It wasn’t the most elegant of things and probably not the most effective of explosives either but that was to be expected given the non-ideal environment. Hopefully it would be enough though.

“Done,” he said as he looked back up at Medic. “How are you holding up?”

“I’ve been better.”

It would’ve been nice to offer him some comfort or make the situation better in some other way but… words couldn’t do much here. So instead, Pyro reached out to lightly pat his shoulder before placing the makeshift bomb on the ground for now grabbing one of the lighters. “Call if you need me,” he said as he stood up before heading off to walk along the cave-in wall again. He needed to find a place to plant his makeshift bomb.

Near the top of the rock wall would be best. Luckily, the mine’s ceiling was relatively low and the cave in was stable enough that he could clamber up and along it with relative ease even if doing so while holding the lighter in one hand made it a bit more difficult. Given that and the size of the cave in general, it didn’t take too long to find a suitable location. He was even able to pull out a few loose rocks to make a dent large enough to house it. Sadly, only a few though, as he was quickly met with a boulder that was too big to move without moving everything around it first – sadly, just plain digging out was likely not a viable option.

He left the lighter there to mark it as he slid down to head back to Medic and retrieve the makeshift bomb. Traversing the darkness between it and the little light left beside Medic was more nerve-wracking than he’d thought it’d be but thankfully it wasn’t very far.

“I just realized, I haven’t asked about you,” Medic said as Pyro reached him. “You’re not injured are you?”

“Not really.” Everything still hurt for sure but not so bad it impeded his ability to move. Though maybe that wasn’t saying much because he’d broken ribs before and hadn’t felt it was bad enough to complain about until Medic had asked why he was being a bit tender about hugs and holding things to his chest.

“That’s good at least. Really, we’re lucky to be alive. Let’s hope that luck continues.”

“It will.” Pyro didn’t know that for sure and was worried that wouldn’t be the case but it was better to at least outwardly be optimistic.

Medic’s only response was a tired sounding hum of acknowledgment.

Pyro bent down to gather up the makeshift bomb and the flare gun, the one remaining explosive flare already loaded into it. He was tempted to light a match during his trip back over to his designated bomb spot but refrained, going as fast as he dared instead. Which wasn’t very fast but relative to the distance, it got him there quick enough.

Once there, he climbed back up the wall, and pushed the bomb into the little hole he’d made, shoving it as far in as it could go. Next he moved the lighter down, just a little bit to continue to mark it without risking setting it off early. He’d have loved to leave a match and save the lighter from destruction but it wouldn’t have burned long enough to be useful. Even if he had plenty of spare lighters back at base, it still hurt to let one go but it had to be done.

He slid back down the wall. At the bottom he pulled out his box of matches. He struck one before starting to fast walk away. Its light was oh so pretty, if only he could light the whole box on fire. That would certainly produce a nice flame. But… no, he couldn’t. When they got back to base and after he’d made sure Medic would be okay he would light a big fire in the fireplace Medic had had installed in his room just for Pyro. Until then he had to be frugal and careful just in case.

As the flame burnt out, the match spent, Pyro stopped and turned back towards the wall. That should be far enough. He dropped the match and pulled out three more. After striking them all once, he placed their ends between his teeth. The acrid stench of smoke burned his nostrils, comforting in its familiarity even if the gas mask had been keeping him from the worst of it for a while now.

Putting the box away, he pulled out the flare gun, aiming at where the lighter marked the bomb to be. He’d thought about trying to make a fuse with a strip of cloth from Medic’s lab coat and whatever remaining fuel he could get from the flamethrower’s tank but that could get finicky and dangerous rather quickly. The unpredictably of such a ‘fuse’ wasn’t something he fancied messing with. Besides, this way was less trouble and quicker.

Of course, there was the downside of having only one shot at it and if he missed, that was that much more explosive power that could’ve gone into freeing them but didn’t. He wouldn’t miss though, he was too good to miss a stationary target even if his marker for it wasn’t on it exactly. Because of that though, he did spend a bit more time lining the shot up, the matches in his mouth giving him just enough light to do so. They were rapidly burning out though so… he pulled the trigger.

The flare was bright enough to hurt his eyes. He didn’t have time to do more than blink though as it apparently found its target, exploding with a pop that immediately became a loud blast. Turns out, the gas mask had been doing a decent job of muffling explosions because that was louder than Pyro was used to. Enough to be a surprise, making him flinch.

He spat out the now spent matches before looking back up, only to flinch away again. The light now didn’t just hurt his eyes, it burned. How was sunlight so bright?

But that meant his bomb had worked! They were free! … Almost anyway. Medic’s foot was still trapped under the rockfall. But they were almost free and that was worth celebrating by itself.

“We did it!” he said, still not yet able directly at the light.

“Yes,” Medic said, relief audible in his voice. “Very good job, Pyro. Now go make sure the hole is big enough for us to fit through.” A good idea! Most of Medic’s ideas were good.

Pyro waited a few more moments for his eyes to adjust further before rushing over. The hole was bigger than he’d thought it be but not as big as he would’ve liked. The fresh air on his face as he climbed up to it felt good enough that he would refrain from putting his mask back on for a little while longer even if he was even more exposed now.

He cleared it out a little more, pushing aside a few more rocks. Making it big enough for him to be able to fit through even if it would be a bit of a tight squeeze. But if he could fit than so could Medic. Though, getting him to it when he couldn’t use his legs was going to be a challenge. One for a bit later though as first, Pyro pulled himself partially out so he could look around the mine’s surrounding.

Outside was more of the abandoned mining town they’d been chased through, a pretty big one as far as abandoned mining towns went. The sun was starting to dip towards the horizon though sunset would still be a couple hours away. There were remains of the small robot army that had chased them scattered across the ground, though many more were likely under the cave-in. No ‘living’ robots though, thankfully.

Which didn’t mean they weren’t any. Especially with how close their stronghold was. It’s why the team had come here after all, hoping to take it out. Things hadn’t been looking good on that front thus likely, without him and Medic, it hadn’t happened. And thus, there were probably still robots nearby.

If any came across the cave-in and saw the hole in it would they be able to know to investigate? Maybe not but if they did and found Medic… that would be bad. If Pyro had some way to hide the entrance while he ran to get help it might be okay though. He could clog the opening with loose rubble maybe.

Pyro wriggled backwards and back inside. He then slid down and skipped back over to Medic. “Coast is clear for now and the hole is big enough to fit through,” he said as he bent down to retrieve his lighter, flipping it closed and dousing its little light before putting it back in his pocket.

“Good, good. Here’s what we’re going to do then; we need a tourniquet so you’re going to...”

“Wait,” Pyro interrupted. “The others might be nearby. They should be looking for us, right? I could run and get them. I’ll be super fast, promise, faster than Scout.. or maybe not but almost.” Running was hard with how heavy and constricting the suit was and he wasn’t a great runner in general but he could force it for Medic. “And then we could… dig you out maybe.” Demo could surely make some explosives perfectly sized to clear out most of the rubble, allowing the eight of them to dig Medic the rest of the way out. No limb severing necessary.

Medic grimaced. “If they find me like this while you’re gone, I can’t defend myself.”

“I know but they might not. They’re robots so they’re not very smart. And I’ll find a way to hide the opening just in case so we don’t have to...”

“Do not leave me alone here.”

Pyro flinched at the anger in Medic’s tone, turning his words into an almost growl. He understood it though. Anger was a good blanket for fear. He would’ve been afraid of the thought of being left alone and defenseless like that too especially so close to an enemy stronghold. And well, there was no guarantee that hiding the opening would work.

He took a deep breath before settling down on the ground next to Medic. “Okay.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Medic trailed off.

“It’s okay. I understand.” He still didn’t like it but the idea of leaving Medic alone and defenseless was also really bad. And if Medic preferred to take the risk of chopping off the limb over the risks involved in being left here alone while Pyro ran to get help, that was his decision to make.

Pyro pulled off his gloves so he could take take Medic’s hand in both of his. “Tell me what you want me to do.” He had some medical knowledge but a refresher on what all exactly would be the best way to go about this was welcome.

[system-startup]

Thank you to everyone that informed me that the fluctuation of my brain function is obvious. I remain shaking off the terror that I won't be able to communicate who I am and what I know well enough, especially to people who have never gotten to see me access Me, but the commentary provides a basis for me to have begun making monumental progress on that front.

I realised for the first time—I wanted to say last night but let's say recently—that my brain had/has the information (non-visual) equivalent of photographic memory. I also realised recently that my nervous system breakdown actually began reaching a head as young as 9, or 10. I remembered this always; I loved to climb, and parkour, and I never had the chance to get fancy with it between people preventing me, punishing me, and then my disabilities. I've always cared about my appearance and if I had it my way I would always be extremely well dressed, though don't mistake me for someone who believes that everybody should be, or that there's only one way to be well dressed—I'm no fool.

Subsequently the loss of access to my brain function, and then my body, and then my capacity to present myself how I want in spite of that, being forced to look pathetic, to not phrase things nearly as well as I've been carefully shaping them in my head for well over a decade, hurts.

I've been on a long, painful journey to mitigate damage, repair it, and grow too. And it's exhausting, and everything has been taken from me but still I get up, still I crawl forward, still my life improves...

I re-define and re-create and re-define myself again to live; in search of the man the suffering sought to burry, to be able to see the man that refused to die myself.

And in the mirror I find him, but still don't fully understand him.

I only know that the light behind his eyes continues to be a lot of work to keep alight. And it's wretched work, so I persist by not doing it for me.

It's all I can do to hope that this great difficulty is seen.

For all the times they (whomever is relevant; dozens directly at least none of whom I could name) programmed me to hide my light, things like viciously punishing me for being brilliant or properly attentive or fast or strong or able to jump at all when such a thing could only be accessed once a month, not allowing me to be ill the rest of it because they didn't understand. Yelling, startling, criticising immediately and interrupting whenever I was too slow at learning anything, like cutting meat and vegetables for the first time until I fumble in panic every time, so I could never learn, and, embarrassed, had to learn "basic skills" at an age I'd often be ridiculed and hassled for not knowing yet, despite never being afforded the chance.

Program: Never show them; it's not worth torture. Don't say or do anything where you can be seen. Hide what you don't know. Don't ask for lessons, not directly. Figure it out, somehow, some way. We can't afford the sanity cost; they won't teach us anyway, they either don't know or aren't kind or patient enough or can't phrase it in a way that we can understand.

It's painful, this fluctuation, for so many reasons. I can share this program only because I'm at the tail end of ripping it out of my system. It'll seem profound still, but that's only because you can't see how far I've come.

I didn't used to speak at all.

To anyone.

About anything.

But by taking the time to see me, to understand me, to not hurt me but to ask questions instead, to give me the room to elaborate instead of spiraling and taking it out on me; you offer me the door to exiting this one, this spiral, that I fell in to far too young.

Thank you again for your honesty, even when it hurts. It's all I've ever wanted.

And, I learn what I do, take the time to learn to speak it, to be able to share it, because I know though the severity of what I've been through is highly unusual, I am far from alone.

And I'll be damned if I've come this far and not contribute my hand to seeing the day that nobody has to suffer like I did again.

But the first step of that, for me, despite my wishes, remains learning to take care of myself, be kind to myself.

And your awareness, and your honesty, and your wisdom, and your intelligence, and what you've learned, and the art you make, and the voice you speak with, and the perspective you hold, the ideas you've found and built, all of it helps me persist, is how I can find a way to survive despite everything.

You give me the motivation and the tools to be alive. You give me hope that I'll be alright. And, I don't feel very alive right now, but I know in a year I'll be a new man.

And I will make You proud.

*You = my friends, kind honest strangers, the strangers I have taught and will teach and continue to learn from, the Earth Herself, the human collective.

[whumpster-fire]

Okay listen, Nathaniel Bartseq is a dick and a moron, but the other day I saw a claim that basically all the problems in Amulet of Samarkand, including the first Simon Lovelace incident, were caused by Nathaniel being an arrogant little shit, which is like... noooo?

The problems in Amulet of Samarkand were caused by:

Simon Lovelace, a full-grown adult who could call up powerful djinn at the drop of a hat, feeling the need to bully a 10-year-old kid, refusing to take even the slightest L when said 10-year-old was smarter than he expected, and physically attacked him for saying the slightest word in his own defense. Nathaniel did absolutely nothing rude or arrogant until well after Lovelace and co, three grown-ass men, asked to have him called into the room, then started insulting him and grilling him with every intention of using his failure as further ammunition to humiliate him. And to make Underwood look bad (as if Underwood needed any help looking bad. I'm sure Lovelace had plenty of ways to flex on this guy without involving a child).

Arthur Underwood, for... well okay, in the moment publicly coming to Nathaniel's defense there would have been a disaster for them both, but Mr. Underwood absolutely fucking set his apprentice up for failure by being content to sit back and let him be fed endless propaganda about the "Honorable Magician," leading to Nathaniel being hopelessly ignorant of the political realities of the situation. This is a man who locked a six year old in a room full of imps that he'd ordered to terrorize and torture him to make sure it was driven into his skull from Day 1 how dangerous "demons" were, but what, learning how cutthroat and brutal magical society is wasn't age-appropriate? Like, "keep your head down and don't rise to goading from enemies who are more powerful than you, pick your battles" is such a vital lesson for a young magician, and he apparently just didn't bother with it. I'm sure Schyler and Whitwell were / would be terrible abusive masters but come on I think they would have made an effort to teach their apprentices "social skills for magicians" from an early age because they'd anticipate this kind of shit. Seriously like there are many, many things Underwood could have down to avoid or mitigate this entire situation, or at the very least to make the lesson Nathaniel took from this "Other adult magicians are dangerous and I must interact with them just as carefully as with a demon. My master is not omnipotent and cannot protect me from pissing off a guy like Lovelace any more than he could protect me if I scuffed the pentacle we're both standing in during a summoning" instead of "My master cannot and will not lift a single finger to protect me because he is a weak spineless coward and because he hates me and does not care about me." The amount of psychological damage that could have been avoided if Underwood had gone: "Yes, he's an asshole and I know he's an asshole, but you cannot confront assholes with power this recklessly. Count yourself lucky you learned this now because if you pull a stunt like that as an adult you will die" instead of making Nathaniel feel like he was being completely blamed for trying to protect himself. Literally the only person in this book who actually gave Nathaniel genuine guidance about how to survive in magician society without sugarcoating it was Bartimaeus (well, and Lovelace, but he was planning on murdering him immediately afterward), and that's pretty sad.

[the-nysh]

on Bang's long quest to find new disciples to teach his techniques to. here is an idea I found for 2 possible candidates to become bangs disciples Swim, the bottom ranked C-class hero. With her determination to become part of the Blizzard Group, she could try improving by learning unarmed martial arts skills. Also, she probably would find Bang's Fist of Flowing Water, Crushed Rock technique awesome and fitting with her water themed hero suit. Amai Mask, after being forced on the run. The monster would stay at Bang's dojo due to its isolated location and the need control his emotions.

and a good number of people made posts paralleling garou and amai mask garou being a human in the mask of a monster amai mask being a monster in the guise of a hero and how garou likely angered amai mask with his wanting to be amonster going against what he stands for etc

Ah - I had forgotten her name, she was an ova-only character so I don't know if we'll ever see her again, but considering how I've felt the defensive water stream would be a good tech for more women to learn (maybe even Suiko too) it could be an interesting idea!

But Sweet Mask?? (You mean people like me who've posted their parallels like this?) If we're talking about his wc whereabouts, at that point....to be honest, I think he would be beyond Bang's expertise to help. :O (esp wc Bang...) Becoming one of Bang's disciples doesn't feel like it would help control/mitigate his monster impulses or guide him back towards becoming 'human' at all.....instead, that feels like something more up Garou's alley (having both the closest experience in recovery and understanding this type of thing), as a task in teaching he would be most qualified for over Bang. (With more potential to succeed where Bang emotionally failed him, esp when we're dealing with someone like SM actively struggling to balance their monster/human sides, he would honestly need a lot more than Bang can offer.) But again, only if they're to ever meet/interact again in the wc' future. :'D The more baggage Sweet Mask would have towards Garou, especially after his reveal - in turn making Garou have some enlightening moments towards him too, would only make their interactions that more interesting to me.

[amnotaqueen]

Traveling With My Narc Husband

Y'all pray for me. Pray for us; my son is with us. My granddad died. We are traveling across several states to make it to the memorial service. We spend the night at hotel one night, and basically drive all day for two days.

My narc husband has a problem with, is offended by, gets angry at any and everything I do or say. When I was a kid, staying in a hotel was fun, and I enjoyed watching cartoons or kids shows while lounging in the room. I decided to get up and do some exercises. My son was up too, so I found something he'd like to watch while I exercised- Paw Patrol. My husband was asleep and silent until I put the TV on Paw Patrol. "Why is he watching that so early?" he angrily yelled. I said back, "Because it's holiday and he'll be stuck in a car all day.". I called it 'holiday' because that's what they call it from where he is from. I quickly tried to mitigate by telling our son that he could only watch one episode then we would change the channel. I'm always trying to find ways to allow our son to have fun and enjoy himself as a kid without unleashing the fury of his dad.

Minutes later, my narc husband erupted in anger at me again. This time I had garnered his ire because I had put pink oil moisturizer on our son's head and brushed his hair. He yelled, "I don't know why you put that on his head!" You would have thought I had poured acid onto our son's scalp, how angry he was. I know my husband. He is Nigerian and he favors a more minimalist approach when it comes to grooming. Un-moisturized, un-combed, rough, dry, and course-looking hair is just fine on our son according to him. I continue to oil his hair and combed and brush it because I like a more polished look. It infuriates my husband that I don't just adopt his way of doing all things. I told him so this morning. I told him, I'm not him and I think differently. I asked him why he was screaming at me over something so trivial. I said that there are bigger issues to be angry about, why that? He claimed that the moisturizer causes cancer. I told him he doesn't have to scream; he could instead share the research he has done to explain his insight and position, if any such research existed. I told him he gets mad over everything. If I give our son a snack he gets mad. If I turn on the TV he gets upset. If I want to walk with our son and hold his hand while walking he gets mad. If our son has a bleeding puncture on his leg and I put a napkin on it and apply pressure even though he tells me to stop and let it run he gets mad.

It's a problem driving with him. He doesn't drive like law abiding citizens who have sense. He likes to drive primarily in the left lane on the interstate. He habitually texts and drives. He drives slowly in the left lane while texting or looking up information on his phone causing people to pass him in the right lane. No matter how many times I tell him he should stay in the right lane and pass people on the left and then move back to the right lane he doesn't want to do it. We had argument over that today.

He was passing cars when there were two solid lines. There were hills as well. It was difficult to know what was on the other side of the hill while trying to pass a car over solid double lines. I had to tell him not to do that, that it was not safe. He didn't want to acknowledge the seriousness of it. I asked him if he wanted our son to drive unsafely and illegally like him. He said yes. He said he preferred that somebody else teach our son how to drive before he make adjustments in how he does things and drives. Shocking for sure. A shame.

I would rather find a hotel, check in, unload the car, maybe get cleaned up a little bit before going to Grandma's house. He would rather drive straight to Grandma's house, hang out there a while, then find a hotel late at night, have to unload car, eat dinner, have me bath our son and myself, etc. He thinks HIS way is the CORRECT way. How I would do it is WRONG. I told him that we have different opinions and no way is right or wrong, just different. He said NO. I am WRONG and things have to be done his way because he does not compromise.

Pray for us.

[lassieposting]

#im sorry but *everything* about the way he views men and his oppressors and operates within the system is so incredibly similar#to how women navigate through life#and how they navigate power structures with their oppressors#i think a lot about that scene in ditw when he's observing how his mother seduces men#i find it fascinating#like obviously he's still a 'man in power'#and his privilege as a man is unmistakeable#but i think any analysis of his character as a 'man in power' only is wholly incorrect#especially when it comes to his relationship with the royal family#and baghra tries to teach him how to operate as a man in a man's world#especially with that speech about being a leader of men and reading the relationships between the elders in camp really well#but even that coming from baghra is SO incredibly 'you need to be able to read the power dynamics between men'#so you can learn to navigate them the way i do - as a woman#because that is all she really knows#and the way she teaches him to accept all of the trauma he will inevitably suffer#and instead only teaches him how to mitigate it#how to turn even the worst atrocities committed against him to his own purposes#it is all so VERY#oooauuughh#i think some of the WORST anti character analyses for him#come from people who ignore baghra's influence on him as a parent#in every way

UGH YES THIS SLAPS

does anybody else think about how all of the darkling’s survival techniques were taught to him by a woman experienced at surviving in a man’s world?

[seekfirst-community]

The following reflection is courtesy of Don Schwager © 2023. Don's website is located at Dailyscripture.net

Meditation: Do you believe that God's word has power to change and transform your life today? Isaiah says that God's word is like the rain and melting snow which makes the barren ground spring to life and become abundantly fertile (Isaiah 55:10-11). God's word has power to penetrate our dry barren hearts and make them springs of new life. If we let God's word take root in our heart it will transform us into the likeness of God himself and empower us to walk in his way of love and holiness.

Let God's word guide and shape the way you judge and act

God wants his word to guide and shape the way we think, act, and pray. Ambrose (339-397 AD), an early church father and bishop of Milan, wrote that the reason we should devote time for reading Scripture is to hear Christ speak to us. "Are you not occupied with Christ? Why do you not talk with him? By reading the Scriptures, we listen to Christ."

We can approach God our Father with confidence

We can approach God confidently because he is waiting with arms wide open to receive his prodigal sons and daughters. That is why Jesus gave his disciples the perfect prayer that dares to call God, Our Father. This prayer teaches us how to ask God for the things we really need, the things that matter not only for the present but for eternity as well. We can approach God our Father with confidence and boldness because the Lord Jesus has opened the way to heaven for us through his death and resurrection.

When we ask God for help, he fortunately does not give us what we deserve. Instead, God responds with grace, mercy, and loving-kindness. He is good and forgiving towards us, and he expects us to treat our neighbor the same. God has poured his love into our hearts through the gift of the Holy Spirit who has been given to us (Romans 5:5). And that love is like a refining fire - it purifies and burns away all prejudice, hatred, resentment, vengeance, and bitterness until there is nothing left but goodness and forgiveness towards those who cause us grief or harm.

The Lord's Pray teaches us how to pray

Consider what John Cassian (360-435 AD), an early church father who lived for several years with the monks in Bethlehem and Egypt before founding a monastery in southern Gaul, wrote about the Lord's Prayer and the necessity of forgiving one another from the heart:

"The mercy of God is beyond description. While he is offering us a model prayer he is teaching us a way of life whereby we can be pleasing in his sight. But that is not all. In this same prayer he gives us an easy method for attracting an indulgent and merciful judgment on our lives. He gives us the possibility of ourselves mitigating the sentence hanging over us and of compelling him to pardon us. What else could he do in the face of our generosity when we ask him to forgive us as we have forgiven our neighbor? If we are faithful in this prayer, each of us will ask forgiveness for our own failings after we have forgiven the sins of those who have sinned against us, not only those who have sinned against our Master. There is, in fact, in some of us a very bad habit. We treat our sins against God, however appalling, with gentle indulgence - but when by contrast it is a matter of sins against us ourselves, albeit very tiny ones, we exact reparation with ruthless severity. Anyone who has not forgiven from the bottom of the heart the brother or sister who has done him wrong will only obtain from this prayer his own condemnation, rather than any mercy."

Do you treat others as you think they deserve to be treated, or do you treat them as the Lord has treated you - with mercy, steadfast love, and kindness?

"Father in heaven, you have given me a mind to know you, a will to serve you, and a heart to love you. Give me today the grace and strength to embrace your holy will and fill my heart and mind with your truth and love that all my intentions and actions may be pleasing to you. Help me to be kind and forgiving towards my neighbor as you have been towards me. "

The following reflection is from One Bread, One Body courtesy of Presentation Ministries © 2023.

big brother

“I sought the Lord, and He answered me and delivered me from all my fears.” ––Psalm 34:5

“Everything has been given over to Me by My Father. No one knows the Son except the Father and no one knows the Father except the Son –– and anyone to whom the Son wishes to reveal Him” (Lk 10:22). In today’s Gospel passage, the only begotten Son gives us a formula for praying to His Father. In fact, we’ve been given permission to call the God of the universe, “Our Father” (Mt 6:9). “You did not receive a spirit of slavery leading you back into fear, but a spirit of adoption through which we cry out, ‘Abba!’ (that is, ‘Father’)” (Rm 8:15; cf Gal 4:6).

Although we repeat the Our Father countless times during our lives, we must guard against presumption: “In your prayer do not rattle on like the pagans. They think they will win a hearing by the sheer multiplication of words” (Mt 6:7). The Church has consistently taught prayer must lift us up to God. “Christian prayer tries above all to meditate on the mysteries of Christ” (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2708).

In the end, even though “all mankind is grass” (1 Pt 1:24), God the Father still deeply cares for each of us. Accept the Lord’s invitation to intimacy. You are His adopted child. Pray with hopeful expectation to your Father.

Prayer:  “Lord, teach us to pray…” (see Lk 11:1)

Promise:  “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; and those who are crushed in spirit He saves.” ––Ps 34:19

Praise:  Brenda, a wife and mother, rises very early to spend over two hours each day in prayer.

Reference:  (This teaching was submitted by a member of our editorial team.)

Rescript:  "In accord with the Code of Canon Law, I hereby grant the Nihil Obstat for the publication One Bread, One Body covering the time period from February 1, 2023 through March 31, 2023. Reverend Steve J. Angi, Chancellor, Vicar General, Archdiocese of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, Ohio June 15, 2022"

The Nihil Obstat ("Permission to Publish") is a declaration that a book or pamphlet is considered to be free of doctrinal or moral error. It is not implied that those who have granted the Nihil Obstat agree with the contents, opinions, or statements

[dynamightmite]

It's my own fault for going on reddit to read people's opinions about the manga (I'm sorry in advance, this is gonna be long) but I swear to God if I see one more half-assed hot take about someone hating Bakugo that effectively boils down to "overt violence being casually dismissed bad" I'm going to start smacking people over the head with a newspaper.

Like. Yeah, bro. That's literally it. I mean, it's kind of hard to talk about the violence inherent in the system without, y'know, showing you the violence inherent in the system. It's almost like Bakugo was being used as a vehicle to get that message across from an early point (Deku vs. Kacchan 1, specifically) in a way that is mitigated by circumstance so that it can later be dissected and eventually forgiven.

The entire purpose of characters like Bakugo and Endeavor is to show the audience the cracks in Hero Society's shiny facade that will eventually lead to its downfall. In fact, it's framed as being inevitable; hero society actively selects for competetive, ambitious, powerful people, and the obvious end result is heroes like Endeavor. Like what Bakugo could have been without intervention. The implication, however, isn't that characters like Bakugo and Endeavor are inherently evil, but began from a point where their actions and goals were understandable, if not admirable, but eventually devolved based on the encouragement they got from the system.

The big difference between them is Endeavor is a character who didn't recognize the flaws in hero society until it was too late, whereas Bakugo did. Unlike Endeavor, Bakugo is designed to be forgiveable. He's a child, he's placed in a situation that frequently encourages violence between unpracticed children who have questionable control of their quirks, he's got a quirk that can almost exclusively be used as a form of excessive force, and he has a lot of personal issues that stem from the society he grew up in.

Like it doesn't strike you as relevant that Bakugo attacking Midoriya was put in the context of them being in a facility designed for children to fight in, at a school specializing in teaching children to fight as part of their future career? Under supervision of an adult hero who chose not to stop them from fighting when he could have? When Midoriya and Bakugo both have equally destructive quirks and, if they had actually wanted to kill each other, they absolutely could have, considering Bakugo's control of his quirk and Midoriya's comparative lack? You don't think maybe, just maybe, there was an underlying purpose to that?

Now, Bakugo is supposed to be like Endeavor in the sense that you see how, from a young age, these types of people can appear and become heroes despite their flaws and the dangers they can pose to the people around them, and why it is so important that they have some kind of early intervention to prevent them from taking advantage of a position of authority for their own gain. Can you imagine if there was no Midoriya for Bakugo to measure himself against, and find himself lacking? If nobody showed him how to hold himself accountable? He probably would have ended up being the kind of hero who only cares about winning in the sense of coming out on top, rather than doing so to protect people. Instead, the manga basically provides a step-by-step instruction manual on how to evaluate your life choices and appropriately atone for past misconduct. It has Bakugo choosing to work towards compassion and empathy as a motivator, as opposed to following Endeavor's path towards attempted greatness, which is framed as being the correct choice, because, well—it is.

"But the narrative sometimes still glorifies violence—" for fuck's sake, yes, I know. And guess what, it does become convoluted by the narrative's mixed attitude towards violence. I am not the first person to acknowledge that a lot of BNHA's worldbuilding and general themes contradict each other, nor will I ever be the last. Horikoshi is not exactly a master class on writing critiques of society, okay, and a pacifist superhero story has some fundamental problems that aren't really addressed or worked out in the manga. None of that negates how important it is to have a main character like Bakugo, who visibly and consistently struggles with trying to learn how to be a good person in a system that is set up to allow him to succeed without having to make any real changes to himself. That matters. Not only because it shows the flaws in hero society, but because it helps acknowledge how baked-deep societal ideologies can become, and how incredibly difficult and unrewarding it can be to break out from them. If all the characters were like Deku—ready to throw himself out of the mold at a moment's notice and be aggressively compassionate all over everyone—there wouldn't really be a conflict for the story to deal with. Just because Bakugo's character development can be painful at times doesn't mean it's not important for it to occur the way that it does.

[the-final-sif]

Important notes for the Convict Childcare AU:

c!Dream does not know that Michael is c!Tubbo / c!Ranboo’s adopted son. He literally has no idea where, why, or how c!Sam got a zombie piglin child.

c!Dream initially believes that Michael is c!Sam trying to get him to be attached to something so Michael can be used against him. He starts to realize that isn’t the case, but still goes out of his way to convince c!Sam he doesn’t like Michael.

c!Dream actually attempts to use the revival book on Michael to see if it can cure his zombification. XD shows up, but he can’t cure the zombification without basically remaking Michael. Instead, he just heals what damage he can and mitigates the rest of the symptoms so that Michael won’t experience any more flesh decay, should only deal with mild aches, and won’t be infectious towards or instinctively rejected by piglins.

The healed damage means that while Michael still can’t talk, he gains back a lot of usage of his hands. This means he can learn some sign language!

c!Dream struggles to teach and communicate through sign language due to nerve damage in his own hands from the torture, but the two of them make it work.

The first signs c!Dream teaches Michael are “hide” and “help”.

c!Sam doesn’t know any sign so he gets pissy about the two of them using “secret codes” around him. c!Dream just teaches Michael to be subtle about it.

Speaking of c!Sam, Michael is scared of him. Both on account of “scary man who I don’t know who removed me from the care of someone I did know” and “my caretaker is clearly scared of this person so I should be too.”

At some point, after c!Sam has had enough time to build something he considers secure enough to hold c!Dream for at least a period of time, c!Sam tries to separate the two of them.

It goes. Poorly.

Michael was okay with leaving c!Dream for short periods, but being separated completely and left with c!Sam leaves him inconsolable. He’s constantly trying to run, crying, and refuses to eat or let c!Sam take care of him in anyway.

c!Sam spins a narrative in his head that c!Dream has somehow brainwashed Michael to be against him, and tries to force c!Dream to “fix” the problem.

c!Dream at least attempts to give c!Sam advice on how to take care of Michael around the torture, but c!Sam is stuck on the idea that there’s no way this could be because of his behavior.

Ultimately, c!Sam forgets that Michael is a piglin and makes the mistake of coming back into his room with the smell of c!Dream’s blood on his clothing.

Michael goes feral, attacking c!Sam, doing serious damage and almost dying to c!Sam’s thorns enchantment.

c!Sam can’t even get in the same room as Michael without drugging him with potions. So, in a rare moment of admitting defeat, c!Sam returns Michael to c!Dream under the guise of it being “because he has more work to do on the new prison.”

Michael latches onto c!Dream and Will Not Let go. c!Dream doesn’t sleep at all that night, partially because he’s scared of losing Michael again, and partially because he’s already grappling with the fact he’s going to need to give Michael away as soon as he’s free because there’s literally no way he’s going to be able to safely raise a child.