#are standing right outside with about three hundred years of experience in torture and beatings between them and full permission to go wild

[phoenixcatch7]

This is one world where the Joker dies. The Joker sees LBH walking around and thinks it a good idea to kidnap and/ or murder Bruce Wayne’s husband as a joke. LBH, remembering all SQQ’s rants about how he fucking HATES the Joker and wants to kill him so bad, but can’t because he’s not allowed to, goes 😈😈😈. LBH is sure that his husband will appreciate getting the Joker’s head in a box as a present. Jason can have the rest of the corpse.

Ahhhh your read my mind! Batman is contractually obliged (read: forbidden by the system on pain of punishment protocol and/or a true death) not to kill, but that doesn't stop the ancient demon Empress scholar warrior from having Opinions™ on who should frankly kick the bucket. His husband has slaughtered clans over less than what Scarecrow has done.

Another idea though: lbh wouldn't wait for the joker to kidnap him. He sees Bruce's tight expression when talking (infodumping) about Gotham, he sees the way the children glance at Jason whenever they hear his name, he sees how his husband scowls helplessly whenever the topic of future breakouts comes up.

He'd go out and find him.

"Binghe?"

"Shizun?" he asks, just to confirm it's his husband on the other end of the line. Even weeks after they were reunited, it's wonderful to hear Shen qingqiu's new voice. It always is.

"Where are you? You're normally back by this hour. Gotham is dangerous at this hour, come home."

"Shizun..." Usually, at the first sign of being wanted back luo Binghe would be dropping everything and running. Not tonight. He's finally found what he's seeking. "Forgive this tardy husband, but I will be a little longer. There is something I've been looking for."

"Looking for?" shen qingqiu echoes, and he waits while his clever husband's mind works. If shizun truly wanted him to stop and leave well enough alone, he'd tell him, but luo Binghe thinks that this time that won't be the case. "Looking for what, Binghe?"

"I found something peculiar the other day, and given how much shizun cares about his city, this one thought it would be best to ensure it wasn't dirtying up the streets. It's making quite the joke of itself."

He heard the sharp inhale on the other side. He waited. Then, softly;

"Ah," shen qingqiu breathed. "Well then, dear husband, be sure you don't get lost wandering the city. It's quite dangerous. In fact, I feel it might be better if I sent Jason along with you. Just to make sure you're safe. He's been positively desperate to get out."

Oh.

Of course, their second eldest. The one the joker had brutally killed. The one whose death still gave his too kind husband nightmares.

Well, luo Binghe knew the rules.

Everything that has happened in the past, we'll repay it to you today.

A thousand fold.

[blog-sliverofjade]

Of Doms & Subs 9: Rock and a Hard Place

Pairing: Angus Hopper x OFC

Summary:  What’s a submissive female to do when she fights her nature and goes on the run as a Lone wolf to avoid being assimilated into a pack?

Word count: 1905

Of Doms & Subs Master List

Getting slammed by four hundred pounds, give or take, is painful no matter who you are.  Being caught between this freight train of flesh and a stone wall, such as the one surrounding the grill setup, is taking the term “between a rock and a hard place” to its most agonizing extremes.  Once the tweety birds spiraling my head dissipated, Alan and Mickayla filled my gradually returning vision.  Angus stalked off to go bash some heads together, judging by his face.

“Anybody get the number o’ that Mac truck?” I groaned, my accent thick from the pain that was already setting in.  Where’s shock when you could really use it?

“Can’t be too bad if she’s making bad jokes,” Mickayla said to Alan.  Then to distract me from his poking and prodding, she said with a roll of her eyes towards where I assumed Ian and Gordon were.  “They’re just like teenage boys when they’re trying to show off.”

“There’re easier ways o’ getting’ my attention.  ‘Hey, you’ works fine.”  I hissed through clenched teeth when Alan inspected my shoulder.  “Dislocated, probably torn rotator.”

“Amongst other things,” he agreed mildly as he did something that should have been a violation of the Geneva Convention.  “Couple of cracked ribs, mild concussion.  Ever dislocated anything before?”

“Nope, but’s gonna hurt like a mother.”

Alan nodded to Mickayla and before I could react, they set the joint back in place with a sickening crunch.  The world swam in a nauseous haze, but I didn’t pass out.  Woo!

“Lemme know when I can return the favour,” I groaned.  “In spades.”

“The rotator’ll heal on its own in about a week.  Compared to months for a human.”  Let’s hear it for regeneration.  “But your scapula’s split, and even if your joint’s set, your shoulder’s still messed up.”

“That the medical term, doc?”

“Recovery will still take weeks.  If you shift, you’ll heal faster.”

“No.”  I shook my head too fast and the world wobbled.

“Tell me, is this normal?”  Alan carefully lifted my right, injured arm.  Around the blinding agony I dimly hard disturbing sounds that should be coming from a cereal bowl instead of a person.

“Fuck all ya’ll,” I panted when I could breathe again.

“No thanks,” he said blandly.  “Cute as you are, I don’t want to fight the others over you.  The longer you take to shift, the more you’ll heal wrong.”  We both knew that improperly healed rotator cuffs are a bitch and can take a year or more of PT to correct.  That’s not even taking into account complications from broken bones knitting without being set right.  Logic and experience said that he was right.  The only problem was that the wolf wanted to come out and play too much.  And there were too many humans.  Pain and panic, exacerbated by the wolf coming to the fore, paralyzed me till I could only shake my head faintly.

“Don’t make me use the Dommy voice,” Mickayla said sternly.  I opened my eyes to let her see the fear that chilled me.  Or maybe that was finally shock.  Could werewolves go into shock?

A pair of familiar suede loafers stood at the edge of my vision.  A moment later Angus crouched to fill my field of vision, which was threatening to narrow again.  “Ellie, stop this nonsense and shift.”  There was no power other than the natural force of his personality, but the order allowed me to stop worrying.  His casual tone of authority reminded me that they would keep me from gorging on a human buffet instead of potato salad and burgers.

“Come on, you don’t need an audience for this.”  Mickayla moved to help me up.  Angus beat her to it, scooping me up in his arms so that my shattered shoulder wasn’t pressed against him.  This unnatural strength still took me by surprise.  Of all the places, he took me inside the house and downstairs where he set me on the edge of a bed.  There were shining metal bars over the narrow windows set high in the wall.  Pretty comfy digs for a cage.

“My safeword’s ‘apples’,” I panted as my body settled into its new position with no small amount of complaints.

“Good to know.”  The dry bit of humour coming from Angus was so unexpected that I giggled and immediately regretted it when the motion rippled through my battered body.  Alan and Mickayla helped me undress while Angus stood over us, a statue of controlled rage.  I tried to protest the men’s presence, but was immediately shot down by all three.  Resoundingly so.

“Please be gentle, it’s my first time,” I said tightly as they drew off my pants and underwear.  You never realize how much you move any part of your body until it’s injured and you try to move it.  Once I was naked, that was when I freaked out.  “I can’t.”

“Sshh,” Angus said soothingly as he carefully held me against his chest.  It was like a warm brick wall, but far more comfortable than the one I’d just been introduced to.  My mind and hormones swung back and forth between embarrassment and pleasure at being naked in his arms until I sensed Alan crouching on the bed behind me.  Damn, he still had to set the shoulder blade.  I didn’t even have time to tense before his deft, quick hands crunched the pieces back into place.

After awhile I realized that Angus was saying my name and stroking my hair.  “To shift you have to let the wolf take over.  You’ll not likely have control, nor will you be able to change back for several hours.  We’re going to have to lock you in so you don’t hurt anyone, or yourself.”

So many things had been spinning out of my control I wasn’t ready to relinquish any of it.  But the wolf didn’t care.  She wanted to come out and meet Angus and the pack.  The instant I seriously thought about passing off the reins she seized the chance.  I quickly closed my eyes not only because it hurt like a bitch, even worse than my short lived career as a wrecking ball, but because I couldn’t stand watching my own flesh ripple as muscle and bone crunched and reformed.  I almost wondered if letting everything heal relatively slowly wouldn’t have been preferable.

They were making soothing noises and urging me to be quiet at first, then they realized I was cursing under my breath in between soft whimpers and whines.  “Son of a mother biscuit eating cracker” made them laugh.  You can’t curse in front of patients, even if they’re coding.  Instead you get creative with alternatives to four letter words.  At some point the torture ended and everything went black.

“What were you thinking?”  To an outsider, my voice would be deceptively soft.  Ian and Gordon, as did the rest of the pack, knew better.  The two males knelt with heads bowed and necks bared.  My wolf wanted to rend that soft flesh.  They were dirty and still battered from when they were separated with more force than was strictly necessary, but was entirely appropriate.  “I’ve known newly Changed wolves with better self-control than what you displayed today.  If you had hit Moira instead, she could’ve lost full use of that arm.”  They winced as my voice sharpened and cracked across them like a whip.

“Because of your stupidity, Ellie is undergoing her first intentional shift locked in the safe room after everything I’ve done to disprove the half-truths that crazy Lone fed her.”  I leaned in close and whispered, “If she chooses to leave because of your idiocy, I’ll take it very personally.”  Their already white faces blanched even further before I straightened.

“You will beg Ellie for forgiveness.  You are her slaves for the next week.  You are not to look her in the eye.  I don’t want to see her lift anything heavier than a glass of water.  If she asks you to jump, one asks how high and the other holds the hoop.  You will wash, dry, iron, fold her laundry, and shine her shoes.  You have one week to arrange for repairs to the barbecue.  For the rest of the weekend, the two of you are on cooking and dish duties.  The pack cars, Ellie’s Jeep, and my car could all use detailing.  Oh, and I expect the house and grounds to be spotless by the end of the weekend.”  They’d be so busy they wouldn’t have the time nor the energy to lose their heads again.  And by working their tails off, everyone would be reminded that this was a warning for anyone else who might do the same.

“If the rest of you find yourselves at the mercy of your instincts, you will take it elsewhere and handle it in the usual fashion.  If not, then you are a liability and will be dealt with accordingly.”  I glared expectantly at the two boys, who were old enough to know better.  They quickly muttered, “Yes, Alpha” before scrambling to their feet and scattering for one of the many tasks given.  I desperately wanted to give chase and slaughter them for injuring what was mine.

I gave a brief nod to Tom, who acknowledged with a bow from the neck before herding everyone inside.  Once everyone was gone, I stared at the broken bricks and patio stained with Ellie’s blood until Ian and Gordon approached hesitantly with a hose, soap, and stiff bristled brushes.  I snarled at them as I strode back towards the house.

Alan was sitting in the armchair outside the safe room.  A man with an impossibly large sword faced a dragon on the corner of the paperback he was reading.  Only the delusional would fight something like that with a melee weapon.  The alleged “hero” would be barbecue before he got close enough to swing that tool of overcompensation.

“Hey.”  He set down the book and sat up from his slouch.  “Passed out still, but she’ll be fine as long as she doesn’t hurt it again any time soon.”

“Thanks.  Go on up.  I’ll sit with her.”  I scrubbed a hand through my hair and touched my pocket to ensure that my phone was there.  Nervous habits that I’d never quite managed to shed.

“Sure thing.”  Alan looked like he would offer to stay until he saw my expression.  “Too bad they couldn’t spare the brain cells if you knocked their heads together.”

I smiled despite my murderous mood.  That was the magic of a submissive, although I never felt calm around Ellie.  Frustrated, annoyed, fiercely protective, half-crazed, yes.  At peace, no.  Then again, she had yet to feel entirely safe or comfortable since the Change.

“Alan.”  He paused on the stairs.  “Have Ian and Gordon bring down meat and water.”

“Aye, aye.”  He’d been spending far too much time with Mickayla.

I settled into the chair and picked up the dog-eared novel he left behind.  The main character had barely finished his backstory when Tweedledee and Tweedledumb placed their offerings in the safe room before locking it back up.  Ian set a cup of coffee, two cream, on the small table beside me before slinking away.  They stank of fear.  Good.

The handsome, virile Chosen One had just met the feisty ingénue, who was of course a princess in hiding, when Ellie woke up.

[asinfulpagan]

Do I Exist?

Do I Exist???

*This is a work of fiction, yet it’s also a work of truth.*

Do I Really Exist?

Being gay at any age I would imagine is a hard thing to do. From as far back as I can remember, I remember my older cousins, uncles and even my dad talking about “homos” and “fags” I wished so much I could scream into their ears, QUIT HURTING ME! Instead I listened, and then lost. I lost my spirit of living; then lost myself. Now, I have lost my soul. I remember during a cub scouts trip when I was about 10, another kid called this black boy a “nigger” I don’t know why I did it, but I beat the hell out of the kid who called him that. I guess somewhere; somehow, I too had already grown too familiar with hatred. But that’s for later anyways. I am writing this short story too simply try and inspire others. To save those like myself before they too must ask, Do I Really Exist?

Can this life be reality?

I went to church most of my childhood, until the preacher man told me God didn't want me. I see kids today and wonder if I was ever really that innocent. Now I sit, beaten down by pain. I always thought life was wonderful and miraculous experience. As a kid I dreamed of being a doctor. I wanted to go to Africa and cure AIDS. I wanted to be the man who a difference in the lives of everyone he touched. I wanted to be respected, I wanted to be loved, and I wanted to be accepted. Now I know none of these are possible. Not for someone like myself. Can this life be reality?

Of course it is, but why?

Obviously this reality is true. I know that the preacher man says God allows suffering because he allows freewill. God, what I wouldn’t give to have the freewill to stand up and declare “I EXIST! QUIT HURTING ME!” Yet I cannot. I cannot hurt my family by telling them. I couldn’t stand the idea of my own dad telling me I am not his. The preacher man already told me that my spiritual father disowned me. I could not handle my flesh father disowning me too. A boy needs at least one dad don’t he? Someone famous said once, “We suffer to learn” I should be a college professor on loneliness. So, can this life be reality? Of course it is, but why?

Why must I pay for sins uncommitted?

I have probably known I was gay since I was about six years old. I remember just a simple and innocent acknowledgement. It was never in words or thoughts, just in action. Where boys were running from the girls with cooties I was chasing the girls to play. Where the boys played sports, I was talking to the girls. Maybe people thought I would be a ladies man. Rock Hudson again I guess. My being gay has so little to do with a physical desire, and so much more to do with an emotional necessity. It is not from downstairs that I think, but from behind my heart. Yet, God has already abandoned me. My family has spent years making sure I know what they think. I have no guy friends, because they seem to think I will turn them gay somehow. I wish it where that easy to show others what pain my broken heart shields. Gay for a day, maybe then some of this world of pain would subside. Maybe then even God would reconsider me. Why must I pay for sins uncommitted?

How did I get infected with homosexuality?

Throughout my short life I have tried time and again to figure out what made me gay. As an early tween I thought it was something I was over-eating or maybe the old joke is true, it’s in the water. Yet, why am I the only one affected by this disease? I know others on the planet exist with this same condition, yet it seems they weren’t coming to help me. I was on my own in a world that wanted me to go away.

As an early teenager I tried to remember if anyone had ever hurt me. I read somewhere that sexual abuse is why people are gay. No such luck, I was perhaps psychologically and spiritually tortured, but none of this could be the cause of my infection. Now I fear the worst, it’s not a disease, which means there is no cure.

With the lack of a specific event, thought or emotional deficiency in which I made the choice of being Gay, I can only assume that I was born this way.

If God does not make mistakes, how can I be gay?

I always thought babies where pure and innocent. Yet this baby grew into a kid who was not wanted. Then a tween that was too scared to find himself. So I became a teen with only so many options. I know I was born this way. I know I was taught not to be who I am. I know I tried to change from being this evil entity to what the world wanted of me. Oh how I tried so desperately, but now I know I was born this way. Yet If God does not make mistakes, how can I be gay?

By the time I was 13 I had experienced others hatred.

Besides protecting the dignity of that little boy in cub scouts, I have had hundreds of run-ins within my short life. As a kid I would hear other boys calling anyone they didn’t like a “fag” I was grateful it wasn’t me they were talking about, yet I was ashamed I wasn’t the gay super-hero I had always dreamed would come and rescue me. I guess the gay super-hero doesn’t exist. I wonder if heroes exist at all. How could they with the pain we all suffer? Whose soul is strong enough to really fight this kind of a battle? Not mine, that’s for sure.

Even today I cannot understand the pain that people afflict onto each other. All I scream and cry out for is love. Maybe that’s what we all cry out for. Maybe the lack of a response to our cries is where the pain comes from. I still believe in God, even if he doesn’t want me too. Today I prayed that someone would answer the next kids cry.

I remember as a kid, I was sitting with my parents in the living room. They were watching the news, while I played with a deck of cards. Then the news story broke; the story that forever changed me; the story that made me afraid to go to sleep, yet afraid to wake up. Mathew Shepard had been beaten then crucified. I guess the preacher man wasn’t lying after all. Jesus died for your sins but not mine. For mine, we must all be crucified physically, spiritually or emotionally. For sins like mine, we must atone ourselves for no church will offer a God that allowed his son to die for me.

By the time I was 13 I had experienced others hatred. Now, at 16, I must atone for my sins. I have suffered two of the three punishments I must in order for God to forgive me. The only one left is physical. I hope God finds I have paid enough for this unnatural sin. Now that I think about it, it has been other people’s hatred that has allowed me to even experience my own self-hatred. Turns out I can beat myself up better than ten gay bashers ever could.

By 15 I had already lost three teeth because of hatred.

Around the age of 13 I also made another mistake. I told the one guy friend I had, that I was gay. The next day after school, two of his friends hit me in the face with a big board until a tooth fell out and blood covered my face. That was when my crucifixion began. I only wish it wasn’t as slow as it has been. Over the next two years I lost a couple more teeth to rumors. Each time I lost a tooth, I thought of Mathew Shepard. I would wonder if this was it. If this time it wouldn’t be just some blood and teeth, but that I too could stop suffering. My face hurt a lot, my mouth looked like I had been hit by a car, and my soul had already died. Where once a soul lived now only the darkness of self-hatred can thrive.

Now, at 16, I am beaten down.

My mouth still isn’t completely healed. I don’t know if that one tooth will ever come back, and the signs of a tortured life show all over my body. Old broken bones that never healed right show their distress. I never told my parents about my fights, so they assumed I was a clumsy kid. How could I ask for a doctor when I would have to explain why I needed one? Besides allowing me to pay for my sins, the physical pain also allowed me to remember that I am subhuman. It is best to remember that when being a deviant like myself. God demands I remember that. I will never gain his forgiveness if I think my sins are as natural as everyone else’s. I have been beaten down in so many painful ways. I have paid for my sin for as long as I can. Now, at 16, I am beaten down.

So, I shall pay my final price.

A life that once held so much potential has been traded for a life of sacrifices. Even sitting here, I still haven’t the courage to tell anyone else that I am gay. It was never the physical pain or death that I feared. It was always the loss of my family’s love that scared me into a slow and silent death. I wish the old tale were true and love could be blind. Then my family and God wouldn’t hate what I am so much. Life though, has proved that love is not blind. The world has taught me what suffering is, and God taught me that all sins are not forgiven. The bible says “if a man also lies with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them. Mathew Shepard was the reality of this message from God. My life has been spent living the message of God it seems. I will not fail him; I will fulfill his desires for me. Then, maybe, he will at least allow me to sleep outside the gates of Heaven.

My life.

My life has so very little meaning left in it. It really isn’t a life as much as it’s a purgatory. An event that was designed just for me to pay back to God what I had cheated him of. He created me to be a good person and to help those in need. Instead I threw it all away by being gay. For this one sin, no amount of retribution will save my soul. That’s OK though, my soul left me a long time ago anyways. As if it too where ashamed of me. My life hasn’t been a life since I was a toddler. All the time since then has been my suffering. How I wish I could have been given a chance to do something with My life.

Do I exist?

To a world that wishes people like myself didn’t exist I say have patience. You are slowly killing us without even having to use a weapon. You go to our schools and lecture the next generation on the abomination of homosexuality. You get laws written to ensure gays will never be anything but subhuman. You even manage to make sure the Boy Scouts will eliminate any kid that walks my path. You have ensured no compassion for an entire minority.

Do I Exist?

Yes!

Do you care?

I wish someone would have or even could now; then I wouldn’t be writing my on suicide letter. As in life, this too is done alone. They say in your final moments you will experience the love of God as your beacon of light to go towards. I still don’t feel the presence of God.

***********

Robert

*This is a work of fiction designed to help open the hearts and minds of those who desire it. Every year more and more gay or lesbian teenagers feel the suffering offered in this story.

don’t be afraid that your life will end, be afraid that it will never begin.

(c) Copyright 2007-20011 www.Facebook.com/commanderchase

*** I want to thank whoever pointed out to me that every reason given in this letter has been fixed in our society

this was an old piece of mine written more than 15 years ago I'm glad to see that change comes pretty quick.

[jamesnbarnes]

medicine | steve + bucky

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Summary:

Steve Rogers has been in combat, in new centuries and old. Steve Rogers has fought a million battles, but this is the only war that has ever been able to bring Steve to his knees.

Word Count: 1.6k

Notes: this is set immediately post-CATWS. lots of angst, recovering!bucky, steve definitely has PTSD, and a semi-positive ending? not exactly. i’m not 100% happy with this but i desperately needed to write + publish something to jumpstart the writing process. so here it is! i hope you guys enjoy.

After DC, all Steve can think about is why. The questions damn near drives him mad. Why did Bucky (the soldier?) save him? Why was he pulled from the river? Nothing about this situation sits right with him. Steve feels like he’s cursed to wander in circles around James Buchanan Barnes and no matter what happens, the cycle will not be broken. Steve’s tried.

The thing is, Steve has done this too many times before. Steve has spent decades in a world without Bucky. He knows, intimately, how terrifying it is to wake up from a nightmare and to reach over to the other side of an empty bed, seeking a comfort that has not existed for a hundred years. He knows all too well how it feels to wake up and go to work knowing that you will never look upon the face of the one you love most. He knows how torturous it is to have the last moments of your loved one’s life play behind your eyelids every time you close your eyes. The scream Bucky let out as he fell, as Steve didn’t catch him, haunts Steve’s every move.

Steve Rogers has been in combat, in new centuries and old, Steve Rogers has fought a million battles, but this is the only war that has ever been able to bring Steve to his knees.

Steve closes his eyes for a second and tries to remember how to breathe. There is suddenly a small breeze, barely there but still noticeable. When Steve opens his eyes, his mouth falls open with a tiny gasp. Nothing about his life seems realistic anymore.

“Don’t speak, don’t move, don’t do anything,” the man says.

Steve nods breathlessly. “Okay,” he says, swallowing loudly.

It’s too silent in this room. There’s the dull hum of hospital machinery but Steve can barely hear it over the sound of his own heart beating out of his chest.

“You don’t remember me, but I remember you,” Steve finally says. It’s not a question.

He’s standing there, at the end of Steve’s hospital bed. The ghost of his best friend-- lover. Every bone in his body is screaming for Steve to get up, to not let him slip away again. Not only would that be a bad idea given the fact that his body is about two bone breaks away from giving out completely, but because Steve isn’t exactly sure that he’d be able to stop himself from doing something insane if the conspiring events didn’t go his way.

The soldier doesn’t say anything. He stares blankly, hands lying limp at his sides.

“I remember parts.”

Steve swallows at hearing his voice again. It’s deeper, rougher, no doubt choked with words he wasn’t allowed to say for 70 years. Steve knows the feeling well. “Which parts?”

“Snow. Ice. Trains.” The soldier looks towards the window. It’s pitch black outside, save for a full moon shining in through the thin curtains.

“You letting me fall,” the soldier spits harshly.

Steve can’t breathe.

“Do you know what it’s like to land in snow and ice after falling hundreds of feet, only to notice red seeping out from your body, discovering that your entire arm is gone?” the soldier snarls.

Steve’s eyes widen and his chest tightens painfully. It’s as if the words He gapes as he watches the soldier leave again, slipping into the shadows. He’s retreated back into the darkness, taking Steve’s heart with him again. It’s not as if Steve’s heart every really belonged to himself anyway.

He wakes up again three hours later. Steve hadn’t even realized he had fallen asleep again.

Sam tells him it was just a dream.

The next time the soldier comes, Steve is near tears. He’s on the verge of tearing half of his apartment apart, ripping up the files he’s been looking over for damn near weeks now. His body may have healed but his mind hasn’t. Everything is falling apart around him. He hasn’t slept in days. S.H.I.E.L.D, Hydra, top-secret missions and hidden case files and confidential personnel files control his brain.

“Come on, dammit!” Steve yells, near hysteria bringing his hand down hard against the counter’s stone edge. He’s standing in his kitchen, files and old photographs and screencaps of newsreels and camera footage littering the floor. He wishes the impact of his palm against the counter hurt more than it does. Steve feels insane, he feels drunk, he feels like he’s going to lose his fucking mind because he’s always been two feet behind Bucky Barnes. The man has always been two steps ahead of him, even now, when everything has gone to shit, and Steve is just barely keeping his head above the water. “Goddammit. Goddammit Goddammit Goddammit.”

Steve is looking for answers and he isn’t sure they exist in this vague paper trail. Natasha has pulled all the strings she has in her back pocket, and Steve still isn’t sure it will be enough. This goes deeper and farther than Steve ever could have imagined. It’s deeper than the Red Room and runs far below the streets of the United States Capitol. It’s an international crisis six decades in the making and Steve’s head is about to explode.

“We were lovers.”

“Jesus,” Steve gasps, whirling around to find the soldier standing there. Steve has no idea how he got there, and part of him doesn’t want to ask. The soldier looks completely exhausted, like the experience of the past two weeks has stripped him down to bare bones. In short, he looks like he’s been to hell and back. The black eyeliner is gone, and the armor and weaponry are too, and even under the shitty lighting in his kitchen, Steve can see the shadows under his eyes from fatigue and the aftermath of murder.

“We were lovers,” he says again, expecting a response, and Steve really, desperately wishes he was capable of getting drunk. He feels too unstable to be dealing with this right now. He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t ask for this broken, almost-there version of the love of his life to come waltzing back into this life. He used to be resentful of this curse, of the fact that Bucky’s ghost would always haunt him. Steve had finally accepted that this was his life, that this was the curse he’d been dealt, and then, Bucky was back. He balls his right hand into a fist, suddenly fighting the urge to take a swing at something, and takes a deep breath.

His mind flashes back to when they were kids in Brooklyn, skinned knees, and bloody knuckles, running around the cobblestone streets like nothing could ever hurt them. He thinks of the way they held each other close before Bucky left for training, the night after he saved Steve’s ass in an alleyway, the way they still sought each other out for years. For fuck’s sake, Bucky made into Europe before he did, and yet they still ended up together, because something in this godforsaken universe has tied them together. He looks to the floor, and doesn’t think of the night they found each other again, touching and breathing each other in under a starlit sky in the middle of Nazi-occupied Germany.

Steve realized, with crushing finality, that it was never meant to be anything other than this. It was always Steve and Bucky, and while they may have been able to outrun it for all these years, it has caught up with them now. It’s as if Steve’s soul is tangible, as if he’s holding it in his hands, willingly handing it over to Bucky, every single damn day of eternity, now and for forever.

He can’t.

“Yes,” Steve says, opening his eyes suddenly. The memory fades away, cataloged in the back of his mind. He seals it shut again, and compartmentalizes his feelings before he speaks again.

The soldier exhales, contemplating his next move. “You loved him.”

Steve flinches. “I loved you, yeah.”

“Not me. Him,” the soldier says.

“Yeah,” Steve says weakly. “Are you going to leave again?”

The stranger shrugs. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” Steve says honestly.

“I can’t be him,” the soldier murmurs, whispering as he comes forward into the light. Steve stands up straight, hand twitching like he wants to take him into his arms again.

The soldier notices and doesn’t take another step forward. Steve curses himself for being so humanly desperate. It has been so long since Steve has held this man in his arms and he would kill twenty men to be able to hold him right now.

The soldier swallows. “I can’t be him. I can only be me. This broken, damaged thing. I can’t be him. But I can be better. I can- I can fix it. Not the things I’ve done, but. Me.”

“I believe in you,” Steve says, letting the words wash over him and sink into his skin, his bones. His heart.

“I can fix you,” the man (Bucky?) says. It shatters Steve’s heart. That, that right there, is Bucky, his Bucky, shining through. It’s almost painful how Bucky-like that statement is. He was always more concerned with making sure the soldier standing next to him made it home. It’s part of the reason Steve fell for him back in the first place.

Bucky was a good man. And this man, whoever he might grow to be, will always carry parts of the man Steve knew as Bucky.

Steve takes a chance with a smile. “Let’s focus on getting you patched up first, yeah?”

The soldier doesn’t smile, but the twitch of his lips is enough to convince Steve that he understands.

“What should I call you?” Steve says, turning away from the man long enough to grab two glasses and begin filling them up with water.

“James,” the man breathes. “You can call me James.”

It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

It’s been a long time since either one of them had a new beginning.

[captainsimagines]

Kill ‘Em With Kindness - PART FOURTEEN

Bucky Barnes x Reader

You had been detected. You were  now on their radar. You were recruited for one mission only. You’re trained and put to the test. With your background, everyone realizes it was a mistake recruiting a college student who would soon be faced with the thing that drove her to kill in the first place. 

Warnings: violence; physical and emotional abuse; TORTURE; swearing; harassment 

Word Count: 2,437

“You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen... I want to ruin you.”

“You’re too late.”

PART FOURTEEN

______

1. Companionship: fellowship; the filling of an empty void.

2. Nightmare: a terrifying dream in which the dreamer experiences feelings of helplessness, anxiety, and sorrow; dreamer can experience a ‘nightmare’ outside of own mind as well.

3. Decomposition: the process of decay of a body that was once inhabited. 

______

You struggled frantically. You tried to pull your arms and legs from their restraints; you were throwing your head back and forth; you were balling your hands into fists until your whole arm turned blue. You wanted to kill him. The three years that had passed were a blur, of course. But seeing Wolfgang in front of you right now, you were given back those memories in clear color- every death, every fight, every instance of emotional and physical abuse. You wanted to murder him and show him the skills that he had shown you. By killing him, you thought your whole world would stop and finally make sense. Killing him would only give him the upper hand, as you would be doing the one thing he had forced you to do. This sickness, this disease he had plagued you with was only growing stronger. No matter how strong the urge was to rip Wolfgang’s head from his shoulders, you knew that if you performed then the irony would consume you. 

The team didn’t know the man standing in front of you, staring you down as if you were a piece of meat and his favorite science project. The only information you had given to your team was your vacation in Paris- not Germany. Bucky only knew snippets of your time in Germany but you had never given names. This was all new to him. 

“You aged beautifully,” Wolfgang commented, running his index finger down your cheek slowly. You whipped your head to the other side and tried to bite his finger. Wolfgang laughed, stepping away and standing to the side. 

“How old were you when I trained you?”

“18.”

“And how old are you now?”

“I’m sure you can count,” you spit. Bucky whined, his fearful eyes widening at your response. Bucky was begging for you to cooperate. The reasoning was simple- he didn’t want to see you in pain.

“Don’t need to. I have your record right here,” Wolfgang declared, whipping a file from one of the desks. You stretched your shoulders, the metals plates sinking into your arms uncomfortably. 

“Your first kill was a man named Alex Lance.”

You scoffed, “You’re not really going to do that, right? Tell me the names of all the people I killed like it’s going to destroy me?”

“Don’t you have a heart?” Wolfgang chuckled, scanning the document once before looking back at you. When you didn’t respond, he sighed and closed the file. “I see.” 

Looking in between you and Bucky, Wolfgang smirked and walked over to him. The heat in your chest grew when Wolfgang gripped Bucky’s chin and forcefully turned his face toward him. 

“You’ve been staring at her all this time. I know she’s beautiful but,” Wolfgang paused and the smile he painted on his face demonstrated the pieces of his mind’s puzzle falling into place. “Oh... this is great.”

“Thought you knew already with the hacking and spying and all,” you growled. 

“We didn’t know it was true love,” Wolfgang sang, letting go of Bucky’s chin and walking back towards you. “This is going to make everything better.”

“Don’t touch her,” Bucky snapped, pulling at the metal restraints. 

Wolfgang turned around and smirked. “I won’t be doing the touching.”

With that, Wolfgang stepped off the platform and headed back to the desks. Only Bucky could see what he was grabbing, as well as the rest of your team. They were all leaning from their cells, their ears pried open and their faces drained of color. You locked eyes with Steve. No matter how hard he pulled at the rails, they would not bend. His glance told you to hold on and to follow the rules, that help would come soon. Without their suits or any trackers on them, no one would know you were in distress. You were all trapped here until one of you could escape and press a small button. 

Wolfgang came back and waved a textbook in front of your face. Your face scrunched up in confusion as you scanned your anthropology textbook. 

“Why is that coming back to bite me in ass?” you whispered to yourself, looking through your lashes at Bucky. He was shaking. 

“Let’s see here.” Opening the textbook, Wolfgang scanned the pages slowly. You were restless now, the anticipation eating away you like a virus. The anticipation wasn’t only killing you. Your team rocked on their feet, rubbed their arms, ruffled their hair- anything to help calm their nerves. Bucky, however, knew what was coming. 

“Question number one,” Wolfgang began. “Hominoid dentition.”

“What about it?”

“The numbers, Y/N. The numbers,” Wolfgang chuckled, stepping onto the platform and walking toward you.

“2,1,2,3,” you quickly stated. Wolfgang stopped in his tracks and smiled. The nod of his head was how he let you know you got a question right. He would rotate, however, asking a question from the textbook and then one from his own pile. 

“How long did it take for you and lover boy to end up together?”

You clenched your jaw and rolled your eyes. “Three weeks.”

Wolfgang pressed a button and Bucky’s chair began to lean backwards. You screamed, asking Wolfgang what he was doing. Wolfgang didn’t answer you. Instead, he fixed the levers and clicked random buttons. Bucky inhaled sharply, his limbs shaking and his eyes wide. 

“And how long did it take you to get over your first victims?” You shut your eyes and choked down your tears. Every single time you were reminded of your first victims, the pit on your stomach would swallow you up. Of course those victims made the strongest impact on your life considering you didn’t get to choose them. All the time you were moonlighting as a vigilante, you had a choice. Without a choice, you were setting yourself up for a downfall. 

“No answer? Okay then,” Wolfgang chanted, pressing a red button. Your chair and Bucky’s shifted, three plates rotating and setting themselves up beside your head. You began hyperventilating as they latched onto your skull. 

“No, please!” Bucky’s yells were drowned by yours. Forced to watch as the plates emitted hundreds of bolts of electricity around your face, Bucky struggled against the restraints. You writhed and screamed, chest rising and falling rapidly as each new bolt danced through you like you were on fire. Wolfgang finally released the lever allowing you to rest. 

“Y/N, talk to me. Look at me,” Bucky begged. You raised your head, eyes droopy but you were aware. Since you had become partially deaf, the wails from your teammates were faint. You locked eyes with Steve who was tearful and screaming, his anger so wild his folded knuckles were red and saliva dripped onto the floor. 

“That hurt,” you huffed, releasing a small chuckle. Bucky didn’t laugh. His attention was stripped from you when the plates settled around his head. 

“No, no!” you screamed, shock overpowering your trembling body as you witnessed the one thing you had always shook from your mind. You would sometimes imagine the torture Bucky had suffered, but your thoughts had never been so gruesome and horrid as what was shown. Bucky trembled violently, the bolts of electricity snapping and curling his boggled mind harsher than they did when he was the soldier. 

“Please, stop!” you screamed, the restraints digging into your skin as you struggled. “It took me four days! Four days!“

The sudden admittance of limited grief from your stuttering mouth surprised the others. It had taken you four days to get over your first murders. There was a reason, obviously, but you spit the truth in order to save Bucky’s already crumbling mind. 

“There you go!” Wolfgang declared, shutting the levers down and turning back to you. His thick accent rattled your body and you were almost as angry as Steve. No one was near as angry as him. He was finally witnessing what his best friend endured while he slept soundly in a bed of ice. 

You tried to calm down but Bucky’s wide eyes and wet lips kept you alert. You sobbed when you noticed Bucky’s eyes flicker and his cheeks twitch, the soldier within him crawling to the surface. 

“Please, don’t hurt him. This is between me and you.“

Wolfgang shrugged at this, leaning closer to you and snapping his fingers in his face. You flinched. 

“Still alert. That’s a problem,” Wolfgang sang, walking back to the levers and pulling it down. You straightened, nails pinching the chair and the sound of your teeth crunching together almost as loud as the vibrations. You shut your eyes tightly and tried to focus on anything other than the shockwaves coursing through you. 

With you on full display, there wasn’t much to be hidden. Everyone could see the light fade from your eyes. Everyone could see your past bleed through the dirty sweats you were wearing. Everyone could see the unending amount of love you had for Bucky. Everyone could see you slipping away from their fingertips. 

Tony slammed himself against the cell as hard as he could, his shoulders taking most of the beating. Wanda rolled along the floor trying to snap the jacket. Peter sobbed and copied Steve, pulling at the poles and wincing when they wouldn’t bend. Sam punched the wall and any corner of his cell, searching for any mistake. Natasha, Clint, and Vision did the same. Thor stood staring at you and Bucky, his concentration settling and his eyes hooded. 

Bucky’s howls were becoming quiet in your head, your eyes opening and closing with difficulty. 

“Last question,” Wolfgang released the lever. You fell back, grunts and moans shaking your chest. Black dots surrounded your vision.

“Since you can’t protect yourself, will you protect everyone else?”

With lips quivering and your face drenched in sweat, you answered. “You bet your ass I will.“

Wolfgang growled, marching for the lever and pulling it down. Bucky shrieked, the amount of electricity transferred to him causing the lights in the room to flicker rapidly. 

“Stop!” You wailed repeatedly and watched as the love your life was having his life stripped from him in the same fashion as before. “Stop!“

The experience of a nightmare, a terrifying dream in which you couldn’t seem to wake yourself up from, the feelings of helplessness, anxiety, and sorrow consuming every inch of your weakened body. 

You had suffered with lack of sleep due to your nightmares and so did Bucky but this was completely surreal. You were living in hell, in your personal nightmare that you couldn’t seem to wake up from. No matter how hard you pinched yourself or thrashed around in bed, your eyes remained closed. This time, your eyes were open and you couldn’t seem to close them. You were witnessing your greatest nightmare. 

A sudden crash sounded from the front gates. Glass and metal flew through the air, along with Thor’s hammer. The hammer flew right through Wolfgang’s abdomen and cracked Thor’s cell. Wolfgang fell to the floor. 

Thor quickly leapt from his cell and raced to the lever, shutting it off and holding Bucky in place. Everything was silent except for Bucky’s incoherent muttering. Setting Bucky softly on the floor, Thor stepped from the platform and tore the keys from the wall. He raced to Tony’s cell and unlocked it, handing him the keys so he could go back up to you and Bucky. 

“Are you alright, Miss Y/N?” Thor asked, holding your cheeks and studying your eyes. You nodded slowly, groaning as a verbal response. Tony unlocked everyone else’s cells as Thor helped tear the metal plates from your head. Once detached, he placed you on the floor beside Bucky. 

You snuggled up to him, brushing his hair from his face and kissing his temples. “We’re alright now. Baby, we’re alright.“

Bucky trembled, his mind scattered. He was in between two worlds at the moment- himself and the Winter Soldier. Without the trigger words, he couldn’t possibly transition completely but the thought of that happening prevented him from uttering one word. 

Once the whole team was released, half of them raced to get everyone’s suits. Steve lunged onto the platform, taking Bucky into his arms and rocking him in place. You stood, leaving him to comfort Bucky. If anything were to happen, Steve was the only one strong enough to hold Bucky down. 

You furrowed your eyebrows and looked around the room, ignoring Wolfgang’s mangled body beside the platform. You wondered why another swarm of HYDRA agents hadn’t entered or why the countdown wasn’t on anymore. Your question was postponed as Tony flew in to the room, carrying a couple suits in his hands. 

“You get a suit! You get a suit!”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed yours, stripping quickly and putting it on. You grabbed Steve’s and Bucky’s, the weight of it all buckling your knees. You dropped them on the platform. You raced to separate them, handing each part to the correct super soldier. You helped Bucky dress himself, whispering ‘I love you’ in his ear every so often. He grasped your shoulders and you helped him stand up. He shook his head and blinked a couple of times.

“You good?”

Bucky chuckled, kissing your forehead and grabbing your hand. “I’ve been better.”

You grinned and were about to step off the platform when your question was finally answered. 

The ten of you, Avengers, versus one super soldier. 

“Lucy, you know me.“

You tried to keep your voice steady as you watched her eyes scan the room. You wanted to drop to your knees and sob, but this wasn’t the time. You held yourself up and cautiously stepped off the platform. 

Lucy didn’t move and instead gripped her gun tighter. No one else moved but they did watch Lucy carefully, her finger on the trigger a warning sign. 

“Lucy, it’s me,” you said. She raised her gun and shot. You jumped out of the way just in time, landing on the floor. You backed away from her as she ran towards you. Lucy’s body smacked against the wall after Tony fired. She jumped up and grabbed her gun again, only to have it jump from her hands by Steve’s shield. She was becoming agitated, frustration leaking from her dull eyes. 

You stood up and walked to stand in front of your team.

“What do we do?” Steve asked, his eyes never leaving Lucy. No one else responded and you realized he was speaking to you. You were suddenly giving the orders. 

“Knock some sense into her.”

TAG LIST: 

@4theluvofall @chipilerendi @purplekitten30 @owhatshername1 @buckyappreciationsociety @katykyll @shaexoox @polkadottedpillowcase @jonnavgl @bunnymother93 @sumafamouxx @g0back2bed @thefridgeismybestie @huntermichelle @wowiebro @almondbuttercup @secondsandstars @s8sense @lovable-harmonica @potterssuperhero

[sorrelchestnut]

EVERYBODY’S PICKIN’ UP ON THAT FELINE BEAT, PART 33

Still not dead!  I’m just saying, this would have been a lot easier if I didn’t decide that this story suddenly needed to grow a plot.

Part 1.  Part 2.  Part 3.  Part 4.  Part 5.  Part 6.  Part 7.  Part 8.  Part 9.  Part 10.  Part 11. Part 12.  Part 13.  Part 14.  Part 15.  Part 16.  Part 17.  Part 18.  Part 19. Part 20.  Part 21.  Part 22. Part 23. Part 24. Part 25. Part 26.  Part 27. Part 28. Part 29. Part 30. Part 31. Part 32.

Title: everybody’s picking up on that feline beat Author: Sorrel Fandom: Fallout 4 Rating: Mature Warnings: None Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor Series: Part 3 of everybody wants to be a cat

  They creep into an abandoned building a few doors down from the Plaza and set up on the second floor, moving low and slow to avoid being spotted by either of the half-asleep guards patrolling slowly around the block.  Hancock’s better at keeping quiet than Deacon would have expected, considering the man’s run-and-gun style, but maybe he learned a thing or two when he was kicking around the Commonwealth with Whisper.  Even old dogs, etc.

  Once Whisper’s satisfied they’ve found the right spot, Hancock wanders off to explore, waving away Whisper’s hissed reminders to stay quiet.  Deacon raises his eyebrows at her, but she just tips him a shrug and kneels down to start unpacking her armor, so he decides to defer to her greater experience and does the same.

  They gear up with easy familiarity, Deacon tightening the straps on her chestpiece while she does up the buckles on her wristguards, and then Whisper turning around to return the favor, going to her knees and doing up the laces on his boots since he can’t bend over that far with the combat vest on.  Normally they don’t wear this much gear—Whisper prefers freedom of movement over being bulletproof, and since he has to keep up with her Deacon’s more or less come to see it her way—but normally they’re not going in this hot, either.  Whisper’s decked out heavier than he is, since she’ll be at the front drawing fire, but there’s going to be enough bullets flying around that neither of them are willing to take any chances.

  Once she’s kneeling in front of him, however, she doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to get back up.  By the time she’s finished ‘adjusting his ammo belt’ for the third time he’s half-hard and trying not to squirm, darting glances at the door to the hall where he can still faintly hear Hancock moving around.  Not that they haven’t fooled around with witnesses handy a truly inadvisable number of times, but this feels- different.  He still doesn’t know the lay of the land between her and Hancock, and this’d be a bad way for the ex to find out about the new guy, if that’s the way of it.

  “Quit it,” he finally hisses, and she laughs soundlessly at him and gives his thigh a final friendly pat before straightening creakily to her feet, moving awkwardly under the weight of unfamiliar gear.

  He picks up her weapon and shoves it into her hands before she can get any more clever ideas.  “You be careful with that,” he says, nodding to the fully-modded shotgun Hancock loaned her, since even Whisper had to admit that her rifle probably wasn’t going to cut it for this one.  “Bet that thing kicks like a mule.  You’ll be bruised to hell tomorrow if you don’t handle it right.”

  “Teach your gran to suck eggs,” she says, with a look that says she catches his metaphor loud and clear.  “I know how to handle a shotgun.”

  He slides his own rifle back into its holster and raises his hand defensively.  “Don’t get grumpy with me.  I just want to see you in one piece on the other side.”

  Her annoyed expression softens, and she darts a quick glance at the hallway to make sure the coast is still clear before she darts forward to press a kiss to his cheek.  “Right back atcha, partner,” she murmurs, then dances back before he can decide he doesn’t care about Hancock after all and reach for her.  “You ready to do this thing?”

  He grins down at her, the fading curl of lust mixing with the heat of adrenaline to leave him pleasantly flushed and on edge.  Is it wrong to love your work?  Definitely not, when it’s this much fun.  “Always,” he assures her.  “Don’t forget to make some noise.”

  She grins back up at him, mischief dancing in her hazel eyes.  “Oh, I think I can manage that.”

~*~

  When you get down to it, this op isn't all that different from ones they've run with Glory.  Which isn’t a surprise; on the rare occasions they’ve had the luxury of extra backup, Whisper tends to lean towards her little pincer maneuver, in one variation or another.  Mind you, she’s usually on the other side of the equation, but hey, Deacon’s flexible.  And in all fairness to their Angel of Destruction, it takes a lot of bullets to keep up with the kind of distraction Glory can dish out.  Hancock could probably use the help.

  “We’re in position,” Whispers murmurs in his earpiece, and Deacon’s sharp ears pick up the faintest scuff of a booted foot against the cobblestone.  It’s easy to picture Hancock, crouched just behind her, his own shotgun at the ready.  “How’s it looking on your end, Johnny?”

  He glances down at the pair of cooling bodies slumped at his feet, all that remains of the guards posted up at the back entrance.  “Rocking and rolling, Livvy-love,” he chirps, just to hear her snort of amusement.  “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Awesome.  Be ready to go on my signal.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Oh,” and he can hear the grin in her voice, “you’ll know.”

  For a moment, all goes quiet, and Deacon, who has a fine-tuned sense of self-preservation and a lot of experience with Whisper’s sense of humor, braces himself.  Then, through his earpiece, he hears the splintering crack of a door being kicked open, following in very short order by a shout of alarm, the blast of shotgun, and the much louder blast of a hand grenade going off in close quarters.

  Deacon grins to himself as he pulls out his rifle.  Time to earn his keep.

  It’s a hard fight, but not the worst he’s been in, by a long shot.  Things do get a little dicey when all the commotion turns out to be loud enough to draw the attention of the cohort on the upper levels before they’ve quite finished clearing the ground floor, but nobody gets shot, which is all that matters.

  Well.  Nobody on their side gets shot.

  Well, nowhere important, at least.

  “Four hundred years, this thing’s lasted,” Hancock’s saying in a mournful voice, as Deacon makes his way back down from a sweep of the upper levels.  “Seen me through more than my fair share of firefights, and that’s a fact.”

  Whisper makes an annoyed noise under her breath.  “What’s your point?”

  “Ten goddamn minutes with you and I’m catching a bullet where a patch ain’t gonna cut it, that’s my point.”

  “Right, what was I thinking.”  Deacon can picture her eye-roll as clear as if he was standing right next to her.  “You know that was just a replica, right?  It wasn’t actually worn by John Hancock, American revolutionary.”

  Hancock’s scowl is audible.  “How the hell would you know, anyway?”

  Deacon peers over the balcony railing, to see Whisper kneeling next to Hancock, wiping the last of the blood off her hands with a spare rag.  “You kids having fun down there?”

  “Hancock’s just bitching because he doesn’t know how to duck.”  Whisper closes the medkit up with an exasperated look at Hancock, who totally misses the entire byplay in favor of craning his head to peer at the bullet hole in his arm she just finished stitching.

  Deacon smothers a snort.  “Well, it’s all clear up here.  Looks like everyone who’s anyone came down earlier when the party got started.  Place is a ghost town.”

  Whisper’s grin is so satisfied it’s almost postcoital.  “Now that’s what I like to hear.  You mind getting our shit from the hidey-hole?  I want to check out the lay of the land, and this one needs to let the stimpak kick in.”  Hancock starts to sit up, an outraged expression on his face, only to get shoved back down by Whisper.  “Yes, you,” she tells him.  “Don’t be a hero.”

  Deacon bites back a smile and tips an imaginary hat with the backs of his knuckles.  He’s not used to seeing Whisper fussing.  It’s oddly sweet.

  “I’m on it, boss.”

~*~

  Hancock’s nowhere to be found when he gets back ten minutes later, but he finds Whisper setting up in one of the back rooms, the one with no exterior windows and the really niche torture dungeon aesthetic.  The bodies are gone, but the smell of death lingers like a really oppressive shroud.

  “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  Whisper twists around just enough to smirk at him.  “I thought the meat hooks in the corner made for a particularly gruesome touch.”

  “Yeah, really sets the scene.”  He drops their packs just outside of the doorway and steps inside, carefully avoiding the still-wet smear of blood from where she dragged the bodies out into the hall.  “Where’s Hancock?”

  “Going through the den upstairs for any interesting scav.  Figured one of us should make some caps off this shitshow, and we’re going to be too busy to haggle anytime soon.”

  “Hey, if you’re waiting for me to argue, you’re gonna wait a while.  The man got shot in the line of duty, the least we can do is see he gets a decent paycheck out of it.”  He leans against the doorway and folds his arms over his chest.  “How’s our timeline looking?”

  Whisper finishes shoving a chair into the corner and wipes her forehead off against her sleeve before rolling it up to check her Pip-boy.  “We’ve got about ten hours left,” she says.  “Figure, two or three to get there and get in position, want to be there about an hour early, give another hour of leeway just in case they make good time coming over the bridge, so…”

  “Five hours,” he finishes.  She nods.  “Huh.  Flip you for first watch?”

  “Fuck that, I already told Hancock he’s taking care of it.  We’ve got a hard day tomorrow.”  She crosses the room, looping her arms around his neck and grinning up at him.  “We need our rest.”

  “Rest doesn’t seem what you have in mind,” he murmurs back, but it’s hard to pretend like he minds when he’s already got a hand hooked around her hip, his thumb rubbing against the fraying fabric of her jeans.  “You got designs on my virtue, partner?”

  She laughs huskily into the crook of his neck.  “That a problem?”

  He must hesitate a second too long, because she leans back, blinking up at him in surprise.  “Is it a problem?”

  Well, nothing for it.  Might as well go all in.  “Depends.  Is it going to be a problem for Hancock?”

  He can see the exact moment she figures out what he’s asking, because her vaguely hazy look of confusion morphs into a snort of undignified laughter.  “Oh, god no,” she says, grinning a little loopily up at him.  “No problems on that front, trust me.  Worst that happens is he gets high and wanders in to workshop your technique.”

  He can’t quite hide his shudder.  “That’s not as reassuring as it probably sounded in your head, pal o’ mine.”

  Her grin picks up edges around the corners, and she leans up on her toes, presses her mouth to the hinge of his jaw.  A second later, he feels her teeth scrape delicately, crosswise against the stubble, and a shiver goes down his spine without any input whatsoever from his higher brain functions.

  “Guess we’ll have to lock the door,” she murmurs against his skin, and he grabs her by the hips and pulls her up to his mouth, drowning his worries in her familiar taste.

  For tonight, at least, he doesn’t have to think about anything else.

[fitfuturesacad]

The Psychology of Burpees

Eight weeks ago came the news that New Zealand was going into lockdown, as a method of managing the spread of Covid-19 through our communities and country. It was soon obvious that this lockdown was not going to be brief, but instead last for weeks or possibly months. My gym had to close, and I was restricted to travel within a few kilometres of my home. The government highlighted that getting out and exercising was beneficial to our health and wellbeing, so a long walk was initiated with the family for the first few days of lockdown.

I have never been a walker, runner, or cyclist, so with these options not taken into consideration, what could I do as a form of exercise that would push, challenge and motivate me during the lockdown period? I went scurrying through YouTube to see if there was anything online that was gaining traction and interest. I knew I wanted to be tested physically, but I was also looking for something that would challenge me psychologically. After ten minutes I had found it: one hundred burpees a day, 3,000 for a month! The person I had found was Chase Barron, who has a following of 31k subscribers to his YouTube account. He, like me, hates burpees as an exercise but saw this as an opportunity to test himself physically and psychologically.

Why are burpees so disliked – and so beneficial?

Back in the day our P.E. teachers gave burpees out as a punishment for turning up late, or forgetting gym gear. Burpees were horrible then, as they are now. But 35 years later, I know a lot more about the dreaded burpee.  In fact many Crossfitters look out for this exercise first when they see a Workout of the Day. So why does this exercise polarise so many? There are many variations of the burpees in recent years, with the spectacular popularity of Crossfit, and burpee variances have become regular in gyms. For my lockdown challenge I decided I would complete the more traditional push-up burpee.

I did a little research into the history of the burpee and the proposed physical benefits. The inventor of the burpee was Royal H. Burpee. As part of his PhD thesis in Applied Physiology (1939), Royal designed the burpee as part of a fitness test. I wanted to equip myself with as much knowledge and information as I could about burpees. I found:

Burpees engage the entire body. The burpee movement requires many muscles and joints to work together from the upper and lower body. Functional movements in the burpee include press-up, plank, squat and jump.

Burpees are a full-body exercise, and burn a high amount of calories. As many muscles are used during this high intensity exercise, typically more calories are burned, which can lead to faster weight loss.

No equipment is required – a major reason why I decided to take on the burpee lockdown challenge! Your garden, local park, garage or living room floor are all suitable places.

Burpees are a fantastic exercise to get the heart rate pumping. Just a few burpees gets the heart and lungs working in a short space of time, providing a cardiovascular workout.

  The Burpee Challenge

Thursday March 26th, 2020 was my start date. I was working from home and decided to schedule my burpees during my lunch hour, where I would walk around the corner to the local park.  In my research, Chase Barron identified that he completed his 100 burpees a day in sets and reps of 10, taking his time and using correct technique. Barron’s burpees were also spread out across the day due to time or availability – but I decided that I would complete my 100 burpees all at once, no matter how long it took.

Many negative or disparaging remarks are associated with burpees. Revulsion, disgust, fear and “love to hate” were comments I had come across as I researched the topic. As an all-round body weight exercise, the burpee is in a league of its own. There’s a reason for this, of course – it’s hard! If it wasn’t, all fitness enthusiasts would be using it in their exercise regime. ‘Love to hate’ I thought was an interesting comment. The love must come from the completion of achieving something difficult, the joy and euphoria of this, and knowing the health and fitness consequences of completing a series of burpees. The hate must come from what we are about to physically receive.

A full body weight workout means exactly what it says: from a standing start to a downward sprawl, a push up, jump back into the squat position and then a vertical jump to conclude the movement. Sounds easy on paper, but I’d have to complete 100 of these, each day for a month! The repetitive nature of the exercise is boring, technical yes, but with a little time and thought I decided I could make the movement effective and efficient for 100 attempts. I was expecting to “hate” to experience my respiratory and circulatory systems working extra hard to compensate for the lack of oxygen in my muscles. But of course, I expected to “love” the feeling of completing something which to me is more psychologically difficult in its nature than physiological in its execution. So this was my standpoint: this was how I was going to approach a month of 3,000 burpees. Obviously an efficient technique is important, but to me the psychological aspect of completing this monthly task was far harder. I would have to be mentally strong to be successful in achieving my goal.

At 1pm on March 26th I started my first 100 burpees. I was very apprehensive, yet excited to start what would be a month of pain and success. I am one of these people who sets themselves achievable and realistic goals, and only injury would stop me from reaching 3,000 burpees. But through my pain, there would have to be small amounts of pleasure to fight back and use as medicine, so I was in control of the pain.

My ‘medicine’ was:

I made a playlist of Calvin Harris and Swedish House Mafia to accompany my lonely foray into the burpee wilderness.

I needed a focal point to look at in the distance when I came up from the squat to vertical jump. I had to have something to concentrate my mind on.

My first week of burpees consisted of sets and reps of 10 at a time to reach 100 per day, 700 for the week. The first 4-5 days were pretty tough. I was inhaling large volumes of air into my lungs to compensate for my haste in completing the exercise movements quickly. I soon realised that my 52-year-old body was not as well acclimatised to the burpee as I had originally thought! Something had to change, and this was my mentality. I took a different approach by the end of the first week. Firstly, I slowed down my technique and spent more emphasis on the press up, squat and vertical jump. This allowed my whole burpee movement to become more efficient, and consequently I got into a rhythm and routine so the burpees became enjoyable. This was a key moment for me.

Halfway into Week Two I changed my reps per set. I wanted to push myself physiologically but also wanted to change my mindset. I went to 20 reps of 5 sets to complete my hundred burpees. I was now conscious of the need to pace myself, there was no rush, and to my surprise after 3-4 days I found my body was adapting well to this too. But more important for me was the sense of euphoria I felt on completion of the second week of the burpee challenge. The endorphins in my body were reducing the perception of pain but more importantly, they were triggering positive feelings. These feelings at the end of Week Two saw me reschedule the monthly plan. Week Three, I was now going to complete 150 a day! Burpees were now becoming behaviourally addictive. This was not something I had planned for psychologically.

A change of schedule also saw a change of music playlist, as this was now becoming repetitive. A Spotify burpee search came across plenty of high tempo music at 130-150 beats per minute. The music was a great motivational tool for what is a very repetitive exercise movement. With an increase in burpees to 150 per day, I now looked at completing 30 reps of 5 sets. The first day or two of this was considerably harder, but I wanted to do this as it pushed me well outside my comfort zone. Completing the reps was no issue, but what I did realise was the rest time in between sets was taking longer to recover. This was expected, though 25 years ago I would have pushed myself harder during recovery time. That said, the objective for me at this time was to complete 150 burpees at a time irrelevant of how long it would take me. By the end of Week Three I had completed 2,450 burpees, I was well ahead of schedule and looking forward to the final week. I still had high levels of motivation to complete the task, but more rewarding was the fact that I felt really good and positive. I had to remind myself that burpees are not “everyone’s cup of tea” and there is a very good reason for this. They are hard and repetitive. But I was still mentally feeling very strong. I could now see the horizon, the end of the month was coming around. I wanted to make a final change to my approach as I started Week Four.

Two hundred burpees a day! Even my wife thought this was a little crazy. But my mindset had changed. I was doubling my original target from the beginning of the month, but I had the energy and fitness to complete this. Once again, more important than my fitness, my mentality I believe was greater or stronger than my fitness. Progressive weeks of steady increments had shown me what was possible with the right mindset. Thursday April 23rd saw me complete the first of the 200 a day burpees. The first hundred went by pretty quickly. At the halfway mark I took a 90-second rest and took some water. I felt good. However, starting the last 100 burpees was a different matter. I struggled to get back into a rhythm, consequently the final 100 burpees were torture; it was the worst I had felt over the entire month. It was the first time I had thought of deliberately miscalculating my count. Finally, after reaching 200, I walked off to cool down both physically and mentally. I was annoyed. I was so disappointed with myself. Had I been unrealistic in wanting to achieve 200 burpees with only three weeks of training behind me?

I thought long and hard about my approach for the following day. I had some options:

8 sets x 25 reps

4 sets x 50 reps

2 sets x 100 reps (completed this once, surely it could not be as bad again?)

1 set x 200 reps

The plan for Day Two of the last week of the burpee challenge was to choose option 4. Looking back to the previous day, the first 100 burpees went relatively smoothly, then I had a short break and then struggled to find any form or rhythm for the final 100. For the second day, I planned not to stop at 100 but to continue in my slow, rhythmic, and methodical manner to 200 burpees. This I did, and it felt fantastic. The key was to pace myself, get my breathing right, and get into a rhythm. The endorphins in my body were going crazy, I felt incredible on completion, I walked away with hands on my hips and inhaling/exhaling very deeply – but this was offset by my sense of accomplishment. Deciding to complete the 200 burpees in one swoop was fundamentally the difference between today and yesterday. The remainder of the week was completed. I also mixed it up, using options 1, 2 and 4.

After the challenge

At the end of the 4-week challenge I had completed 3,850 burpees and had surpassed a target that Chase Barron had set himself to physically challenge him. For me, it was not about the physical aspects of completing the burpee challenge over a month. It was the psychological challenge of a daily repetitive exercise movement which exercise practitioners generally stayed clear of. Was it hard? Yes, there were days I did not want to do it, many of them in fact. But this was the reason why I wanted to take this challenge on. I wanted to test my willpower, perseverance, and determination.

What gave me more satisfaction was the fact I did not miss a day of burpees. The schedule was relentless, and each lunchtime was consumed by the burpee challenge. On reflection, the one-month challenge answered my objective of finding something physiological and psychological to complete while the gym was closed. This was very satisfying. The burpees themselves provided me a great daily workout; this was a bonus, as I am not a runner or cyclist. I believe that my slow rhythmical manner of completing the burpees was fundamental to my success, as it allowed me to concentrate on my form and technique. Over the one-month challenge I had no issues with any sprains or injuries.

Another attribute to my competition of the challenge was my choice of music. My music choice may not be enjoyed by everyone, but the songs with high beats per minute helped to alleviate the repetitiveness of the exercise movement. Having a focal point to look at in the distance also contributed to my completion of the challenge. At the top of the vertical jump, I looked ahead to something specific in the foreground. This was generally a tree; it provided me with the cue to breathe/inhale at the start of the burpee movement. It was this cue in the environment which provided a rhythm and routine to the movement.

So, what now, as the gyms are back open? Well, I’ve decided to use burpees in my weekly workouts. Admittedly I’ve cut back on the number. But 50 burpees I consider a good part of a workout. My fitness base I built up during the month of burpees, means that I can complete 50 burpees effectively. I don’t want to lose this burpee fitness base, in fact I quite enjoy completing them two to three times a week!

In summary, burpees provide a good cardiovascular workout, when time or space is restricted. The reason for this is because it is a thorough whole-body workout. The burpee movement is made up of continual exercises, which over 15-20 minutes will result in a surge in your heart rate and leave your lungs gasping for air and muscles starved of oxygen. There is a reason why the burpee polarises gym-goers. But if you can get yourself into the right mindset and see past the physical hurt then burpees, with good form and technique, can be slightly addictive.

Bibliography

https://edition.cnn.com/2016/01/13/health/endorphins-exercise-cause-happiness/index.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burpee_(exercise)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calvin_Harrishttps://www.spotify.com/nz/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swedish_House_Mafia

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pnqO8sh7ztc

  About the Author: My name is Mike Clayton, I am the Head of Education at Fit Futures Academy. I was born and raised in York in the United Kingdom (UK). I am of mixed race, my mother is Chinese and my father, English. I have a younger sister who lives in the UK with her family. My education was based at Liverpool University & Chester University College. I have a BSc Hons in Sports & Biological Sciences, where I majored in Sport Psychology. I presented at the 1998 BASES conference at Portsmouth University “What is the advantage in home advantage”. I also have a Postgraduate Diploma in Sport & Exercise Psychology & a Post Graduate Certificate in Teaching Adult Education. Alongside my loving and supportive wife, I have two young lovely daughters who remind me every day of how lucky I am. My educational areas of interest include Contemporary Issues in Sport & Habitual Exercising. 

Disclaimer: The exercises and information provided by Fit Futures Learning Institute (T/A Fit Futures Academy) (www.fitfutures.co.nz) are for educational and entertainment purposes only, and are not to be interpreted as a recommendation for a specific treatment plan, product or course of action. Read the full content disclaimer.

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Expert: What happened to Standing Rock water protector Red Fawn Fallis is what has happened to many women political dissenters who go up against Big Government/Corporate power.  After she was viciously tackled by several police officers (caught on video), she was brought up on serious charges of harming those who harmed her.  Fallis, after months of intense corporate/military surveillance and handy informant reports, was targeted as a coordinator and a leader, a symbol and an inspiration.  For daring to make a stand for her people against the encroaching poison and destruction brought by the Dakota Access gas pipeline, she became a political prisoner. Native-American women suffering dire consequences because of the ever-expanding needs of capitalist/white rule is nothing new.  Native-Americans have endured environmental racism for a very long time—from New England merchants to men seeking gold and to “tame” the West.  Late 20th century technology brought uranium mining and nuclear testing to the Southwest, bringing new and far-reaching disaster.  The Dakota oil pipeline, carrying explosive crude Canadian oil, goes through tribal lands, without tribal consent, potentially poisoning their water and desecrating their sacred sites.  Women have been on the frontlines of DAPL resistance, with their traditional ties to “Mother Earth” and to ancient matriarchal spiritual leadership.  But Standing Rock women resister/water protectors, faced all-out war from government/corporate forces. In a militarized police state, colonized Native-Americans taking a stand to protect their land and water from rapacious banks and oil companies can expect what was unleashed against them.  In one battle late in 2016, troopers from North Dakota and neighboring states launched an attack against hundreds of united, unarmed Native-American protesters and their allies.  Rubber bullets, icy water cannons, concussion grenades, mace and tear gas did enormous damage.  As head of the Medic and Healer Council Linda Black Elk put it, she was attacked as part of the “continued legacy of oppression by the United States government.”  Native-American women have felt this legacy of oppression in particular ways directed at “squaws.”  Natïve women were raped, imprisoned, tortured, mutilated and killed by white colonial settlers, and that tradition and mentality still lives on in the experience of Red Fawn Fallis and her fellow women water protectors. White police forcibly assaulted, stripped and searched demonstrators.  In a very familiar pattern, Prairie McLaughlin, daughter of LaDonna Brave Bull Allard, Lakota historian, was cited with “resisting arrest,” after objecting to being forcibly stripped.  An officer broke Apache-Navajo Laurie Howland’s wrist during her arrest.  Echoing Annie May Aquash, who was killed during the Wounded Knee uprising, Howland thought the white officers objected to her not being white and not praying to Jesus. Women dissidents against governmental authority, from Shaker Mother Ann Lee, to women militant suffragists, to black freedom riders, to revolutionary weatherwomen, have met male police violence, as “unnatural” noncompliant women.  For black and Native-American women, branded by a racist culture as even more beneath contempt, it is always worse.  So naturally, Red Fawn Fallis, singled out as a leader by the authorities, would be thrown down and arrested, and then brought up on serious charges which she would have no hope of beating. It was October 2016, when 40-year-old Red Fawn Fallis was arrested after being tackled and pinned by several officers.  Fallis came from a family well used to resistance and its consequences.  Red Fawn is an Oglala Sioux from Pine Ridge.  Fallis’ mother Troylynn Yellow Wood was active in AIM (American Indian Movement) and was at the Wounded Knee protest in 1973.  She died shortly before the Standing Rock demonstrations.  She had taught her daughter to fight for “social and environmental justice” and to “stand up for her people.”  Red Fawn was serving as a medic at Standing Rock.  She was known as a “mother” to young activists, known to be “dedicated to peaceful tactics.”  When she was accused of shooting at a police officer, her supporters found it hard to believe.  Terrell Ironshell of the Indigenous Youth Council said that Fallis told them:  “You don’t have to be afraid of the government.  This is our land.”  Apparently the government has not yet been convinced of that. On October 27, 2016, there was a 400-person rally near a DAPL construction site.  The police used the occasion to raid an “1851 treaty camp” and to take and destroy ceremonial and sacred items from a sweat lodge.  They dispersed the crowd with rubber bullets, tear gas and a “long-range acoustic device.”  There were 147 arrested that day and all were released except Red Fawn.  Deputy Thad Schmit said he spotted Fallis “being an instigator and disorderly” so he “took her to the ground.”  She allegedly fired a gun while down, and according to the arresting officers told them they were lucky she didn’t “shoot all you fuckers.”  [What military conference do they go to for this stuff?]  A video taken at the time clearly shows her being violently tackled by a dozen police, who then pinned her down, with a gun (according to witnesses) in her back.  The scene is horrific and typical of fascist militarized authorities quelling unarmed protesters.  It was the same response shown when black women protesters confronted Ferguson police and when Occupy demonstrators met up with the NYPD. The initial (state) charge against Red Fawn Fallis was “attempted murder” of a police officer.  This was dropped in November in favor of federal charges of “civil disorder” and “possession of a firearm by a convicted felon” (a felon for allegedly driving the car while her male companion shot and wounded another man).  US authorities ordered her held without bail—standard for political prisoners, whether black Panther or Weatherwoman or water protector.  At a June 2017 hearing, she was denied bail, purportedly because the judge said Standing Rock protesters were “violent.”  In October she finally was released to a half-way house in Fargo, after being in North Dakota jails for months. In January 2018, she had a trial, but, of course, the defense could not use the abrogation of treaty rights or the elaborate military-style surveillance and intelligence reports used to target her, reports which equated her with “jihadist fighters”; or the role of the swarmy FBI informant Heath Harmon, who insinuated himself into a relationship with Fallis, and said he provided her with the gun she allegedly fired.  With the defense hamstrung, as it always is when a woman political is a supposed terrorist, “eco-terrorist” in her case, she and her lawyer Bruce Ellison (Leonard Peltier’s attorney—hm), decided it’d be best to take a plea deal for civil disorder and possession of a firearm, with the dropping of the discharge of firearm (potentially a life sentence).  She also had to express remorse for causing any danger to the police [!].  After some delays, Red Fawn was finally sentenced on July 11, to 57 months in federal prison, with 18 months credit for prison time served.  She will serve about 39 months and three years probation.  She is appealing, but—vicious government prosecutors in North Dakota courts not known for Native-American sympathies–?  Not much chance.  Interestingly, Fallis said, before sentencing, she “wanted to move forward in a positive way away from Harmon and the things he tried to put on me while I was trying to push him away.”  Guess he got even. When it comes to political dissent, the US government has a long history of violently suppressing it.  When it comes to women dissenters, US authorities have a long history of saving special kinds of punishments for them.  In 1973, black liberationist Assata Shakur was pulled over in a traffic stop, ended up being shot and then falsely accused of shooting her attacker.  Knowing she’d be killed in prison, her comrades helped her escape to Cuba.  In 1990, environmentalist Judi Bari was blown up with a car bomb in California, very likely by the FBI and the Pacific Lumber Company.  She was charged with “possession of an explosive device.”  She never recovered from her injuries.   Muslim- Pakistani scientist Aafia Siddiqui, a Boston doctor, was caught up in the horror of false terrorism charges in the early 2000s.  After years of imprisonment, rape and torture, she was set up for a staged shooting of US army officers in Afghanistan, was herself grievously wounded in the stomach, and, as an accused “terrorist,” got 86 years in prison.  Occcupy’s Cecily McMillan was sexually accosted by an NYPD officer, tackled by a number of other officers, and was charged with attacking the police.  She served time in Rikers and was released.  Black Lives Matter activist Sandra Bland was pulled over in Texas for not signaling for a lane change, was tackled with her head hitting the ground, charged with the felony of attacking an officer, and was found hanged in her cell a few days later under suspicious circumstances.  In a police state, you can be a New Jersey mother on a beach and get accosted by cops, a black woman at a waffle house and be tackled by officers, a young woman jaywalking and get attacked by the police.  This is the mark of an authoritarian, patriarchal power structure. Red Fawn Fallis will serve hard time in federal prison because she stood up to government/corporate power.  The Free Red Fawn facebook page says—on July 12, 2018—that she is a “political prisoner.  She stood up for justice against environmental genocide, encroachment of our land and water.”  Like other Native-American and Puerto Rican women politicals, Fallis sees her status as a war captive of the US government.  She knows she faces a long prison sentence, but has heard her supporters sing outside her window.  She says, “So I stand strong. . .  I grow stronger every passing hour.”  She was treated brutally and with a punishment far in excess of any possible crime.  Such treatment of women political prisoners is the mark of a state which has little patience for defiant women resisters:  a fascist state, a police state –not one beginning with Trump—Standing Rock and Ferguson happened under Obama. The repression against those women who have fought for freedom and justice began with the first settlers. http://clubof.info/