#but his humbleness in stating that his lack of practice will show

[actiaslunaris]

Snippet of a road trip fic I am never writing:

Utsumi: So, do you know how to do anything creative? Write?

Yukawa: I write.

Utsumi: I mean, like stories. Or poetry? Anything creative like that.

Yukawa: Not like that. Do you? Write poetry or stories?

Utsumi: *thinks about answering honestly and then loses courage* I keep a journal. Maybe.

Yukawa: *now knows she does and doesn't pursue further* There are other creative endeavors. You have a nice voice.

Utsumi: There's no way you're getting me to karaoke.

Yukawa: I wasn't suggesting it.

Utsumi: *now a dog with a bone* Do you sing? Or play an instrument, then?

Yukawa: I know how to play an instrument.

Utsumi: Probably perfectly, right? Another hobby of yours? What do you play?

Yukawa: Guitar. Imperfectly.

Utsumi: *feeling she's won something* Cooking is more your forte, huh.

[burningstrangerkingdom]

Lights out

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

summary: after returning from a triple header where you accompanied your boyfriend Charles, you find a surprise in the apartment.

warnings: none

notes: this is the first fanfic I write, I hope to improve over time, any type of interaction is welcome < 3

After a triple header which your boyfriend practically begged for you to acompany him, you were certenelly glad to be back in your home in Mónaco.

"I'm dying to return to my bed, tou will never take me out of it again" you dramaticalized in your way stairs up to your apartment.

"I don't see a problem with that" he teased, making you chucked at his statement.

"No, but really, I, of course, had the idea of a tour like that being tiring but it's incredibly exausting, my love, I'm going to plan a relaxing week for you to recharge your energies".

It was the first time you get to witnessed a triple header first hand with him, due to your last job being so demanding that you got to lost the oportunity to join him in that kind of trips multiple times, so now, seeing how bad those kind of shows could affected him, you thought it was the least you could do to help him since he had been nothing but a wonderful boyfriend to you.

"Thank you, chérie, but all I need is you and a good amount of pasta, that Andrea should never heard of" he joked back to you.

It was kind of cute how he always, being the nicest person you've ever met, tried to dismiss any kind of attention to him and light it off with a joke, too humble for his own good, and even though sometimes those actitudes freaked you out, that as a part of his personality was also something you loved about him.

Trying to get ahead of him so that you could plan the following days taking advantage of the ideas that came to your mind, you made a short run until you reached the door of your home, you opened it nimbly and carelessly dumped your luggage, now focusing on finding the light switch

"Fuck" you said when you realized that there was no light in the room.

"What happened, cherie?" asked confused Charles as he tried to enter the room by dodging the luggage spread on the floor.

"I'll tell you in a minute".

The lack of electricity in the place also puzzled you, so you left your boyfriend at the entrance and went to each room to check and realize that they were all in the same condition. Still confused, you did a mental recap trying to find an answer to this situation, when an idea came to your mind, so you took your phone out of your pocket and clicked on the banking app.

"Oh" was all that came out of your mouth when you realized you never made the payment.

Sharing a house is a great commitment, which undoubtedly tests the duration of relationships, which is why since Charles proposed to do it, you tried to work on delegating responsibilities to each other and thus avoid feeling that you are invading his personal space. The problem here is that paying for electricity is something that was up to you, and you had no problem doing it since Charles spent most of his time flying, in the factory or racing, you considered it fair that this task fell on you. being the one who spent most of his time in the apartment.

You thought you made the payment a few days ago, but when you checked your bank account you realized that you never completed the transaction, which you embarrassingly confessed to your boyfriend.

He looked at you curiously, then chuckled and burst out laughing, "Oh, mon amour, of course you did".

Your first reaction was to be embarrassed by everything that happened, but upon hearing his melodious and contagious laugh you had no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation as well.

You both ended up leaning back on the couch, giggling. "Oh god, i love you" stated Charles as he ran a hand contouring your face.

"Even when i make your house look like a tunnel?" you teased while excessively batting your lashes.

"Even when you leave Monte Carlo in completly darkness" at that, you lightly smacked his arm, earning a giggle from him.

Thank you so much for reading it, it was a weird idea that I got yesterday, hope you liked it <3

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Living His Word

In whatever you do, don't let selfishness or pride be your guide. Be humble, and honor others more than yourselves. Don't be interested only in your own life, but care about the lives of others too. — Philippians 2:3-4

Humility is a virtue that is often overlooked in our society, but it plays a significant role in our relationship with God and with others. It can be defined as a willingness to put others before ourselves, recognition of our limitations and weaknesses, and a seeking of guidance and support from God and those around us.

When I asked A.I. (Artificial Intelligence) what humility was, it gave an interesting response: "Humility is not about thinking less of ourselves, but rather about thinking of ourselves less." Just pause and let it sink in for a while.

Humility is often mistaken for weakness or a lack of self-confidence. In reality, it is a powerful virtue highly valued in the Christian faith. It is the quality of being humble and unpretentious, putting others before oneself, and recognizing one's own limitations and imperfections. Our verse for today highlights the importance of humility in our relationships with others, and how it can lead to greater harmony and love within the Christian community.

One of the Bible's most well-known examples of humility is when Jesus washed his disciples' feet. Traditionally, this act of service was typically done by a servant; but Jesus chose to do it Himself as an example of serving others and putting their needs before his own. Another example of humility in the Bible is when John the Baptist said that he must decrease so that Jesus could increase. This shows a willingness to put oneself in a lower position.

On the other side, let's look at the dangers of pride, which is often the opposite of humility. Pride is a common human trait that can be both positive and negative. However, in the context of humility, pride can become a dangerous obstacle to personal growth and spiritual development. Proverbs 16:18 warns us, "Pride is the first step toward destruction. Proud thoughts will lead you to defeat." This verse reminds us that our prideful attitudes can lead to our downfall if we do not pursue humility. In addition, James 4:6 states that "… the kindness God shows is greater. As the Scripture says, 'God is against the proud, but he is kind to the humble.'"

Reflecting on our own pride can be difficult, but it is an essential step toward practicing humility. We must recognize when our pride is getting in the way of our relationships with others and with God. Only then can we begin to overcome this dangerous obstacle and embrace true humility.

© 2024 by Bible League International

[lostgracestories]

Hi! I saw that you write for MHM/MBM and this fandom fr needs more fanfics, so heres my request :) I was wondering if you could do an Arata Usuba or Kazushi Tatsuishi x reader? Could be anything of your choice ofc

OMG So I love that you requested this because I have been wanting to write something for this for forever!!! I really love arranged marriage/forbidden love pairings <3 personally, I feel like giving Arata somebody to love because he seemed so upset at the end of the anime's first season :,( Thank you so much for being my first request!

I also totally did not proof read this LOL ALSO ARATA WITHOUT HIS GLASSES OMG <3 <3 <3

Purpose - Arata Usuba x Reader wc: 2k (I GOT EXCITED) tw: maybe a little angst if you squint, reader gets pretty sick, arranged marriage, female reader

Arata was no stranger to searching for a way to fulfill his purpose. He is a driven man, and most people knew that. However, he struggles to believe he will ever fulfill his purpose. Although a man of dignity, respect, and loyalty, he hides worry, concern, and shame. Well… that was until he met you.

It was an unusual turn of events when it was suddenly stated to him that he was to be married. He already had so much on his plate. Not to mention, the marriage came seemingly out of nowhere. It wasn’t unlikely for other people, but for him to be arranged in a marriage? Something had to be going on. Well he found out the answer to his curiosities the moment he met you.

Each of you had powerful families and you yourself did not possess spirit sight. This marriage was a means to gain security and leverage and in return, you would keep your head low and be a trophy wife. Despite your lack of spirit sight, however, you had to be the most beautiful woman that Arata had ever laid his eyes on.

You sat in the living room of the Usuba house, glancing around at the decorations and accessories adorning the home. You had been instructing by your parents not to speak unless instructed, as was the usual of your expectations when you left the house. You weren’t upset about it though. Your parents were very kind people and they had raised you to nurture your other talents since you lacked spirit sight. You understood the situation because you knew you could not do much to protect anybody against grotesqueries. Your parents had assured you that they picked the perfect match for you, a man who would take care of you like it was his job. You finally looked across to the other couch at the man in question, watching him speak with your parents.

“I will devote my life to protecting your daughter mister and misses L/n. You have my word”

Arata stands briefly to bow. He had a purpose finally. One to devote himself to you. Arata turned to look at you with such a determined expression on his face like he was pursuing a prize.

“Miss y/n, may I show you to your living quarters now?”

You responded with a silent nod and slowly and carefully stood up. You followed quietly behind Arata as he led you to the room where you would be staying. It was so luxurious and big. Sure your family was powerful, but your family was also humble and you were used to your fairly small traditional home. The room is not very decorated which confuses you. The rest of the house is so beautifully and delicately decorated but your room was practically bare. You supposed that they didn’t want you to steal or break anything.

“I know it’s not the most exciting room but I figured you would like to decorate it yourself to make yourself feel more at home”

Arata clears his throat after speaking. He was very subtly embarrassed. You may not see grotesqueries but you could see through people’s emotions like a window. You merely nod at his comment and look around at all the places you could decorate. The bed was huge and elegant, definitely different than your average sized bed at your home, well, old home now.

“What do you think of the room?”

Arata asks. Insecurity, you take note in your head.

“It’s beautiful. It’s just…”

You debate whether or not to mention your concern about the drastic difference from your home

“Just what, miss y/n?”

“It’s just… so big… I feel like all this space is such a waste for me… I’m used to a small bedroom…” Arata seems to knit his brows together at your concerned comment and nods in acknowledgment.

“I’ll see to it that the issue is resolved. How big would you like it?”

You look at Arata like he’s crazy for a moment then offer him a gentle smile, a soft chuckle following it.

“Don’t be so hasty. I’ll get used to it. I’m sure I can fill up the empty space”

You look at Arata’s face an he has his lips pursed

“Is something bothering you?”

You question, internally pinching yourself for intruding on his personal issues without being given permission to become involved.

“Yes actually…”

Arata’s response shocks you and you keep your eyes locked on him, your face radiates kindness and patience to him, wanting to hear what he has to say. Arata noticed your interest and shook his head.

“It is nothing that should concern you. Now, I have some matters to attend to so please make yourself at home and get some rest”

And that was that. Arata closed the bedroom door and you stared at it for a little bit. You told yourself it was none of your business but the conversation lingers in your mind even as you’re laying down to fall asleep.

The days of living in the Usuba house began to bleed together. Your routine was the same everyday and you always took care to be quiet and not bothersome to anyone. Weeks went by and eventually a couple months. This was nothing like those fairytail arranged marriages you had heard about. Neither of you really spoke to each other. You were simply just living there for your family’s benefit.

You had always been so cheery and hopeful. You had been so excited to be married but this was so lackluster. You didn’t feel loved. You wanted to be loved. You werent even sure if you loved Arata. I mean, how would you know if you were in love with him? You barely spoke. No matter. The day was coming to an end once again and you were preparing for bed. You carefully slipped into the covers and listened to the chirping of bugs outside as you drifted to sleep. 

You didn’t sleep long though. A sudden rattle from outside of your bedroom startled you awake. You snapped your head toward the door to see if someone was coming in. When nobody came in you noticed that you had begun to sweat profusely when you had been sleeping. It took a few moments but eventually you realized how hot you felt and how your head ached strongly. You pulled down the sheets to cool off and laid back in bed, trying to sleep. Your effort was useless as the feelings only seemed to worsen as the night passed by and morning came.

Just like every morning, Arata came to knock on your door and tell you that breakfast was ready and that he was going out to run errands.

“Miss y/n, breakfast is ready and waiting downstairs and I’m going to go and run my errands. Are you awake?”

No response.

Arata knit his brows together in concern. He had figured out that you always woke up at 6 am every morning and you always answered him with a cheerful response. So he tried again. When he still received no response he made the choice to go into your room to check on you.

“Y/n I’m coming in!”

Arata carefully pushed the door open and laid eyes on your figured, strewn uncomfortably across the bed. He noticed your skin shining with sweat and hurried over. You must be sick. Arata placed the back of his hand to your forehead, your skin burning hot against his hand. You needed a doctor, quickly.

“Y’n, I’m going to call for a doctor… please don’t attempt to get out of bed, you seem very sick…”

With that, Arata rushed out of the room to get a doctor.

In the meantime, you shivered despite your body heat, your lower jaw trembling. You had never felt this horrible, you just wanted it all to be over. Your mind wandered to how worried Arata had sounded when he found you lying sickly in your bed and it nearly made your heart skip a beat. You replayed his tone of voice in your mind to keep yourself sane while he was gone.

When Arata returned, he had a doctor at his side. The doctor introduced himself but you were too dazed to care, and at this point, all of your reason was out the window. As the doctor examined you, you whimpered out Arata’s name. You wanted, no, needed comfort.

Arata stiffened slightly at the tone you used while saying his name. It was so desperate and filled with pain. It tugged at his heart and he swore he felt his heart drop into his stomach. Without thinking about it, he reached out and held your hand. He didn’t stop to think that you may have something that could pass to him, he just did it.

“I’m here…”

He assured you. His voice made your currently overstimulated self cry. Arata immediately worried he had done something wrong. The doctor pulled his tools away from you and put them away in his bag, ready to give a diagnosis.

“This is likely a strain of influenza.”

The doctor ripped a paper out of his small notepad and used a pen from his pocket to scribble down an address and a prescription medication.

“When you have time, go down to the pharmacy and get her that medication. It will bring down the fever. Make sure to keep a close eye on her.”

Arata nodded firmly, his eyes stuck on you after taking the paper. Without another word, the doctor left and Arata stayed by your side.

“Y’n… I’m going to go and get you this medicine… it will help you to feel better. I promise to be fast…”

In response, he was met with a whine and once again without thinking, he leaned over you, planting a kiss to your forehead. This action shocked him. He noticed the lack of thought he had given to holding your hand and now this. It worried him. He didn’t know why he was acting this way.

Arata made a point to hurry and acquire the medicine. As soon as he got home, he never left your side. He stayed there for weeks to bring you back to health from this nasty case of influenza. You were just now finally coming out of it, able to sit up in bed and speak at last. No chills or shakes anymore, just a minor fever that would surely be gone by morning. Yet here Arata was, still worried about you, insistent on hand feeding you your lunch. You had tried to protest at first but it had been no use, so you let him.

“Arata…”

You begin speaking in between bites and he pauses feeding you to listen to you.

“Yes?”

He gives you a look of questioning.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me… and for that kiss…”

Arata’s cheeks flushed and he seemed to swallow hard at the memory. He had almost forgotten about it.

“Yes… well… it would be a shame if you had not made it through… I admit we have barely spoken with each other since you arrived here.”

You nod and smile, admiring his embarrassment.

“I would love to spend more time with you… but I understand you must be a busy man”

Arata shifts uncomfortably in his chair that he had seated next to your bed.

“I admit… I am not actually overwhelmingly busy. I have been avoiding you because this was simply a marriage of opportunity, I didn’t want to force anything to happen between us”

You laugh at his words and quickly stop yourself, apologizing.

“Sorry- I just think it’s funny because I would prefer if you treated me more like a wife than assuming that I want nothing to do with you… You know where I think a good place to start would be?”

Arata looks at you intently, waiting for you to continue.

“This…”

You move your hand to his cheek gently, pushing a couple stray hairs out of the way and pressing your lips to his forehead. His cheeks suddenly burn bright red and he almost seems like he’s glowing.

“That’s a thank you… for the one that you gave me…”

Arata sat, star-struck by your boldness. He looked at you with such a curious and tender expression this time. You know what? He could live with this whole arranged marriage situation… You were more than just his purpose now, you were his reason.

[dailyanarchistposts]

I.4.2 Why do anarchists desire to abolish work?

Anarchists desire to see humanity liberate itself from work. This may come as a shock for many people and will do much to “prove” that anarchism is essentially utopian. However, we think that such an abolition is not only necessary, it is possible. This is because work as we know it today is one of the major dangers to freedom we face.

If by freedom we mean self-government, then it is clear that being subjected to hierarchy in the workplace subverts our abilities to think and judge for ourselves. Like any skill, critical analysis and independent thought have to be practised continually in order to remain at their full potential. So a workplace environment with power structures undermines these abilities. This was recognised by Adam Smith who argued that the “understandings of the greater part of men are necessarily formed by their ordinary employments.” That being so, “the man whose life is spent in performing a few simple operations, of which the effects too are, perhaps, always the same, or nearly the same, has no occasion to extend his understanding … and generally becomes as stupid and ignorant as it is possible for a human creature to be … But in every improved and civilised society this is the state into which the labouring poor, that is the great body of the people, must necessarily fall, unless government takes pains to prevent it.” [quoted by Noam Chomsky, Year 501, p. 18]

Smith’s argument (usually ignored by those who claim to follow his ideas) is backed up by extensive evidence. Different types of authority structures and different technologies have different effects on those who work within them. Carole Pateman notes that the evidence suggests that ”[o]nly certain work situations were found to be conducive to the development of the psychological characteristics” suitable for freedom, such as “the feelings of personal confidence and efficacy that underlay the sense of political efficacy.” [Participation and Democratic Theory, p. 51] She quotes one expert who argues that within capitalist companies based upon a highly rationalised work environment and extensive division of labour, the worker has no control over the pace or technique of his work, no room to exercise skill or leadership and so they “have practically no opportunity to solve problems and contribute their own ideas.” The worker, according to a psychological study, is “resigned to his lot … more dependent than independent … he lacks confidence in himself … he is humble … the most prevalent feeling states … seem to be fear and anxiety.” [quoted by Pateman, Op. Cit., p. 51 and p. 52]

The evidence Pateman summarises shows that an individual’s “attitudes will depend to a large degree on the authority structure of his [or her] work environment”, with workplaces which are more autocratic and with a higher division of labour being worse for an individual’s sense of self-esteem, feelings of self-worth and autonomy. In workplaces where “the worker has a high degree of personal control over his [or her] work … and a very large degree of freedom from external control” or is based on the “collective responsibility of a crew of employees” who “had control over the pace and method of getting the work done, and the work crews were largely internally self-disciplining” a different social character is seen. [Pateman, Op. Cit., pp. 52–3] This was characterised by “a strong sense of individualism and autonomy, and a solid acceptance of citizenship in the large society” and “a highly developed feeling of self-esteem and a sense of self-worth and is therefore ready to participate in the social and political institutions of the community.” Thus the “nature of a man’s work affects his social character and personality” and that an “industrial environment tends to breed a distinct social type.” [R. Blauner, quoted by Pateman, Op. Cit., p. 52]

Thus, to quote Bob Black (who notes that Smith’s comments against the division of labour are his “critique of work”), the capitalist workplace turns us into “stultified submissives” and places us “under the sort of surveillance that ensures servility.” For this reason anarchists desire, to use Bob Black’s phrase, “the abolition of work.” [The Abolition of Work and other essays, p. 26, p. 22 and p. 19]

Work, in this context, does not mean any form of productive activity. Far from it. Work (in the sense of doing necessary things or productive activity) will always be with us. There is no getting away from it; crops need to be grown, schools built, homes fixed, and so on. No, work in this context means any form of labour in which the worker does not control his or her own activity. In other words, wage labour in all its many forms.

A society based upon hierarchical relations in production will result in a society within which the typical worker uses few of their abilities, exercise little or no control over their work because they are governed by a boss during working hours. This has been proved to lower the individual’s self-esteem and feelings of self-worth, as would be expected in any social relationship that denied self-government. Capitalism is marked by an extreme division of labour, particularly between mental and physical labour. It reduces the worker to a mere machine operator, following the orders of his or her boss. Therefore, a libertarian that does not support economic liberty (i.e. self-management) is no libertarian at all.

Capitalism bases its rationale for itself on consumption and this results in a viewpoint which minimises the importance of the time we spend in productive activity. Anarchists consider that it is essential for individual’s to use and develop their unique attributes and capacities in all walks of life, to maximise their powers. Therefore, the idea that “work” should be ignored in favour of consumption is totally mad. Productive activity is an important way of developing our inner-powers and express ourselves; in other words, be creative. Capitalism’s emphasis on consumption shows the poverty of that system. As Alexander Berkman argued:

“We do not live by bread alone. True, existence is not possible without opportunity to satisfy our physical needs. But the gratification of these by no means constitutes all of life. Our present system of disinheriting millions, made the belly the centre of the universe, so to speak. But in a sensible society … [t]he feelings of human sympathy, of justice and right would have a chance to develop, to be satisfied, to broaden and grow.” [What is Anarchism?, pp. 152–3]

Therefore, capitalism is based on a constant process of alienated consumption, as workers try to find the happiness associated within productive, creative, self-managed activity in a place it does not exist — on the shop shelves. This can partly explain the rise of both mindless consumerism and the continuation of religions, as individuals try to find meaning for their lives and happiness, a meaning and happiness frustrated in wage labour and other hierarchies.

Capitalism’s impoverishment of the individual’s spirit is hardly surprising. As William Godwin argued, ”[t]he spirit of oppression, the spirit of servility, and the spirit of fraud, these are the immediate growth of the established administration of property. They are alike hostile to intellectual and moral improvement.” [The Anarchist Reader, p. 131] Any system based on hierarchical relationships in work will result in a deadening of the individual and in a willingness to defer to economic masters. Which is why Anarchists desire to change this and create a society based upon freedom in all aspects of life. Hence anarchists desire to abolish work, simply because it restricts the liberty and distorts the individuality of those who have to do it. To quote Emma Goldman:

“Anarchism aims to strip labour of its deadening, dulling aspect, of its gloom and compulsion. It aims to make work an instrument of joy, of strength, of colour, of real harmony, so that the poorest sort of a man should find in work both recreation and hope.” [Anarchism and Other Essays, p. 61]

Anarchists do not think that by getting rid of work we will not have to produce necessary goods. Far from it. An anarchist society “doesn’t mean we have to stop doing things. It does mean creating a new way of life based on play; in other words, a ludic revolution … a collective adventure in generalised joy and freely interdependent exuberance. Play isn’t passive.” The aim is “to abolish work and replace it, insofar as it serves useful purposes, with a multitude of new kinds of free activities. To abolish work requires going at it from two directions, quantitative and qualitative.” In terms of the first, “we need to cut down massively the amount of working being done” (luckily, “most work is useless or worse and we should simply get rid of it”). For the second, “we have to take what useful work remains and transform it into a pleasing variety of game-like and craft-like pastimes, indistinguishable from other pleasurable pastimes, except that the happen to yield useful end-products.” [Bob Black, Op. Cit., p. 17 and p. 28]

This means that in an anarchist society every effort would be made to reduce boring, unpleasant activity to a minimum and ensure that whatever productive activity is required to be done is as pleasant as possible and based upon voluntary labour. However, it is important to remember Cornelius Castoriadis point: “Socialist society will be able to reduce the length of the working day, and will have to do so, but this will not be the fundamental preoccupation. Its first task will be to … transform the very nature of work. The problem is not to leave more and more ‘free’ time to individuals — which might well be empty time — so that they may fill it at will with ‘poetry’ or the carving of wood. The problem is to make all time a time of liberty and to allow concrete freedom to find expression in creative activity.” Essentially, the “problem is to put poetry into work.” [Political and Social Writings, vol. 2, p. 107]

This is why anarchists desire to abolish “work” (i.e., productive activity not under control of the people doing it), to ensure that whatever productive economic activity is required to be done is managed by those who do it. In this way it can be liberated, transformed, and so become a means of self-realisation and not a form of self-negation. In other words, anarchists want to abolish work because ”[l]ife, the art of living, has become a dull formula, flat and inert.” [Berkman, Op. Cit., p. 166] Anarchists want to bring the spontaneity and joy of life back into productive activity and save humanity from the dead hand of capital. Anarchists consider economic activity as an expression of the human spirit, an expression of the innate human need to express ourselves and to create. Capitalism distorts these needs and makes economic activity a deadening experience by the division of labour and hierarchy. We think that “industry is not an end in itself, but should only be a means to ensure to man his material subsistence and to make accessible to him the blessings of a higher intellectual culture. Where industry is everything and man is nothing begins the realm of a ruthless economic despotism whose workings are no less disastrous than those of any political despotism. The two mutually augment one another, and they are fed from the same source.” [Rudolph Rocker, Anarcho-Syndicalism, p. 2]

One last point on the abolition of work. May 1st — International Workers’ Day — was, as we discussed in section A.5.2, created to commemorate the Chicago Anarchist Martyrs. Anarchists then, as now, think that it should be celebrated by strike action and mass demonstrations. In other words, for anarchists, International Workers’ Day should be a non-work day! That sums up the anarchist position to work nicely — that the celebration of workers’ day should be based on the rejection of work.

The collection of articles in Why Work? Arguments for the Leisure Society (edited by Vernon Richards) is a useful starting place for libertarian socialist perspectives on work.

[aspect-illidan]

Fel-Feral Illidan AU Masterpost

My humble followers, I need to tell you about my Feral Druid Illidan AU. It takes place just before Sargeras plunges the blade into Azeroth.

Instead of following Sargeras, he is injured beforehand and misses his chance to do so. Finding little meaning left for him to chase beyond slaughtering demons, he finds a new value in life while working with Malfurion, Tyrande and others to help heal through nature, becoming a feral druid in the process.

(Will update accordingly as a masterpost for this AU. The tag used to track it will be #fel-feral au as I expand it.)

BASIC HEADCANONS

Due to a head wound that also left a sizeable crack in his right horn, Maiev, ironically, was the one to keep Illidan from going after Sargeras himself, instead sending some of the Kaldorei instead.

He practices as a Feral druid in order to channel the fury of the fel into his attacks. He has his horns in this form, and occasionally wings will sprout depending on the amount of fury.

He is better tempered now that he is receiving help to control it in a healthy way as well as understanding between those around him for the most part.

ILLIDAN HAS A TAIL. You cannot take his tail from me any longer. The type depends on the day, though normally it is akin to a satyr's, but can sometimes show as a felsaber's or other variations (such as a scaled purple and green felstalker tail). It varies on the soul being put to use.

He's autistic. Just look at him.

He also has chronic back pain due to the structure of his body not being meant to hold a big pair of wings on his shoulder and back, thus why he has a tail as well to balance things more easily.

(I don't think I need to state this but he has fangs and sharp teeth that were not taken care of and overgrew, fueled by the fel to continue growing. Khadgar had to help with this so he didn't keep biting his tongue around Maiev near clean in half.)

STORY CHANGES.

His obsession with Tyrande was manipulated and then forced - he did not know what love truly felt like, as she was one of his dearest friends and many preached to him it was love, instead pushing him into the mindset it had to be along with the reigning belief that his amber eyes meant he was meant to be gifted.

Xavius pushed his upset about his lack of direction and confusion about his own desires, manipulating him into believing he needed to protect Tyrande from anything at all costs to the point of obsessive and possessive behavior, paranoia and his maddening whispers having struck in a vulnerable time - a perfect target to groom.

The Burning Crusades is canonically so muddled in what happened that I've decided that due to this, Illidan was sunken into such bad paranoia that he suffers a psychotic break as Altruis had seen during a good portion of it after recruiting everyone - onlu towards the end of the Black Hold and further during Legion did he gain back his hold on reality and out of Xavius' hold on his mentality.

(Yes, I am saying that Xavius groomed him in that he found Illidan while he was vulnerable and changed his thoughts and feelings purposefully - not in a relationship, but of a relationship and isolating him from his family, friends, peers, and even mentors. It was not romantic or sexual but Xavius held far too much power over Illidan.)

POST LEGION (and post Dragonflight by extension) (I will, at some point, flesh out his timeline from Legion to The War Within, but that will take some time.)

His druid forms looked semi-normal at first but slowly grow infused with his fel energy, beginning to sport the same characteristics as his body does (the horns and scars are the biggest ones, his eyes are always fel flame however.) (In game I currently use the green/purple Nightmare form.)

The more fel energy he retains, the more demonic features protrude - namely his wings, cracks in his skin, the odd near-scales on him, furry lower half, hooves and longer talons. He even gains a mane the same charcoal as his hair.

However, he is able to handle his fel input/output by using the volatile energy to tie it in with druid magic - it isn't a perfect solution, but the call of Azeroth soothes the fury enough that he can think properly. (This doesn't mean he doesn't run head first into danger, though - not with that pair of horns.)

He practices with Malfurion himself, and on occasion, Tyrande, in a grove outside of Bel'ameth, as the night elves are still rightfully upset, scared, or have generally negative opinions on him (with good reason).

Relations between the three of them are still strained and need mending, but no one seems to have time, and if Malfurion and Illidan start to speak on their own, it becomes too heated and Tyrande has to step in. By no means is it a fixed situation, but it is all that there is left for Illidan.

In turn, he prefers not to linger there and does not call it his home, and often wanders Azeroth on his down time while keeping in contact with the couple about his whereabouts (or else they would drag him kicking and screaming back).

Illidan frequents taverns because his only "hobby" (and by hobby he means other ways he spends his times other than fighting, training and killing demons because Malfurion and Tyrande said "demon killing is not a hobby") is people watching where he usually eavesdrops because he has no idea how to have a normal life of his own, so you can always find him there (usually in some druidic form to hide to a degree or in like. shady mysterious clothing to hide his form from people because it would, understandably, be a disaster if The Betrayer is spotted strolling down the streets.

[theplaguewriter]

Hello! Could I humbly request a fluff alphabet for diluc from genshin impact🫣👉👈

Hello, sorry for the wait!! I hope you like these. It was a lot of fun to write them. I'm sorry for the colour and music ask..I don't know much music..and the colour confused me XD Nonetheless, please enjoy my little Plagueling

Diluc SFW Alphabet

Affection - What do they do to show affection?

Diluc will involve you. Be it the winery or his Darknight responsibilities he will want you by his side and he will always appreciate your input. It’s like a work version of quality time, which is also how he shows his affection. He wants you to be around as much as possible, without it being overbearing to either of you. In the evening, when you two lounge in front of the fireplace to read or just relax, he will gently stroke your hair, shoulder or knee…depending on how you two are places on or around the couch. 

Beauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

He loves your smile the most. Not the polite one or the one you use for pictures. He prefers the smile that you can’t stop, when you’re incredibly happy or found something so funny you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing. He’s never seen a more beautiful smile. He also admires how you are able to press on despite any challenges. Even if things get rough, you pull through and he can’t help himself but admire and envy that strength you have. 

Cuddles - How do they like to hug their s/o? Can include a visual.

Diluc’s hugs are reserved for emotional moments and the confines of your home. But when they happen they are so warm and comforting. He will wrap his arms below yours around your back, one hand on your neck, the other on the middle of your back. He will hold on to you as long as you, or he, needs him to. 

Discrete - What’s their opinion on PDA?

Diluc does not enjoy PDA. He will hold your hand while the two of you walk through Mondstadt or the surroundings, but he is not the one to initiate a makeout session in front of the entire town. That being stated, he will not outright push you away either. He will kiss you hello and goodbye, but he will prefer to keep them short and sweet. His hand will linger a second longer on your cheek before letting you go/asking about your day.

Everything- You are my _____. (Ex. World, Life, etc.)

“You are my sunshine.” It may come off as cheesy, and he will not call you this in front of others, as he feels a little embarrassed to be seen this vulnerable. But you really are, you brighten up his days. When he has a bad day, remembering his father, or having a particularly nasty encounter with the knights, it’s you that warms him up, emotionally. You’ll be there and he will almost forget anything has happened. You’re soothing his soul, like sunshine after the rainy season. 

Family - Do they want a family?

Diluc would not mind either way. Right now, having children is not his priority, and he feels if he wants some, he still has enough time later. At the same time, the thought of never having kids does not bother him either. It’s not really anything that is rooted in self-doubt, he just doesn’t mind. If his partner voices the wish to have or not have them, he would simply adapt. 

Gifts - What types of gifts do they give their s/o?

Diluc’s love language is gift giving, alongside quality time. He will give you mostly practical things, he will make sure that you never lack anything you need. His gift giving is not the over the top sort, it may be subtle to a lot of people who don’t know him very well. Diluc will make sure you always have enough food, that you have new clothes when your old ones are too adventure-worn. He will occasionally spoil you with a book, artifact or board game he knows you’ve been wanting for a while. He will absolutely show off how filthy rich he is for special occasions though, lavish gifts or trips for your anniversary just because he can, hehe. 

Hands - Do they like holding hands? Can include a visual.

He actually does. It is comforting and he can do it in public without getting shy/embarrassed. Diluc’s grip is more on the firm side, but not bone crushing. He’ll mainly just interlace your fingers but sometimes when you are upset he will do the little thumb stroke thing to soothe you. 

Injury - What do they do if their s/o gets hurt?

If you had an accident, while training or traveling, just generally something that is to be blamed on clumsiness or just a simple plain accident. He will tease you, and others may find it too harsh. Of course, while making fun of you he will tend to any injuries you have. If you two are alone, you will even get to see him grin and laugh, making you forget any pain you may have felt. 

If someone hurt you however, bless their soul because Diluc is coming for their ass, and not in the fun way. His priority will be to make sure you are fine, tend to any injuries and tuck you into bed with a hot tea in the mansion. Then he will go out and hunt down whoever laid their hands on you. He will beat them up depending on the degree of your injury, the worse off you are, the worse it will be for your attacker. He cannot stand the thought of losing you too, so this really sends him into a panic. He might want to try and hide that from you, but you know him. Which is usually why you comply with letting him deal with the attacker, he needs to let the anxiety out.  

Jealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

Diluc isn’t the type to be overly jealous, he is quite secure in the relationship you have and does not perceive other people hitting on you as a threat. However, he has his limit. If this person is very persistent, he may doubt some things. He will at first try to just ignore the feelings bubbling in his chest and try to distract himself with work. If it goes on for even longer, he will ask to speak with you about it. Diluc tries to be calm and rational, but he fails. His disdain for the other person is incredibly obvious, as if it was a knight of Favonius. 

Kisses - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

He is not the best kisser in the world, but also not the worst. A nice middle ground, which mainly comes from the fact that he is quite awkward with physical affection. But no need to worry, it’s only the first few times. Diluc will learn and adapt to your kissing style quite fast, making the kisses more and more enjoyable as they come. The first time he kissed you, was after a date. He’d lost count how many there had been, but seeing you sit there in the pale moonlight, while Mondstadt was quieting down for the night, and feeling the gentle breeze, it just flipped a switch. He took your hand, leaning closer, and asking if he could kiss you. Unromantic? No, because the way he asked was incredibly soft. His voice was quiet and holding back, there was no hint of his usual standoffish or cold demeanor. His eyes were focused on yours, not daring to look at your lips yet, lest he loses control and just goes for it. The look he gave you was a mix between a silent plea and determination. When you agreed, you saw his lips part, and if you had looked really really hard, you could see the faint pink tint right above his cheekbones. 

Love - When did they know that they loved their s/o?

Diluc realized he loved you, when he complained to Adelaide about needing your input on a certain issue at the winery. When she asked why your opinion would be needed, since you are not part of the family or work there. Diluc was dumbfounded. It got him thinking why he needed you around so much, why he always valued your thoughts and sought you out after a long day. Long story short, it took him completely by surprise. 

Memory - Do they want to get married? What would the marriage be like?

He does want to get married, like the family thing it’s not a very high priority right now. However, unlike the issue with kids, this is something he’d actually really want. He will not force you, of course if you hate the idea of marriage, there will be none. It’s just something he always imagined, coming home to his wife/husband/spouse, sharing everything, being able to say that even by law he is yours, and you are his. In his mind the marriage wouldn’t be that much different from the relationship you have now, he already shares everything with you and you with him. It’s more the idea of being bound together for the rest of your lives that makes his heart pound. Nicknames - What do they call their s/o?

Diluc isn’t really one for pet names…out loud. Most of the time he will call you by your first name, especially when you are around other people. When it’s just the two of you, he will stick to the more classic ones: love, dear, if he wants to make fun of you or tease you he will throw in a babe. 

Orange - What color reminds them of their s/o?

Teal

Proposal - How did they propose?

He would approach the proposal in a classic way, dinner at your favourite restaurant, yes even if that is in Sumeru, he will get you your favourite flowers, or any that you really like if you don’t have a favourite and he will pop the question at the end of the night, just before dessert. He will gather information about what ring to get you over months. Always disguising his questions. “Ah, Jean had a new gold necklace. I don’t think gold suits her that much, she’s more of a silver type. What do you think?” and then he casually bounces the question on your preference. And he will make sure they’re spaced out enough so you (hopefully) don’t connect them.

Quirk - Some random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship.

He knows every time, without fail, when your social energy is drained, or when you’re overwhelmed. Diluc will proceed to remove you from the scene, so you can take a breather, he doesn’t mind being the “bad guy” in that situation. This applies to himself too, if his presence is too much, he will tell you that he’s gonna give you all the time and space you need. He will let you know where he’ll be if you need him. He will also make sure to keep his tone soft and comforting, so that it doesn’t come across ass judgemental. 

Romance - How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?

Diluc wants to be romantic, he really does. He just comes up short in the idea department. Given how he’s grown to be, he has a bit of trouble with social interactions, which also applies to your relationship. He will get better as the time goes on, but his romantic plans are usually quite textbook. He tries his best. 

Supportive - Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?

Yes. Diluc will support you, no matter what your goal is. However, he won’t blow sugar up your ass. If your steps or immediate goals are unrealistic, he will tell you. He’ll try to come up with a solution together with you as well, but he will be firm and harsh when it’s needed. He believes, though, that his s/o can achieve basically anything, and that he’s just there to cheer them on and sometimes give them nudges. 

Time - What are their future plans?

Growing old with you. He wants to retire at some point and travel through Teyvat with you. Just him as Diluc. Not the Dawn Winery owner or the Darknight Hero. Just him and you, seeing the world and not needing to worry about anything at all.

Understanding - How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

Usually, Diluc is very understanding. He tends to approach almost everything rationally, the exception being the knights and Kaeya. And after all the time you two spend together, he knows you in and out. He knows all the little signs, if you’re happy, excited, sad or overwhelmed, Diluc can usually read it pretty well. Sometimes he has a little trouble rationally understanding some of your struggles, but he would never belittle you. He’s got the spirit, he’s just a bit confused. He will be there for you regardless if he can understand your struggle or not. 

Value - How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?

It may not seem so, but Diluc puts you above everything when it comes to it. If he had to choose, he would choose you. Now, on the daily, sometimes he has to put the winery before lunch with you. Or he’ll come home later than he said because  of some Darknight business, but he will always make it up to you. And in serious issues, say you’re injured or in need of help, he will choose you first, no matter what that means for his other dealings. 

Wild Card - A random Fluff Headcanon.

In his sleep Diluc touches butts with you. He’s not very cuddly, because it gets too hot, too uncomfy, hair everywhere. But he has to have his butt pressed against yours, or he won’t have a restful sleep.

Xylophone - What song describes their relationship with their s/o?

I am sorry, I don’t know much music…so I will skip X in these requests..

Yearning - How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?

He will be okay for about three days. Then he drowns himself in work, winery or hero business, anything to keep his brain occupied. He’ll take on extra work, and even tour the surroundings of Mondstadt at night, just so he doesn’t have to think about the fact that you’re not home. 

Zebra - Do they want a pet? What kind?

I can see Diluc as a cat person, even multiple. He’d especially like a pet if he and his s/o decide to not have kids. That way they wouldn’t even have to worry about allergies and such, they could just get cats if they wanted to. 

[diivineray]

Okay I’ve chilled cuz now I’m thinking about xie lian in book 4/5 and DONT READ if you don’t wanna get spoiled

But like the way these two contrast each other so deeply still pains me to this day.

And the way I see and understand both sides.

Especially after you’ve seen everything Xie Lian and Jun Wu went through all to help people. And they were ungrateful. Seriously, the ppl were ungrateful little fucks.

They wanted instant gratification. Sure, fear of what would happen to them causes panic and lack of faith, but ultimately the ppl really are the problem.

One mental image I always have is how Xie Lian was using so much of his power and strength to keep that statue from falling and crushing the people beneath him. It’s not logical to expect ppl to remain calm and faces are popping up on their bodies sURE but it’s the way they screamed and cried and pulled on Xie Lian who needed concentration to be able to IDK keep them fucking alive ?? And it’s a scene that regularly pisses me off because at that moment no one was thinking ‘he’s working so hard to save us’ they wanted a solution right then and now. And again that is fair. It’s a hectic situation.

Jun Wu spending years constructing that bridge and ppl couldn’t wait. It was taking too long. They started putting their faith in other people. I’m sorry but that would be piss me off too. And the fact that their lost faith results in his weakened strength, and the moment the volcano hit and everyone suddenly starts rushing forward to be saved, with Jun Wu’s already weakened state, no one was putting faith in him in that moment. Cuz if they had, his power likely would have gotten stronger. They were only thinking of themselves and saving themselves. Naturally the bridge would break. Not only did the people lose faith in their God but their God lost faith in them.

But all I could think about is how, even in life we try and try and try to help people and often times that help gets thrown back in our faces. Xie Lian made countless sacrifices for people and it still wasn’t enough. He practically gave his body to them to stab and mutilate and it still wasn’t enough.

Because he failed, because Jun Wu failed, something that was really the people’s fault they started to be hated. Looked down on. Their temples burned and destroyed. Statues broken and ruined.

They both wanted to do good, both thought they had what it took and both flew way too close to the sun.

The reality is, you can only do so much. There is a reason God, in Christianity does not intervene. At least in my own view, one it’s just how life is. People live and people die. You can’t save everyone. And if you could, I think the balance would be thrown off. There’s a reason in time travel that bringing back the dead, changing time to bring someone back alters and messes up things.

Humans are imperfect beings. They are going to make mistakes, they are going to be selfish and cruel, and they are gonna suck. But that’s also where they are kind of great too.

The world is not black and white. Mistakes happen, but they can be fixed. And that’s the big difference with xie lian and Jun Wu. What xie lian and Jun Wu couldn’t.

Not even Gods are perfect. Hell, most of them are meant to be seen as such as a way to show humans how NOT to be.

This is also what happens when you’re placed on a pedestal. When you overplay your own hand, when you take on more than you can chew. When you don’t ask for help. When you think because you have power you can do anything. It was a humbling experience for Xie Lian.

Xie Lian had to fall, and live as the very people he was trying to save.

And why I love this book so much is that it could have went the easy route and he could have kept that determination he had in the beginning but instead we see him spiral. We see him lose faith. We see him give into temptation, do some bad things and ultimately almost act out in revenge.

And I will always love the scene where he meets the old man in the rain because that too could have been brushed off so easily.

Xie Lian was waiting for a reason to NOT unleash the plague. He laid in that crater of his, and when that old man tripped over him and spilled his rice he was rightfully upset. Cuz sir what are you doing here just laying in the middle of people’s way?

And the old man got upset with him. And xie Lian already in his head was like ‘I guess there isn’t a good person left’ like he just saw it as ‘they don’t care no one cares’ when firstly he was going about it all the wrong way.

But when that old man started talking to him after they bickered with each other, he gave xie lian that hat. And showed xie lian yes, ppl aren’t perfect but they aren’t all that bad. He had to have a GENUINE interaction with someone to see it.

That person had to be mean first, had to act accordingly, be human for xie lian to see why that meant something. He literally picked xie lian up and told him to try again and not lay in the middle of the road you silly

And that was what he needed to hear. Just ONE person. He didn’t need the world to look at him, he just needed one. And that’s where Hua Cheng’s love comes in after those 800 years.

Jun Wu, didn’t get that. He had Mei Nianqing but after he found out the truth he ran away so naturally Jun Wu is going to take that as abandonment. Which he later uses to show Xie Lian that friends don’t stay. Family leaves. No one ever stays.

And the fact that he had to manipulate things in order to make Feng Xin cuz THAT BOY WOULD NOT HAVE OTHERWISE AND I STAND THAT.

to prove to xie Lian, look see?? Even your most loyal bodyguard doesn’t want to be around you. Isolation.

But just GAH. I’m about to read tgcf cuz now I’m in my feels and ugh i love this series so much 😭😭

[yes-i-am-happyaspie]

Santa Impersonator Happy by happyaspie

Part 6 of Happy Hogan's [Ever Evolving] Resume,  Part 12 of May Your Days be Merry and Bright

No Archive Warnings Apply | Rated G | Word Count 4,954 | Peter Parker, Happy Hogan, Tony Stark, May Parker, Christmas Fluff, POV Happy Hogan

Summary: Happy walks into the F.E.A.S.T. building prepared to drop off a check and leave. Then Peter uses his big brown eyes to convince him to stay and help out. He just wishes he'd asked a few more questions before agreeing. "Santa. You want me to dress up as- Santa?"

[Excerpt Below]

Happy stood in the backroom at F.E.A.S.T. with his arms held out by his sides while Peter moved like a blur around him. It was an hour before the start of what was to be the shelter’s big holiday event  and he’d come by to drop off a large check signed by Pepper Potts. Of course it couldn’t have been that easy. Within seconds of entering the building, he’d somehow been roped into taking on a much more participatory role. The most likely cause being Peter Parker's big brown eyes and ridiculously long lashes. All the kid had to do was dip his chin and peer upward to become the epitome of childish beseeching. If it weren’t for his humble upbringing, that look alone could have earned him a spot as one of the most spoiled children on the planet. 

“Happy! Oh my gosh! This is so great! I have just the job for you! Can you stay?” Peter had asked. 

Happy had raised his shoulders, intent to decline. Christmas was right around the corner and his list of things to do seemed to be getting longer rather than shorter. Honestly, he blamed Tony. ‘Happy, can you do this? Happy, can you do that?’ It was a never ending phenomenon that followed him all year long, but something about the holiday season made it feel more hectic. Hanging around to help F.E.A.S.T, while noble in theory, would likely put him way behind on his list of things to do. “I don’t know, Kid. I have errands to take care of and the boss-”

“Please?” Peter had interjected, the look on his face bordering pathetic. Like a kicked puppy.  “We’ve worked so hard to make this event perfect and we really need your help!” 

With a huffed sigh, Happy had given in; no questions asked. He’d set the check aside and asked what he needed to do. Peter was expectedly giddy at his agreement, shouting ‘Yes!’ while thrusting his fist in the air. He was just about to tell the kid to pipe down and give him some directions when the door was thrown open and Peter darted through it.

“Aunt May! I found our Santa! Where did you put the suit?” Peter had shouted, much to Happy horror. He was suddenly very concerned about what he’d just signed himself up to do.

Less than five minutes later the kid reappeared carrying a stack of bright red clothing and a few accompanying accessories. Half of it was shoved into his hands before he could say anything about it. He examined what he’d been given, his brow furrowing as he turned it over in his hands. A thin pair of red fleece pants, a red and white plush coat and a standard variety Santa hat. “Santa,” he’d blandly stated. “You want me to dress up as- Santa.”

Completely undeterred by the lack of enthusiasm, a wide smile had spread across Peter’s face. “Yeah! We’ve been trying to figure out who could do it. Then you showed up and that solved everything!” He’d practically bounced on his toes as he pointed toward the opposite side of the room. “Hurry up and put it on! There’s a bathroom over there!” 

Helplessly, Happy had  looked between Peter, the restroom door and back again. “There’s no one else?” He liked the holidays. He really did. But spending the afternoon pretending to be Saint Nick simply wasn’t exactly his ideal way to spend them. He was more of a run around like crazy getting stuff done, then sit down and watch sappy Christmas movies, kind of person. He really, really hoped the kid had a back up plan that wasn't him. 

Alas, that was not the case. 

Peter had frowned, the expression looking extremely out of place compared to the festive sweater and goofy reindeer headband he was wearing. “Everyone else already has jobs assigned to them and there aren't enough volunteers as it is Please, Happy?” the kid had begged,  his bottom lip sticking out so far it was amazing he hadn’t tripped over it “You’re the only one who can do it. The suit will fit you perfectly and everything. You're just the right size for it!”

Happy had opened his mouth to offer a compromise. Maybe offer to hire someone else to do the job. He’d barely gotten his mouth open before May had come buzzing into the room, all smiles. 

“Oh my goodness, Happy! Thank you so much for doing this!” Without warning she’d wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him tightly and planted a kiss to the side of his head. He stock-stood still, staring stupidly as she released him and clasped her hand under her chin “I have to get back to the kitchen to sort some boxes. But seriously, thank you! You’ll be the star of the event!”

With those words, she’d turned and left just as quickly as she’d arrived. 

“See?” Peter asked, successfully pulling him out of his stupor. “You’ll be the star.”

Happy had blinked toward the door and shook his head. The soft clothing was still in his hands. He gave it a cursory look before admitting defeat. Between Peter’s pleading and May’s gratitude, how was he supposed to say no? “Fine. I’ll wear the suit.”

[continue Reading on AO3]

Don't forget to like, share, kudos and comment!

[prnanayarquah]

Ace Broadcast Journalist, Fatherhood Advocate and Author Dc Kwame Kwakye wins "Media Personality of the Year"

New Post has been published on https://plugzafrica.com/ace-broadcast-journalist-fatherhood-advocate-and-author-dc-kwame-kwakye-wins-media-personality-of-the-year/

Ace Broadcast Journalist, Fatherhood Advocate and Author Dc Kwame Kwakye wins "Media Personality of the Year"

At the Awards Ceremony held at the plush Ridge Royal Hotel on Saturday, January 6, 2024, Ezone Media Network, the organizers of the awards adjudged the author the Media Personality for 2023/24 year.

In his acceptance speech, the author of “Beyond Farherhood: Changing The Narrative”, thanked God for how far he has brought him. “I also appreciate the management of Ezone Media Network for finding me worthy of the award. The most humbling aspect for me was how other Media colleagues thronged to the podium to sing my praise showcasing that I deserve the award and I’ve paid my dues was amazing and I accept that with a lot of sobriety,” He stated.

The Fatherhood Advocate took the opportunity to thank all his GBC Radio Central colleagues for their immense show of love and support since his nomination was announced. “Our collective efforts and the love shown especially by Shadrack Nana Nyarko, Janet Mensah Aryitey (Mrs), Ben Nartey and our listeners through voting ensured that I won and for that, I’m most grateful. Also grateful to my Head of Programmes, Nana Ama Andrews”, he emphasised.

The Guest Speaker for the night was Blessed Godsbrain Smart popularly known as Captain Smart of Onua Maakye fame recounted his journey and experiences from Winneba, through Kumasi and Accra. “One thing I’ve learnt in this media practice is to always show appreciation and respect to our forbears”, Mr Smart reminded his colleagues.

Captain Smart admonished his younger colleagues not to chase money averring “When you begin with money, you would be bought with nothing” adding “This year is an election year and I urge colleague journalists to be fair to NDC and NPP. Condemn when they go wrong and praise where necessary” stressing “There is a lot of money in the media space but, unfortunately things are hard in the Central Region due lack of giant companies and industries”, he stated

Incidentally, Onua TV morning show host promised to sponsor another category next year which seeks to reward radio presenters and producers whose stories have been very impactful in the year under review. “This would be voted upon by all media colleagues and I promise to foot the cost and also present ¢2,000. 00 as cash award for the winner including a paid-for 4-day accommodation in any hotel in Accra of the choice of the winner”, he said this to rapturous applause from the audience.

The Executive Director of Ezone Media Network, Oheneba Amaniapong speaking to journalists on the sidelines of the event, encouraged media practitioners of the region to do their best to uplift the image of the region with their voice. “This is our sixth edition and without sponsorship from any company and we’ve been very determined to do our utmost best to award deserving media practitioners from the region” shared Amaniapong

He however urged other companies to come unboard so that in the subsequent years apart from the plague, some amount of money could be added as a prize. “I thank my team who have been with me through thick and thin and supported this vision of organising the awards scheme for journalists of our region. I’m highly indebted to Ridge Royal Hotel for granting my team and me the opportunity to use the venue”, he said.

Central Media Awards organised by Ezone Media Network is an annual event that seeks to reward journalists of the region. This year, there were 40 categories up for grabs.

The GBC Radio Central Media Personality of The Year awardee was in the company of his adorable wife, Mrs. Evelyn Asante Kwakye, his children: Nana Yaa Asantewaa-Djan Asante, Nana Kwabena Manu Asante-Kwakye, Kofi Amoafo-Ntiamoa Asante and Akuah Minta Nyamehann Asante-Kwakye. Winfred Larbi and Thomas Donkor were his other colleagues who were present to support him.

[qu-film-history-to-1968]

Similarities and Differences in Primary and Titicut Follies

By: Julia Kusmenko

Among all genres of film, documentaries are unique in their ability to bring certain realities to life and inform the audience. From watching the 1967 film called Titicut Follies and the 1960 film Primary, these documentaries are comparable for various reasons. 

For one, both films lack any interviews—an element that is typical of modern-day documentaries. In addition, both films show a candid depiction of the topics they portray. For instance, Robert Drew’s film Primary gives an inside look into the campaigns of both John F. Kennedy and Hubert Humphrey as they unfolded in the 1960 Wisconsin primary election. With this, Frederick Wiseman’s film Titicut Follies is a raw look at the poor treatment of inmates at a psychiatric hospital in 1967. Another comparison between the films is that they both show an up-close look of two environments, the politician’s inner circle and a mental hospital, that is otherwise kept hidden. To illustrate this idea, it is said by Drew Associates that “revealing the personalities and politics of the campaign trail as they had never been seen before, ‘Primary’ offers a compelling glimpse into the early career of one of the world’s most captivating leaders.” In other words, Primary and Titicut Follies allow the public into a world they usually do not get to see. 

One difference between these films is that Primary uses minimal narration to explain the events of the election in chronological order, while Titicut Follies lacks narration entirely. Additionally, Primary is told through a more positive, uplifting lens while Titicut Follies does not spare the audience from seeing disturbing and upsetting imagery pertaining to the inmates. 

Titicut Follies reflects a faith in social institutions since it demonstrates how psychiatric hospitals are inhumane in their practices. As a result, the audience receives negative messages towards such mental illness institutions. For example, in the image of a man named Jim curled against a wall, the audience sees a man being bullied by hospital staff who ask him to answer a question over and over and over again. Moreover, a quote said by an inmate named Vladimir who complains about his treatment is as follows: “​​This place is disturbing me, it’s harming me. I’m losing weight. Everything that’s happening to me is bad. And all I get, all I get, is why don’t you wait, why don’t you take medication? Medication is disagreeable to me” (Keith and Wiseman 43). Other instances of poor treatment include force feeding of a man who refused to eat, the enforcement that inmates be nude almost always, and the barren cells that inmates are put in as living quarters. That being said, Titicut Follies avoids a lack of faith through its compelling storytelling and the raw emotion it conveys through intimate shots of the inmates and hospital staff which make the audience sympathize with their situation. 

In contrast, Primary strengthens the audience’s faith in the electoral system since it shows the entire process in a positive light, from Hubert Humphrey vowing for the rights of small-town farmers and John F. Kennedy having personable conversations with young kids. As said by Jeffrey Geiger in the book American Documentary Film, “In Primary we see the stellar JFK addressing an adoring crowd, watched over by a fastidious, somewhat shy Jackie, while Hubert Humphrey is serenaded by a band of children playing ‘Davy Crocket’ on accordions, then tucks into a humble dinner of ‘ham, mashed potatoes, and string beans’” (Geiger 169). In this way, Primary avoids a lack of faith since it shows the politicians serving the people when speaking to crowds and as humble when conversing with their staff behind the scenes. 

Overall, while both documentaries cover disparate topics, they are able to shed light on significant institutions within the United States. 

Image from Titicut Follies:

Works Cited

Geiger, Jeffrey. “‘Uncontrolled’ Situations: Direct Cinema.” American Documentary Film: Projecting the Nation, Edinburgh University Press, 2011, pp. 154–85. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.3366/j.ctt1r28f9.12. Accessed 28 Nov. 2023.

Grant, Barry Keith, and Frederick Wiseman. “Titicut Follies (1967).” Five Films by Frederick Wiseman: Titicut Follies, High School, Welfare, High School II, Public Housing, 1st ed., University of California Press, 2006, pp. 15–50. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/j.ctt1pnqhc.7. Accessed 28 Nov. 2023.

“Primary.” Drew Associates, https://drewassociates.com/films/primary/. Accessed 27 Nov. 2023.

[rhysdasiorarchive]

“Which one of us is the one with extensive knowledge of the varying degrees of magic, here? Me or you?” There was no heat behind Rhys’ questioning, the mutual playfulness remaining now that Roland’s initial tantrum seemed to be dying down. Rhys huffed an affectionate laugh at the dig, one eyebrow arching in lighthearted disapproval. “Nuh uh. You can sit with it a while, see just how maddening it is. Maybe it’ll teach you to go a little easier on me the next time I end up overthinking something. Remember what I said about humbling, Ro? This is all part of the experience.” If Roland’s teasing was anything to go by, the banter was proving to be a sufficient enough distraction from his short-lived suffering. For now, it’d have to do. It was certainly preferable over his endless theatrics. 

Rhys laughed again at Roland’s insistence. “I’m not choosing not to just to be difficult, I’m choosing not to put too much work on Seth just ‘cause you want a little attention, Ro. There’s a difference.” Though he’d been a little too generous with his time with Roland under normal circumstances, Spring Mischief called for both consultants to be as freely available as their already packed schedules allowed. Rhys couldn’t put more on Seth in good conscience, not now. “Boss or not, rules are rules. Your fellow councilmen would likely contest the point if they heard about it.” The chastisement that followed the pitiful display made Rhys’ smile widen further, shifting in his seat to cross an ankle over his knee as he watched Roland from across his desk. “Yeah?” His amusement was practically dripping from his tone as he spoke, moving to rest an elbow against the armrest of his chair to cradle his jaw against his palm. “Sounds like a real shame, Ro. Remind me, what can you do about that in your current state? Look disapprovingly at me? Admonish me a little? Very threatening. Thank you for the reminder. Almost forgot what I was up against here.” It was likely a little unfair to poke fun at Roland’s significant lack of usual tricks but given how rare it was for the power imbalance between them to shift as dramatically as it had, he couldn’t help but push his luck a little. Rhys’ smile blossomed into a bright grin at the look shot his way seconds later. “Always, huh? Not quite sure that’s how it works, baby. Not here, not within working hours. For as long as we’re uninterrupted, my attention’s all yours. If someone happens to show up genuinely needing my assistance, I’m going to have to give them a fraction of my time. That’s just how it is, whether you like it or not. Rules are rules, Ro.”

Predictably, Roland’s theatrics hadn’t been quite as subdued as Rhys had thought and the melodramatic whining that followed pulled a light laugh from the witch as he rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Coming for my gig twice, huh? Overthinking and harbouring suicidal ideation? D’you wanna take the Head Consultant plaque with you on your way out too seeing as we’re apparently blending into the same being?” It was no surprise to see that his gentle reminder of the circumstances was received reluctantly, the accompanying eye roll only serving to amuse Rhys further. “Welcome to the real world, Ro. Nice to have you here at last. I guess things look a little different from your usual spot at the very top of the ivory tower, huh?” The physical affection was a soothing change of pace, even if Roland’s complaining seemed to show no end in sight. “They’ve reared their heads every single time, Ro. You’ve just conveniently ignored them. For once, you’re having to listen. It’s not as torturous as you’re making it out to be, not at all.” The kiss seemed to be a token of reluctant acceptance on Roland’s part and Rhys returned it with as much love as he could physically factor into the gesture, sitting back to chuckle at Roland’s resignation. “Only for a few more hours, ‘kay? As soon as I’m done for the day, I can reconsider the terms. You’ve got to have a little patience, that’s all.”

"I'm suggesting you're trying to be kind to spare my feelings." The overdramatic look of hurt and the slight laugh that followed made a smile tug at Roland's lips in spite of himself. "Can you guarantee that? I want to hold you to it. Also, overthinking is your thing. Take it back, please, it's exhausting." His tone was a little lighter, in spite of his misery, since Rhys apparently had the power to tease and cajole him into a better mood. That was part of the reason he was the only one Roland wanted to be around when he was trapped in this terrible state.

Then again, maybe he was going to rethink that since Rhys continued to be entirely unreasonable about his silly working hours and told him what to do several times which was just patently irritating and unfair. Roland let out a long suffering sigh and pouted. "You could, you're choosing not to. Can't I just...order you to cater to only me? I am one of your bosses, after all." He doubted pulling rank like that would work but he could at least try. "You're getting rather free with the orders there, Monsieur Dasior. I'd be careful of that if I were you." It was half chastisement and half tease though Roland, irritatingly, had nothing he could back that up with. The power dynamic had decidedly switched. Not in terms of their hierarchy in the castle, that hadn't changed, but in terms of their actual personal power. Roland wasn't at all a fan of that. Then Rhys said one of the silliest things he'd said yet and Roland gave him a look. "Of course it does. First come first serve and all that, non? Besides, I should always be the priority." He waved a hand dismissively as if Finn's near death experience was nothing to him. "No one's going to die as you just said so you don't have to divert your attention."

Roland sighed, again, for the millionth time as Rhys still refused to cooperate. It would be the least he could do given how Roland was suffering but of course he wouldn't. "I'm not sure that I can. I may not survive at all, I'm sure falling down the stairs could kill me and it seems rather likely that I might do just that given that I can't seem to walk with any grace whatsoever." He wasn't really afraid of dying like this but he couldn't put too fine a point on how much he hated all of this, even if that meant being particularly dramatic. Roland rolled his eyes as Rhys pulled a 'because I said so' on him and lectured a little. "Well, for the record, I hate that you've said so and that I seemingly have to abide by it." At least his secondary tactics seemed to be working a little better, though he could always get a good reaction from Rhys physically. He hummed when Rhys agreed to having missed him, feeling a little soothed just from being physically affectionate. "We could, though, for fun." He murmured it and smiled slightly. Why not desecrate the office? They'd done it before. Rhys pulled his head up and he looked at him but frowned a little as he was told off again, irritation flashing in his eyes for a moment. "I have every right to act surprised when this is the only time in our history that those consequences have reared their ugly heads. And no, it isn't." Rhys should know that Roland was practically insatiable and he was seeking comfort in familiar physical pleasure, as it were, at the moment. That was, however, more or less a firm no and Roland didn't push hard past such limits. He leaned up and kissed Rhys anyway though, for a long moment, winding his arms around his waist to hold him closer. "But I suppose it will have to suffice." He admitted, grudgingly, when he finally pulled back from the kiss.

[edelweissacermacrophyllum]

A king

I have a theory that power itself does not corrupt but the process of gaining more power does. The best leaders are those who have it thrust upon them. Saul seems like a point of evidence against that, or at least, Saul as he is known in general. The young King Saul is actually a pretty merciful and lenient ruler when he needs to be.

He calls off his followers from attacking his political opponents and galvanizes his country to fight against an outside force with a bloody lack of subtlety. Specifically, he cuts a couple of oxen into pieces and mails them around the country saying that he will do this to the oxen of anyone who doesn't come fight for their countrymen.

God's favour is with him at the start and he shows it. Saul is not a terrible king. He is humble and somewhat decent. If he wasn't set up as a foil for David, he would probably not look so bad.

I need to know of a perfect form of government that would prevent humanity's worst power-seeking impulses from becoming too problematic. Seems like an easy problem. And given the recent failings of democracy, perhaps it's time to reexamine our systems and change them. Humans have to do that every once in a while, it seems.

There are a number of humans that I would trust to be the king of my country, at least from a moral standpoint. I don't know how they would react to that power but in their current state I would trust them. That being said, I'm pretty okay with our current government. Sure they're pushing through too much oil infrastructure, but looking around the world I don't think I have much to complain about.

What does God think about human rulers in general? Jesus said we should pay our taxes, and Paul said that human rulers were put there by God, so I guess there is a place for being tolerant of rulers. We probably shouldn't idolize them though. Historically speaking, that seems like a practice with bad precedent.

[saginthesun]

Why Work Doesn't Define Us As Much as Leisure Does, According to Aristotle

Aristotle, one of the most influential philosophers of all time, gives us intriguing insight into how leisure defines us more than labor. Aristotle argues that it is important for our health and happiness to put our leisure pursuits ahead of our job commitments since our lives are a combination of the two. He also details how rest is essential to one's spiritual well-being, showing that this time away from work is everything from a waste.

Aristotle, the renowned Greek philosopher, praised the benefits of free time. The more refined aesthetics of life were another topic he covered. The concept of leisure time is becoming more important in today's society. Laziness as a cultural norm has been linked to the further entrenchment of inequality. A more equitable society may be constructed by fostering a positive work culture.

There are many sides to idleness, and few of them are positive. There are more productive methods to make money, for instance. It's not something you do to achieve something, either. Were you doing nothing to serve what purpose?

Being passive and letting events unfold is an art form in and of itself. Being a good slacker requires humbling oneself and giving control to God.

The metaphysics of substance was one of Aristotle's most well-known contributions. He is often considered a pivotal figure in developing contemporary philosophical thought. One of his many contributions was formulating a normative framework for recreational activity.

Aristotle describes two types of free time in his works. The former is the type of leisure worthy of the name, while the latter is the opposite. Activities that are of great worth are considered noble forms of recreation. Philosophical introspection is the pinnacle of these practices.

Aristotle states that pursuing eudaimonia is the highest benefit possible via human effort. Soul satisfaction is synonymous with genuine bliss. Even more so, eudaimonia necessitates the efficient use of free time.

In contrast to working, leisure demands nothing in the way of resources or time investment. However, one must be brave enough to let go. To make the most of your free time, it is recommended that you engage in pursuits that help you grow in virtue and excellence.

The ancient Greeks had a term for happiness called eudaimonia. Aristotle used this phrase to define an existence devoid of egotism and self-interest. This way of thinking may be developed by deliberate behavior.

Ethical behavior and concern for others have long been associated with eudaimonia. On the other hand, it has been romanticized as well. Because of its relative lack of objectivity, it has been given a wide range of interpretations.

The World Health Organization asserts that a person's level of health is proportional to the sum of the good and bad in their life. However, to live healthily, one must have clear objectives. They need to take part in endeavors that advance the situation and solicit input from others around them.

A good education aims to shape each student into an independent thinker with a keen intellect. It is a goal to create an ideal social order.

If people flourish, then society can grow and remain authentic. Getting there requires taking a big-picture view of life's complexities. Having a complete picture of the world opens up new opportunities.

One who has had a good education is likely to be more enlightened, clever, and sympathetic than one who has not. It improves one's ability to think critically and intelligently adjust to novel circumstances.

Historically, educators emphasized the importance of teaching students by letting them gain knowledge via the application. They would observe a skilled worker to pick up tips on improving their performance.

Determining what constitutes "leisure" might be challenging for any person. The ability to define an idea and put it into practice in one's life is a key part of this process, which also requires looking at several other related factors.

Aristotle says leisure is "a condition of mind and spirit" characterized by tranquility and peace. According to Aristotle, these characteristics are more important than material success.

The time we spend away from our regular duties is commonly referred to as "leisure," but the concept encompasses much more. Work, on the other hand, is something that requires effort. Because taking a break from the fast pace of our daily lives is an essential part of what we mean when we say we are "at leisure," leisure is about more than simply not working.

Although there is widespread agreement that happiness is desirable, there is no agreed-upon definition of what constitutes happiness. Some people think of it as a state of being, while others think it is the result of a state of being.

[adurna0]

Logain and Taim (and Rand): Responses to Being a Saidin Channeler in the Third Age

Aka that one essay I’ve been meaning to write for about 3 months [Whole book series & minor show spoilers]

So I think we can all agree that being a saidin channeler during the time of the books is frankly a very traumatic experience during most of the timeframe and the backstory of the books (though it’s definitely changing / has in many ways changed by the end of them).

For one thing, there’s the fact that saidin is tainted and you’re bound to succumb to a madness wrought on by the literal embodiment of all evil.

For another, there’s the fact that your only chances to avoid this seems to be

to get gentled by the Aes Sedai (and lose most/all of your will to live in the process) or

to swear allegiance to the aforementioned embodiment of all evil (and become an expendable pawn in its pursuit of world annihilation).

Needless to say, neither of these options are good.

And lastly, as if that wasn’t enough, the whole world is aware that you’re basically an unreliable ticking time bomb, a person who’s doomed to become a monster and must be hunted, harassed and ratted out to the Aes Sedai as soon as possible.

This post is less about the first two aspects of the Saidin Channeler™️ experience and more about that last one.

And it’s in dealing with that that I think Logain and Taim are such great foils for one another. The world tells them they’re monsters. Unwanted. Doomed. Dangerous. Practically only good for death and destruction, unless they’re the Dragon Reborn and even then it’s still a lot of death and destruction. So what do you do when the world rejects you?

Well Logain is... frankly kind of arrogant (don’t @ me, he’s one of my favorite characters). And I do think in this case it really works in his favor. You see, it takes a lot of arrogance to look at a world that tells you “you’re a worthless monster that needs to be put down” and go “no, actually, I think I can do great things”. And sure, his definition of “great” may not always fall within the definition of “good”, but it certainly always falls within the definition of “important”. Grand. Glorious even.

Before we even meet him in the books he’s been stripped of all his titles and yet he’s built himself an army, won battles and started marching to Tear. He gets stopped by the Aes Sedai, but that’s... certainly not for a lack of ambition. His (perhaps misplaced) self-confidence takes a hit when he’s gentled, but let’s be honest, a man who wants to call himself by the name of a famous False Dragon of the past while on the run from the White Tower still doesn’t come across as particularly humble. In fact, that Logain continues to believe he can achieve something even after gentled is more or less what keeps him alive (even if that something is revenge).

[And this is something I think the TV show takes and purposefully amplifies. Show!Logain manages to earn the allegiance of people through explicitly telling and showing them that someone who channels saidin is not only meant to destroy. That he himself can also help people, can lead them.]

On the flip side, we have Taim. Now, Taim’s response to being declared a monster by the world is simply “then I’ll be that monster”.

[And, you know, I keep forgetting just how young Taim is, because he’s apparently in his late 20s? This is a bit of a tangent to the whole post but, Rand judges him to be older but I’m fairly sure RJ stated Rand misjudged bc Taim was generally Not In A Good State. Now I do have some questions regarding just what he’s been doing in all the years since he started channeling, because apparently he also had the spark and had been channeling long enough to start slowing in aging but he only declared himself Dragon around the time the books begin, so he must have started in his early 20s at the latest. If anyone has any clue what on earth this man was doing for the better part of a decade please tell me.]

Anyway to get back to the original point... Taim is defeated as a False Dragon. Embarassingly falls from his horse the moment the true Dragon declares himself. So when Demandred comes up and offers him a place amongst the Darkfriends? Taim just takes it. And why wouldn’t he? Since he only declared himself Dragon when he did, he must have spent years hiding his ability to channel. Most of his adult life, perhaps. What would he owe to a world that would just hunt him down if they knew what he was? He’s not the Dragon, he knows that now, so there goes that slim chance too.

So he proceeds to do the most horrific things, just as the Shadow asks him too. He gives up his own men to have them become, well, whatever being Turned does to you honestly. He builds himself an army of these brainwashed channelers who’ve had every bit of them replaced by the Shadow’s corruption. Hell, he goes so far in his devotion to embodying the world’s worst fears that he even becomes the only person in the Third Age to achieve the title of Chosen. A twisted form of glory for him as well, I suppose.

In the end I think that’s what Logain’s great character conflict boils down to in that one moment in AMOL. He skirts very close to taking the same path as Taim himself, to trying to achieve the world’s respect through power and fear. It’s an understandable lure, with all that people like him go through. But he takes a different path and finds that people, some people at least do respect him for his deeds. For what he’s achieved. Taim, on the other hand, well, he gets what any follower of the Shadow does, because the Shadow’s glory is only ever ephemeral and the inevitable fate of a monster is to be hunted down. Even if that monster makes himself strong enough that most people wouldn’t dare to hunt him, there’s always going to be someone who tries.

The addendum here is Rand. Rand who also accepts he’s a monster and chooses to be a monster to himself. He takes all of that suffering upon himself so that others don’t have to. Rand who goes “I may be dangerous and doomed but I’ll make this world safe for those I love by my inevitable suffering”. He circumvents the Logain/Taim dichotomy entirely and perhaps that’s because the world fears him, yes, but also places a great deal of responsibility on him. So he accepts the pain, accepts that it’s just his lot in life and keeps a list of all his monstrous deeds to torture himself until he breaks.

I’m frankly fascinated by the interplay of these 3 and the way they’re all shaped by this gift/curse they’ve been given. I think the contrast between Logain and Taim gets lost a bit in the fact that the Black Tower plot gets a bit sidelined for some time and we don’t really get much in the way of a Taim POV. Would have loved to get a better look inside that man’s head, that’s for sure. Really looking forward to seeing the two of them interpreted in the show, I think Logain’s portrayal has been very much in line with my read of him so far and I can only hope they give Taim an equally good treatment.

[con-fection]

violence and intimacy are the only universal languages | BUCKY BARNES x READER | 18+ oneshot

synopsis: In which Bucky Barnes fucks John Walker’s girlfriend, who turns out not to be John Walker’s girlfriend at all. 

[Alternative synopsis: Bucky happens to meet you, John Walker's girlfriend, and you're nothing like he expects you to be. He's anticipating a woman that's arrogant, mindless and fake, following after Walker like a lost puppy, a woman who puts on a front to the whole world, a terrible person hiding behind the girl-next-door facade. You're nothing like that - you're soft, intriguing and absolutely lovely, everything that's good in the world. And he's very much attracted to you, desperate to show John who you really belong to.]

Content warnings: 18+ This is SMUT. Contains sex/explicit language/,masturbation. 

THIS IS SET DURING EPISODE 2 AND WILL CONTAIN SOME SPOILERS AS IT USES SOME DIALOGUE FROM THE SHOW :) IT’S ALSO TOLD FROM BUCKY’S POV :)

Word count: 17K

John Walker is absolutely insufferable.

He is a man high off his own arrogance, regarding himself as the ultimate authority, and relegating every other member of this planet to being below him. He is a bastardisation of everything that vibranium shield stood for. John doesn't have bravery, but he has pride in spades, which is more than good enough for everybody around him.

Captain America had been so deeply beloved that his loss left a crippling gape in the very heart of the American dream. It was a space that required filling - and so, in the absence of Steve Rogers, the apparent next best thing was located.

But Walker wasn't the next best after a man like Steve Rogers. They may vaguely resemble one another, in their facial features, icy blue eyes and broad, towering stature, but John fails to measure up in each and every way that matters. He fundamentally lacks the most important qualities that Steve had in abundance.

Steve Rogers had been a heart-wrenchingly good man, burdened with a righteous sense of justice, a strong moral compass and compassion. His life had been far from easy, wrought with losses that left him fractured into pieces of himself. He was loyal to a fault - willing to wage a war against the United States' government to try to clear the name of a comrade so close he would have died for him a thousand times over. John would dance to whatever tune the government gave him, so long as it resulted in his name being glorified.

John Walker knows nothing of that sacrifice. Every alleged 'brave' act comes from his warped sense of reality, one that has given him the impression he simply cannot die, that he can't be wrong in any way. 

Each time he jumped on top of a grenade, or put himself in the line of fire, he came out unscathed, and so he did it again and again and again, revelling in the praise he recieved afterwards, and the eventual mantle that was bestowed upon him.

Steve had never once come out of a single fight uninjured. 

That was part of the mysticism, of his heroism. He would be hurt time and time again. And yet, he would never fold. He didn't bend or break under the pressure, under the pain. He didn't so much as waver in the face of all of it. his devotion to doing what was good and what was right always prevailed, irrespective of how many bones he may break or how much blood he may lose.

Despite the fact that John Walker, the second Captain America, lacked any of the characteristics of his predecessor, he became America's sweetheart. People were desperate to have somebody fill the space that Steve Rogers had left, and to the public, it seemed like John Walker was perfect.

He gave flawless interviews, where he came across not as an arrogant, self-serving puppet of the state, but as a humble, bashful, honest man that represented the very soul of America. Watching him talk was reminiscent of his predecessor, and of course, each public appearance had been carefully orchestrated so that would be the case. Every word that spilled from his mouth was premeditated, designed specifically with the intent to appeal to the populus.

John Walker got to parade around wearing stars and stripes, cradling a shield that he was very much undeserving of wielding. And, he got to do all of this accompanied by two people. 

The first was Lemar Hoskins, the Battlestar. Like Walker, he too had served in the armed forces, and was to be considered a decently skilled fighter, though he failed to measure up to the likes of either Bucky or Sam.

...and then there was you.

Bucky found John Walker to be absolutely insufferable, a blight on Steve's legacy, and some tiny, bitter sliver of that hatred was reserved for you, too.

The new Captain America served the country with his best friend Battlestar and his lover, you.

You weren't like them. You weren't some jacked-up soldier fresh out of the army who had kissed enough ass and earnt enough medals to be made into a hero. Instead, you were practically just the eye candy. America's darling, hanging off the arm of their beloved hero. There was something magnetising about you that made people just love you instantaneously. It was a raw appeal that nobody was safe from.

Initially, Bucky had regarded you as an odd choice. You weren't even a superhero. You didn't take up a stupid, convoluted mantle like 'Battlestar' had. Rather simply, you were just there, tagging along, looking pretty and people adored you for it.

 There was something very intriguing to the people of America about their new Captain America and his sweetheart - you, a stunning supermodel-type with a dazzling mind and a blinding smile. It was easy for them to project onto you two, the perfect superhero couple who had a fairytale romance.

Bucky utterly detested John Walker and his lost-puppy sidekick, Battlestar.

Some tiny sliver of that malice had initially been generalised to you, too. It was hard not to feel slightly bitter as he saw the two of you on TV, giving interview after interview, cuddled up to each other. It was all so terribly fake, utter bullshit that people eagerly lapped up because it was the version of reality that they desperately wanted to believe in.

 It had to be fake - nobody is simply that charismatic, especially not when they're holding hands with John Walker. There was something about the way they, they being your PR team, had styled you in a few of the earlier interviews that gave him the distinct impression that they wanted people to be reminded of Natasha Romanoff, minus the bloody past.

For a while, for your first few public appearances, you had been relegated to wearing dark clothes and leathers that made you seem every bit a femme fatale, though any semblance of danger was nullified by your friendly smile. 

It also seemed like that route had been abandoned, and now you tended to appear wearing lighter clothes, whites and creams that were more innocent, like your PR team had doubled back on itself and decided to switch from the 'whore' to the 'virgin'. You seemed more genuine like that, in florals and paler colours.

Bucky would be lying if he said he had never watched any of your interviews. It had merely been a simple fascination, a way to satisfy the nagging feeling of curiosity that threatened to consume him. They were interesting, and he consumed them with an almost ravenous hunger. Simple curiosity, that was all. That was all that he would let it be.

That interview that John had given at his old high school had just been the beginning, his very debut to the American people. Since then, there had been a few more, some featuring Battlestar, who would sit obediently at his side, and others featuring you.

You would curl up next to him, eagerly pressing yourself into John's side, smiling widely as you began the interview. There was a slightly angelic quality about you, a veil of innocence around you, your lilting voice like a siren's call, and your bright, doe eyes. With a well practiced ease, you would entwine your fingers with John's and sweetly tell him, looking at your lover intensely, that he was the best thing that ever happened to you.

It was fascinating to watch, to see just what kind of image your PR team could put across. You seemed every bit like the all-american girl, like the unattainable girl-next-door who would go to church every sunday and would be an inspiration to girls across the country. 

Despite the innocent-seeming way in which you were deliberately styled, you never once came across as naive. Instead, there was never any vapid or vain qualities to you. It was like you just didn't know how pretty you were, or the effect you could have on people.

As nice as you may have come across in all of those interviews, every bit the picture-perfect media darling, Bucky knew it was all a farce. John had managed to seem like a decent, determined man who was down to earth and wanted nothing more than to provide inspiration to Americans, no, to the whole world. But all of those things about John simply were untrue.

 Every interaction he had with the public had been carefully created to construct an image of him that incited adoration from the public. There was no reason whatsoever why you wouldn't be the same.

In fact, Bucky found it more likely than not that you were a complete inversion of that sweet, charming woman you appeared to be on TV. It left him with a sour taste in his mouth and biting back at bile rising in his throat. It was nauseatingly fake, all masquerading around as good and just using Steve's emblem.

It wasn't until he met you that the malice rescinded.

His escapade with Sam to see Isaiah had ultimately concluded with handcuffs being wrapped around his wrists and a visit to the local police station. Bucky had been taken into some tiny, isolated cell with boring blank walls that are comprised of chipped bricks covered poorly by cracking blue and white paint, constantly escorted and monitored by police officers, who were buzzing dually with excitement and tension at having both the recently-pardoned Winter Soldier in detention, and avenger the Falcon stood outside in the hall, demanding answers.

Doctor Christina Raynor had strolled into the precinct with both weariness and disappointment in her eyes. She walked almost like a woman defeated, one hand clasping the strap of her handbag and the other falling aimlessly at her side. 

Immediately, she gravitated towards Sam, who was seated rigidly in some tiny, uncomfortable plastic chair amongst a myriad of members of the public, people who were also waiting for news about their friends or family who had been arrested.

Clamoring to put on the most polite smile she could, Doctor Raynor introduced herself to Sam, barely managing to get in a complete sentence before she's interrupted.

Swiftly following the arrival of the Doctor is the entrance of John Walker. John strides into the precinct dressed in the Captain America garb, shield positioned on his back. There's something terribly strategic about the decision to be constantly wearing the suit. Perhaps it's to offer a sense of security, or maybe it's because without it John has no authority to operate on. Either way, his mere appearance results in a horde of frenzied police officers trailing after him, desperate for a selfie or an autograph, something that John mindlessly indulges them in, smiling the whole time. Sam's face instantly sours as John enters, his eyebrows tugging down into a frown.

John Walker simply saunters in, a falsely cherubic smile on his face as he stares down at Christina. "Bucky's not going to be following a strict schedule any longer."

Doctor Raynor's previously jovial attitude towards John's presence dissipates, quickly replaced by confusion. "We haven't finished our work." She protests, setting her jaw. "Who authorised this?"

There's a note of challenge in her voice as she presses John for an answer. She's the professional - she's very much the one capable of understanding Bucky's mind, and yet John doesn't take her concern into account. He doesn't even look phased by it. He's completely unbothered by any opposition thrown his way - it had never mattered to him before, and it had no reason to bother him now.

"I did," John says, pointing to himself.

Sam and Christina both stare him down, equally perturbed. They exchange a brief glance. Doctor Raynor's concerned in a professional capacity - not only is Barnes her patient, and it is her prerogative to help him take control of his mind and heal, but she is also commanded by the state to oversee his psychiatric care. 

Responsibility for him falls onto her - she's the professional. Christina is the doctor, the one who understands the human mind, and John very much is not. Sam, on the other hand, is personally concerned. As much as he pretends he despises Bucky, he does care, albeit begrudgingly. He wouldn't be here if he didn't.

A tiny beep goes off, signifying that a door is being opened. Bucky is walked in by two police officers, looking mildly agitated for one second, and completely numb the next, all emotion dropping from his face to put a cool, unfeeling visage into place. It's a mask that gives him obscurity, that allows him to distance himself from the mere possibility of being vulnerable.

Christina forces the two of them into some botched attempt at therapy, forcing them to look into each others eyes and get far closer than either of them are comfortable with whilst she presides over them, poking, prodding, inquiring. 

It's a demand of some emotional vulnerability that Bucky simply does not want to produce. It's not exactly heart-wrenching but it does make him feel robbed, like something had been taken from him against his will. It didn't feel like healing, like what therapy was meant to be. It felt difficult. It felt like a quiet rage building in his gut that he desperately wants to keep under wraps, lest he lash out at somebody.

It leaves Bucky feeling stripped raw when they finally leave the police station.

By the time Bucky and Sam step out onto the streets the sun has already set. The sky is dark, a deep navy blue that's mostly covered by thick dark clouds that besiege the atmosphere. The whole street is lit by lights that have been left on in people's windows, or blinkering blue lamps that run along the outer wall of the police station.

A blaring, almost comically loud beeping noise disrupts the fragile silence of the night. Lined up outside of the station are a series of police cars, all emblazoned with white lettering reading 'BALTIMORE POLICE DEPARTMENT'. 

The sirens of one of the police cars is going off wildly, the noise being one disruption and the blue and red flashing lights emitting from the roof of the car being another. It's an annoyance, and creates a false sense of urgency. Those sirens are normally used when somebody's life is at risk and members of the police force are going to respond. In this situation, there's no rush, no hurry, there's no crime.

Leaned up against the car, grinning wildly, is John Walker, still dressed as Captain America, all dolled up in navy blue and red, a silver 'A' on his breast.

 When he sees that he's successfully captured Sam and Bucky's attention, which he garners from the fact that both of their heads whip towards him, attracted by both the loud noise and the bright lights, he turns off the siren, restoring the tentative peace to the darkened streets.

This time, though, Walker's not alone. 

Next to him, propped up against the hood of the car is Battlestar, also dressed head-to-toe in his tactical gear, arms folded over his chest and a stoic expression on his face. There's something about him that just lacks any individuality. John masqueraded as somebody else, somebody whose mantle he had no right to use, and he's always constantly accompanied by a pale imitation of a comrade.

As likely as it is that Walker and Battlestar have engaged in combat together, they're not comrades, not in the way Bucky and Steve were. He and Steve had been willing to do anything for each other - endure any pain, run from the forces of the state if they had to, even die for one another.

 Walker didn't seem like the type to lay down his life for somebody else out of a genuine heart-felt devotion to them.

And then, stood a few feet away from both Walker and his loyal sidekick is you - the lover. There's a decent amount of distance between you and them, separated from one another by enough space that it quite literally looks like you're desperate to avoid Walker's presence. You huddle over by the wall of the precinct, jaw set like you were irritated by the ear-splitting sound of the siren, though you don't voice a complaint. Unlike the two men, you're not dressed like you're headed out to battle, like you're some kind of protector. No, you're dressed in some pale, flouncy sundress that grazes your thighs, and you're shivering in the night air. Of course you are - it's freezing.

Bucky has to bite back a sneer just at the sight of the three of you, a vile, acrid remark just on the tip of his tongue. He has just spent the best part of his day in some cramped cell that reminds him all too much of a HYDRA facility, and then being interrogated by his own therapist, who is desperate to push him into emotional vulnerability all in the name of progress. He isn't in the mood to play happy families, and especially not with the man now wielding Steve's shield.

"Gentlemen!" John calls out, waving his hands in the air as if Bucky and Sam hadn't already started their stride towards him, matching expressions of disdain on their faces. "Good to see you again. Have I introduced you to my girl yet? No?"

It, of course, was a rhetorical question. The two of them had only ever seen you in snapshots of public appearances that you had made at John's side. You weren't actively accompanying Captain America or Battlestar on any of their missions, and as far as Bucky is aware, there are no plans for you to do so. You're not a soldier. You're not built for battle - you're softer. More gentle. You're not the state's attempt at creating a superhero. Allegedly, you're just a regular girl - pretty and smart and charismatic, but otherwise perfectly regular - who just so happens to be dating John Walker, the new Captain America.

John doesn't wait for a response from Bucky or Sam, but he does gesture to you, beckoning you over to him by crooking two of his fingers.

You approach him, your dress ruffled by the wind. In that instant Bucky thinks that the two of you actually do seem nothing like how you do on those televised interviews - his prediction had been correct. The persona was lovely, enchanting even, but it was just that. A persona, an act for your public image. There's something almost mechanical about the way you approach John, your hands folded across your chest in an unsuccessful attempt to shield yourself from the cold. It's all too robotic. It's not effortless or affectionate. You don't look remotely comfortable, but you slide up next to Walker and Hoskins regardless. Clearly, Battlestar isn't the only one who follows Walker's commands like an obedient dog.

You slot yourself in between Battlestar and John, a grimace passing over your face as you press yourself into his side. It's odd, exceptionally so, for Bucky to see this - god, you look reluctant to accept some modicum of warmth from your own boyfriend, who you'd proclaimed publically that you loved more than anything. It's almost like you resent his touch.

And oh, that's nice. It's almost cathartic seeing somebody meant to love and adore John avoid his touch like he's got some contagious flesh-eating disease.

There's a great deal of recognition in your eyes as you look at Bucky and Sam. It's likely you'd already been made familiar with them as a result of Walker's fevered desperation to unite their forces. 

Bucky's looking at you intently, just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to open your mouth and prove him right - for you to prove that you were just as fake as Walker and Hoskins. It almost seemed inevitable, really. It's all too easy to seem good, sweet and polite on those well-orchestrated interviews. But real life is a completely different matter all together.

Bucky's well versed in being able to tell when people are lying, easily spotting their little tells, locating them in the flutter of a limb, the arch of an eyebrow or the twitch of an eye. It'll be a matter of moments until he spots yours. Any act was doomed to fail around him. Everybody gives themselves away somehow.

You introduce yourself, stating your name and giving them a shy wave. "It's nice to meet the two of you." You say sweetly, a smile lighting up your face.

Bucky's eyes widen involuntarily. Oh. It was one thing seeing that enchantment on TV, and another seeing it just feet away from him. There was something absolutely enrapturing about the silky quality of your voice, and the way your eyes sparkled even in the dim light.

 He hadn't expected you to actually be...pleasant. It was all supposed to be this fake persona, and yet, he can practically sense the genuity on you. You don't twitch like some little rabbit, or stumble over your words. There's no sweat beading on your brow, and you're not avoiding eye-contact. If anything, you're welcoming it.

There was no fucking way. No fucking way at all that you could actually be as nice as you were in those interviews and be with John Walker of all people. You should be horrible simply by being associated with the man.

"Well, now that we're all acquainted we can move onto our first order of business." John says, not even glancing at you. His gaze is focused solely on Sam and Bucky, steely and deceptive, completely dismissive of how utterly lovely you look.

Bucky's having a hard time even looking at John, not when you're right there, not too far away, looking absolutely angelic. There was no way it was some act, right? That facade had fallen through for both John and his stoic sidekick the minute they opened their mouths, but when it came to you... the complete opposite was true. Sam had definitely remarked on his staring problem more than once, and Bucky was very much hoping that in the dark you wouldn't be able to tell that he was looking at you in something akin to awe and unrepentant curiosity. He was looking at you in both fascination and scrutiny, staring intently like he was about to authenticate a work of art.

His deep rooted dislike of both John Walker and Battlestar was still very much present, but he was currently experiencing some emotional turbulence over his deep lack of hatred for you. It simply seemed to have evaporated the second you smiled at him. Which was...concerning to say the least. Shouldn't he hate you? Shouldn't your very presence have stoked that spark of malice?

"Look, if we divide ourselves we don't stand a chance. You guys know that." John says. He's all charismatic and confident, self-assured in a way that comes across as mildly condescending. It's a pale, cheap imitation of Steve's ability to rouse even the most slovenly of men and turn them into righteous soldiers.

"So what do you got?" Sam asks tiredly.

John immediately begins his speech, eagerly describing the plight of Karli Morgenthau, and how her journey around the globe is being aided and abetted by sympathisers who want to see the world return to the way it had been during the years of the blip. These sympathisers had much preferred it when half the world had been reduced to ash and something akin to anarchy had been allowed to prevail. 

Whole governments had collapsed in on themselves, and often, borders ceased to exist. It was complete free movement - there was a distinct lack of separation between different human factions, like all of humanity had been united by that grave event that took half of the planet.

Bucky had no idea what that world had been like. He'd only seen the shell of it, the hellscape that was left once the other fifty percent of earth's inhabitants returned to life.

Battlestar makes a few brief interjections, explaining a few minor aspects of the tale - the geotagging, that this threat is most likely operating out of eastern europe, and that Karli has stolen the medicine to take it to one of the camps.

 They don't tend to be sanitary places. Disease runs rampant there, and nobody tends to really care about those who fall sick and succumb to their illness. Of course they need medicine - there's probably hundreds of people who are in the throes of sickness, vomiting their own guts out, their wounds crusted over with coagulated blood, infected and festering.

"Well, there are hundreds of those all over the planet since the blip. So, I guess you'll have to look real hard," Bucky says, shrugging with a sort of apathy. It's rather vindicating to watch the way John's lip curls up in disdain.

"Well I guess it's good we have-" John begins, his jaw set and his tone confrontational, dripping with very thinly veiled rage.

You sigh, a tiny little breathless sound that makes Bucky freeze up slightly. It sounded, for a lack of a better word, rather nice. Melodic, even. "John, calm down." You tell him, not entirely unkindly, but not sweetly, either. 

There's some kind of quality to your voice when you speak to John like you're negotiating for hostages, not like you're having a conversation with your lover. It's curious, but Bucky tries not to attach too much meaning to it.  

Bucky gives you a stiff sort of nod, and you reward him with a smile, your lips curving upwards. "Where is she now? Do you know?" He says, softer than he probably would have if you hadn't been there.

"No. We don't know, Bucky." John's voice is a near yell. He shifts agitatedly, gesticulating wildly, tossing his arms about and shoving you slightly, letting you nearly collide with Battlestar, who is forced to grasp your arm to keep you upright. Battlestar's hand curves around your upper arm, pulling you back until you're steady on your feet. "But it's only a matter of time before we find out."

Relatively quickly, Battlestar's hand drops from your arm, and you give him a whisper of thanks before turning to give John a glare. He hadn't even so much as muttered an apology. He was completely focused on Bucky, the two locking stares in some kind of silent battle, one of wills.

"Things are really intense for you, aren't they, Walker?" Bucky can't fucking resist agitating him, letting the taunt roll off his tongue easily, not even bothering to resist grinning when your lips quirk upwards. Oh yes, you think he's funny - he can see it in the way you press a hand to your lips in a successful attempt to quell a rising peal of laughter.

"Walker's right." Sam is the one to turn to Bucky and snap at him. He tries to diffuse the situation, glancing between you, Bucky and John like he was watching something that had the potential to go very wrong. "It is imperative that we find and stop them. But you guys have rules of engagement and authorisations you have to get. We're free agents. More flexible. It wouldn't make sense for us to work together."

Tentatively, you set a hand on John's shoulder, feeling the coarse, kevlar-esque material of the suit beneath the tips of your fingers as he turns rigid, looking at Bucky and Sam coldly, all pretences of being nice completely gone, having simply evaporated into the cold night air. "Mr. Wilson isn't wrong."

Like Sam, you seem to have moved on to an attempt to prevent the escalating tensions from reaching their head. You try your best to soothe John, and his shoulders do sag fractionally, like he's just been reminded of your presence. There's something about the way that Walker looks at you that's utterly unappreciative. Perhaps John doesn't want to be grounded - if his will is being resisted then he'd rather be aggressive than diplomatic.

Sam scoffs at the name, "You don't have to call me that. In fact, please don't call me that."

"It's polite isn't it?" You say, smiling, even as John ruthlessly shucks your hand from his shoulder, dismissive of your touch. He gives you an irritated kind of look, a silent admonishment of you challenging his authority. It's not the kind of look that equal partners give each other, and your ensuing glare isn't, either.

"Suppose so," Sam shrugs, his lips quirking up in amusement.

"Mr. Wilson and Mr. Barnes aren't obligated to help," You tell John softly, seemingly speaking through gritted teeth. "Clearly, we all want the same things - to get that medicine back and bring Karli to justice. But, if you're not all going to be able to work cohesively on a team and get the job done, it may be best to work separately. It gives you all the opportunity to handle things the way you want to. This should be about doing the right thing and accomplishing the mission, not about who's calling the shots."

John nods stiffly, turning to you for a brief moment. There's some kind of red light coming from within one of the nearby buildings, and it's lighting up the dark street in shades of red, crimson light spilling over his cheekbones and dancing across one side of his face. He's the very image of begrudging agreement. "Alright then. Just one piece of advice for you boys. Stay the hell out of my way."

"Gladly." Bucky mutters under his breath, not missing the fact that you catch it and your smile widens.

As Bucky and Sam begin their exit, he can't help but to spare you one last glance over his shoulder. Bucky's eyes quickly roam over your form, as if he's mapping you out, or trying to emblazon the image of you within his mind - bathed in dying red light, still smiling serenely at him even as he's leaving. He really cannot figure you out. 

The line of what's real and what's fake seems awfully blurred when it comes to you. Normally he's excellent at detecting a performance, but when it comes to you, Bucky has no idea whatsoever what is going on. And it's very much intriguing.

John Walker he would have no problem whatsoever in leaving alone.

...but you on the other hand, were a whole different story.

There was some grand, captivating quality that you had in spades that was even more potent in real life than it had been on camera. It was in the way your hair was jostled by the wind, the pale sundress that skirted your soft-looking thighs, the curve of your hips, the way you smiled and that hypnotic twinkle in your eye. 

Walker and Hoskin's lovely personalities had been something of a farce, but yours wasn't. It did, however, make him wonder what somebody like you was doing with them - how you could aid and abet their actions even though it was glaringly obvious you weren't always in concordance with them.

"Man, I do not know what the hell was going on there, but I very much did not like how you were looking at Walker's girl like she was a piece of steak, or something." Sam shudders, muttering quietly once they're out of earshot of Walker and his companions.

"I don't know what you mean." Bucky feigns ignorance, setting his jaw and very much trying to push the phrase 'Walker's girl' from his mind. It just...didn't seem right.

In all of those TV interviews, the two of you had seemed like a perfect couple - you only appeared that way because Walker was plastering on a faux persona. In reality, the two of you seemed fragmented, distant from one another though Walker did have some tiny modicum of respect for you. 

There was nothing about the real, raw interactions between the two of you that indicated any intimacy. It was the complete antithesis of the united front the two of you presented, of the perpetually happy lovers that America adored.

There was just no way it could be true. In fact, it sets off something that's terribly close to jealousy in his gut. Walker's an arrogant prick who carries a shield he has no right to even look at. He especially doesn't deserve you - you with the pretty eyes and an aura about you that screamed 'holy', 'saintly', even.

Yes. That was probably why he disliked it. Because it was probably inaccurate. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way you enchanted him, nothing to do with the sight of your bare legs and absolutely nothing to do with the lovely way you said 'Mr.Barnes.'  It had absolutely nothing to do with that whatsoever.

"No, no." Sam protests. "I've seen you, you know, stare at people before - but god, never like that. Fuck, man."

And it's true. It was obvious to anybody that spent more than thirty seconds with Bucky that he had yet to acclimate and adjust to social scenarios, and that once he was focused on one thing had an abject refusal to move his gaze away from it. Bucky had heard Sam call it both 'creepy' and 'unnerving', and hoped, for some inexplicable reason, that you thought differently. 

After all, your eyes had barely left his. It wasn't staring if both of you were doing it - then it was mutual, some kind of joint focus on one another.

"Like what, Sam?"

Sam just shakes his head, looking disdainful, his nose turned up like he'd just smelled something foul. "Mmhm, like you wanted to do some things to her that, for the sake of my own mental health, I would rather not think about."

Well, technically, he hadn't thought about anything that bad - just your voice, your smile, and the way you might say his name. But, in that instant, Sam's words derail all of those thoughts. Because, really, you had looked so lovely that it would be forgivable to think about you like that.

There was that cute little sundress you were wearing, grazing your thighs whenever you moved or whenever the wind picked up. It's all too easy for him to imagine skirting his fingers up your smooth, soft thighs and let his hands explore you, roaming over your ass and your inner thighs, enjoying the feeling of your skin and the little noises he could provoke from you.

"...stop thinking about it. I can literally hear your thoughts right now." Sam says, grimacing at Bucky's spaced out kind of look - his glazed over eyes and the fingers twitching at his sides. It's all too easy for him to see the gears shifting in Bucky's head, openly reliving the few moments he had seen you.  

"I'm not thinking about it," Bucky outright lies as the two of them continue walking down the street.

"No, you absolutely are thinking about it." Sam objects. "I can sense the impropriety."

"Oh yeah? You can sense it?" Bucky glares at Sam, unable to resist antagonising him. It's safe, reliable even, between the two of them. They'll perpetually annoy one another, being challenging, rude, and utterly impolite, knowing that when it comes down to it, they'll fight side-by-side without objection, trusting each other implicitly. But in these moments when there's no imminent danger, that opposition is welcome. It's routine, even.

"Hell yes, I can sense it."

Bucky just scoffs at him, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. It wasn't really as if Sam was wrong. There was something especially fascinating about Walker's girl - if that's even what you are. He'd known you for a matter of fleeting moments that passed by like dandelion seeds in a breeze. And yet, something about it felt terribly significant. 

He hadn't actually expected that appeal to be real. He anticipated that just like Walker's carefully groomed public image, it would have been falsified.

The only thing that really seemed fake about those interviews was your affection with John. It was non-existent in real life, and for a while, you had avoided touching him, until you had to diffuse the situation. That was very, very curious. Just where had Walker found you? He had to doubt that the relationship was genuine. 

Somebody as nice, as innocent-seeming as you would never go for Walker. Not when Walker's the kind of guy that Steve would have tried to fight as a scrappy teenager, before he even got the serum. The kind of guy who Bucky would inevitably have to knock the lights out of in order to protect Steve. That kind of guy objectively did not belong with someone like you.

Bucky has to shake his head ever so slightly. It's a dangerous line of thinking. God, he doesn't even know you. He's met you once, and you'd exchanged only a few words. Irrespective of how nice you seem, how entrancing you are, he doesn't know you. It hardly matters whether or not your relationship with Walker is genuine. It shouldn't matter to him. It really shouldn't bother him.  

But it does, and that fact alone is almost as bad as the fact that John Walker is the new Captain America. It causes the same bitter feeling to swell in his chest.

Sam and Bucky fall into line next to each other, walking side-by-side, the dull noises of their footsteps hitting the pavement reverberating throughout the streets. There's a comfortable silence between the two of them. Words aren't needed now. They often aren't. For all of their antagonisation, they can understand each other perfectly fine with a single glance. That's what comradery is.

There are neon lights that illuminate the streets in shocking tones of red and turquoise, reflected in stray puddles that pool in the potholes of the roads. The lights seem dulled, boring despite their vividity. He'd seen brightness before. It didn't look like a street sign. It looked like the curve of your smile and the silent rage you directed at John Walker.

---

Bucky's flat is near-barren. 

As much as he hates empty rooms - they remind him of cold cells in underground bases that he wishes more than anything that he could forget - he's also come to the realization that he very much hates rooms that have too much furniture. 

They all feel uncomfortable, unfamiliar, a bastardisation of a normal life that he feels he has no right to live. He's so unused to the feeling of a mattress beneath him that the floor next to his bed is easier for him to sleep on. And he hates that, too. 

The simple inability to slip back into a normal life makes him feel woefully inadequate, like there's still something deeply wrong with him despite the fact that the command words had long since been removed from his mind.

Sam had returned to his own home a while ago, leaving Bucky utterly alone in the flat.

 It's not necessarily loneliness that he feels, but it is a kind of numbness that is close to it - the dulled pain of loss. Perhaps, if everything had gone the way he meant for it to, he would be sharing this place with Steve - Steve who would take a bullet for him, fight any force in this universe or the next for him. Steve who would probably encourage him to sleep in the bed and not on the floor next to it. 

That realisation prompts him to shuck off his leather jacket, toss it into the recesses of his room and try to distract himself.

He runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes and just revelling in the darkness. Mindlessly, he sits down on the very edge of his bed, already knowing that he won't be sleeping there. It seems somewhat pointless to even try. 

Despite the Soldier being gone, there are some effects of his presence that linger. Slowly, he's been getting better, but there are a few traits he doesn't know whether or not he'll ever have the courage to discard. Sleeping on the floor is one of them. That constant need to be vigilant is another. Often it manifests itself as paranoia, and at other times as staring.

Oh god, the staring.

Bucky knew it could be bad sometimes - Sam made remarks about it often enough - but today, he really felt like he couldn't help himself. 

Maybe he shouldn't have stared at you so much. It probably wasn't welcome. In fact, it had been described as 'unnerving' and 'creepy' more than once. But there was just something about you that made him not want to look away.

His eyes flutter open and he lets out a ragged groan of frustration, a low noise that originates at the back of his throat. 

Somehow, every little nagging thought always leads back to you, which is inconvenient to say the least. He does have to keep telling himself that he doesn't know you, mentally repeating those words like a mantra, instructing himself to just leave that train of thought alone completely, and to discard any and every thought that pertains to you. You're with Walker. He doesn't know you - but he could.

Bucky takes in a deep breath, hand digging through the pocket of his trousers, emerging with his phone. The internet was a pretty vast thing that had initially taken quite some getting used to, especially when he was still living in Romania. It had been difficult to become comfortable with the amount that society had progressed whilst he was with HYDRA. 

He still couldn't get used to the music or some of the fashion trends. By the time he got to living in Wakanda, he was more than used to the intricacies of modern day technology, despite the fact that once he came out of cryogenic freezing he lived a fairly simple lifestyle.

He can't really resist searching your name.

 Immediately, article after article pops up, all with headlines about you and Walker. Bucky lets out a minor, quiet noise of discontentment, opting to avoid the articles and instead look at the videos, the interviews that you had given. In most of them, you're accompanied by Walker, and occasionally by Battlestar, too. Bucky absolutely does not want to watch those ones. It feels like John simply sitting next to you is somehow corruptive.

There are a select few interviews where, mercifully, you're by yourself. Some of them are from your earlier days, where you're dressed in black leather, which was absolutely a confusing wardrobe choice. 

Privately, he much prefers you in the sundress and the pale colours. In the one that he chooses to watch, you're dressed in another sundress - this one's a pale sort of pink with tiny, blooming white flowers dotted over it. For some inexplicable reason, Bucky thinks he prefers you like this - innocent, summery, and not a pale imitation of somebody who was meant to be scary - not that you had the potential to make him afraid in the slightest.

You're in some room, sitting in front of a grand, white window, seated on a wicker chair opposite the interviewer. There's a few potted plants dotted around the floor, aloe vera, lavender, a cheese plant and some other flowers that are in full bloom, their soft petals unfurled. You're beaming happily as the interviewer begins, soft sunlight spilling over your profile, warming your skin.

"It's a pleasure to finally have the opportunity to interview you - and you're so kind to let us into your house like this." The interviewer says, looking between your angelic visage and their copious sheets of notes, each one full of questions and follow-up questions that they were desperate to ask you.

Ah. That makes sense - all the plants. You seemed like the type to like them.

"The pleasure's all mine." You say, and yes, there it is. That transfixing look about you that he's slightly hooked on now that he's seen it in real life. It's a bit addictive to watch you, and god, even just thinking that does very much make him feel wrong.

"How about we get started, then?" The interviewer says conversationally. "You know, every single person in America is curious about you. I'm just here to ask the questions on everybody's minds! Just who are you? Come on, tell us about yourself."

You don't flounder. Not even for a second. You're utterly effortless in the interviews just as you had been mere feet away from him. "Well, I'm just your average girl, really. I'm nothing special, I promise you. Honestly, I'm so grateful that everybody loves me so much. I really wasn't expecting it."

Sitting there, a serene expression on your face, you sound utterly bashful, humbled and sweet in a way that wasn't quite the same as it had been in real life.

God, seeing you in real life was different to the interview. You had been, for a lack of a better word, better than how he expected. He'd anticipated meeting female John Walker, arrogant, self-assured and willing to try to strong-arm him into fighting for their team, more like Walker's puppy than your own individual person.

 And you were nothing like that - you'd challenged Walker, hell, you even seemed reluctant to touch the guy at first, and then, you'd laughed and smiled devastatingly sweetly whenever Bucky would agitate him.

" - oh yes, my favourite flowers are - " You're still talking sweetly but he's only capturing fragments of what you're saying.

It's hard to focus on your exact words when you've shifted slightly, and that sundress has slid up your thighs ever so slightly, exposing more of your legs to Bucky's heated gaze.

 Fuck - you don't even realise what you're doing and how it's making him feel. You're just innocently trying to get through an interview, talking about something mundane, like your houseplants, and it has Bucky's imagination running wild.

If Sam were here, he would definitely be sensing impropriety right about now.

Bucky swallows thickly, biting his lower lip in an effort to stifle the ragged breath he's struggling to take. It feels almost like there's no air left in his lungs. It's all too easy for him to picture you, right there in front of him, giving him that lovely saccharine smile, your lips pulled upwards. You'd saunter into his room, sundress skirting against your thighs, and he would be utterly enraptured.

He clears his throat, squeezing his eyes shut for just a fraction of a second. He could practically feel the blood rushing south, pooling downwards until his cock was pitching a tent, straining uncomfortably against his dark jeans. 

Bucky can't even bring himself to feel any shame - he's just chasing a sensation, chasing a fantasy of you as he tugs his jeans down, shucking them off and discarding them, letting them land somewhere near his leather jacket.

With an unsteady breath, he shuffles back awkwardly onto the bed. Without so much as a second thought, he's pulling his boxers down his thighs and resting his flesh hand against his cock. He's beyond hard, steely even, and Bucky has to bite back a groan. Even the touch of his own hand doesn't offer him much relief.

He discards his phone, letting the interview keep playing, just listening to your cadence and the entrancing way you spoke, not really picking up on the words themselves.

It's all too easy to imagine you being here, in that tiny little sundress, stalking towards him. He'd want you to straddle him, your thighs framing his, sundress riding up, exposing more of your legs. He'd push the fabric up, and instruct you to hold it there. 

You'd probably give him something like a shy little nod and that dazzling smile of yours, your hands fisting the fabric and holding it up.

Fuck - it was all just too good to think about.

Bucky's grip on his cock tightens as he slowly strokes himself. He could easily tug the top part of the sundress down, too, to expose your tits. Maybe he'd even play with them for a bit, licking, nipping and sucking until there's a constellation of bruises and bites decorating your decolletage.

You'd probably beg, all whiney and breathy and absolutely desperate for him, struggling to maintain your hold on your dress, your fingers twitching as you pushed your chest towards him. It would be fucking lovely. He would finally pull away, admiring his work before bothering to address your needs. He'd trail his hands up your thighs.

He had to wonder exactly what you were wearing underneath it. White? Black? Lacey? A tiny little thong that rises high on your hips, the kind he can easily rip off with his bare hands or push aside? 

Or fuck, even more addicting, what if you weren't wearing any at all? His fingers would smooth up your thighs as you trembled, meeting your bare cunt.

Bucky doesn't even bother to try to quell the groan that rises up within him at that thought. God, that would be nice. You'd be wet - so wet, dripping, coating his fingers and trickling down your thighs. He'd rest his dark, metal hand on your waist whilst the fingers on his other hand ran eagerly through your folds, teasing your clit as he memorised all of the little sounds he could pull from you before he'd plunge two fingers into you.

You'd cry out, and he'd swallow the sound with his mouth, crushing his lips to yours and letting you gasp into his mouth. When he finally pulls away from you, fingers knuckle deep inside of you, your face would be painted a bright red, and your lips would be swollen as you begged him, fucking begged him to fuck you.

He'd deny you at first, watching you tremble and twitch on his fingers, practically fucking yourself on them.

Bucky would stroke at your clit, tracing tiny circles over it and watching your face contort in pure, unadulterated pleasure. He'd let you get off on his hand first. Would your eyes roll back into your head? Would you scream for him, yelling out his name? Would you get even wetter, impossibly making his fingers even slicker, fucking soaking him? You'd probably seize up, your spine going rigid, your mouth tumbling open and your walls flutter around his finger, convulsing uncontrollably.

And then, only then, would he fuck you.

God, you'd take his cock so well. 

Maybe the stretch of it would be a bit much at first and you'd squirm in his hold, his metal arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you impaled on him. The noises you would make would be utterly lovely - whines and fragments of pleads that never quite get finishes because you keep interrupting yourself with your own moans.

Eventually, he'd have you in his lap, your legs folded over his, one of your hands holding up your sundress so he can see his cock entering you, pushing you open, the other resting on his face. You'd bounce on his cock, whimpering like a kitten, biting at your bottom lip whilst he stared at you in awe.

You would be good - so, so good, tight and hot around him, absolute perfection.

He'd mark your neck up too, so that it'd match your tits, leaving tiny, bloodied indentations of his teeth up the column of your throat, soothing the sting by laving his tongue over them, the taste of your blood blooming on his tongue.

'Walker's girl' his ass.

It wouldn't be John fucking Walker whose name you were crying out. It would be his. It'd be his love bites littering your neck, and it would be his come leaking out from your cunt, trickling down your thighs.

He's relentlessly fucking his fist at this point, grunting and groaning at the mental image of you riding him to completion, snug around his cock, begging for him. There's some deep, nigh unholy pleasure building within him, ripping through him like a hurricane.

"God, fuck -" Bucky comes almost violently with a cry of your name, jerking quickly, hot come spilling over his knuckles. The pearly white beads trail down his hand, oozing onto the bed sheets.

He can still hear that interview playing, your melodic voice grounding him as he comes down from his high. 

You're talking about some sport you had played in high school, and the interviewer is lapping it up, eager for your attention and the exclusive interview. Bucky's chest is heaving, rising and falling heavily as he struggles to catch his breath.

Was it probably wrong to get off whilst thinking about another man's girlfriend? Yes. But, Bucky didn't particularly care, not when he'd just had quite possibly the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life, and especially not when it was 'Walker's girl' he was getting off to. 

Walker probably couldn't make you come if his life depended on it. But Bucky would.

It's definitely strange that he wants you so badly. Maybe he just wants to take something from Walker the way that Walker had taken the mantle of Captain America. 

He didn't really know how he'd react if he ever had to see you again. There's no way he can look at you in any non-sexual capacity, and he can just sense that this won't be the last time he comes whilst thinking about you.

It's probably for the best then, that he'll be staying out of Walker's way. There will be much less temptation on his part to interfere with your relationship. Yes, it's definitely for the best. He's probably just stressed and overworked, and that was the reason he felt the need to fuck his hand whilst thinking. about you. Just stress. And it's not exactly wrong to want to relieve that stress, is it? No. Not at all.

This is perfectly fine, and even if it wasn't, he wouldn't be seeing you again.

---

Just as Bucky had been getting ready to go out for the morning, dressed in jeans and some dark jacket that did a reasonable enough job of hiding the distinctive metal arm, a loud rapping reverberated through his apartment.

Immediately, he's frowning, and some of that old, ever-present paranoia is reawakening, like it's coming out of a coma, its dormancy ending abruptly. He pauses, slowing his gait and balling his hands into fists, bracing himself.

The knock doesn't sound like anybody he knows. It's not Sam - Sam either barges in, makes one single loud bang, or will just yell obscenities until Bucky stumbles out of his flat to meet him. This knock, a gentle rapping, is softer, more polite, and unfamiliar. If he's lucky, it'll have been just somebody who had got the wrong apartment number, or who wasn't yet aware that the previous tenant had moved out. It happened sometimes.

This knock could have a perfectly reasonable explanation behind it - it could be an honest mistake, or some unfortunate door to door salesperson whom he was about to scare off. Still, despite the fact it could be innocuous, it does have him on edge.

Cautiously, Bucky approaches the door, taking in a deep breath as he undoes the latches one by one. Slowly, he opens the door. It feels like ripping off a bandaid. To his surprise, it's neither somebody who's out to hurt him, nor somebody who's got the wrong apartment number.

It's you, standing outside of his door, wearing another one of your pale sundresses and a knitted cardigan, looking like something out of one of his dreams.

So much for not seeing you again.

Maybe he just had exceptionally bad luck, or the universe hated him. That absolutely had to be what it was - some grand, sadistic cosmic being had it out for him and was desperate to make his life hard.

Why the hell were you here? Was Walker sending you to harass him? That would be objectively cruel, and an unfitting punishment just for rejecting the opportunity to work with him. And - how the hell had you found his flat? That absolutely wasn't meant to be information available to anyone.

"Walker's girl?" He says, staring down at you, frowning. 

Bucky doesn't dare call you by your name, not when the last time he said it was when he was coming all over his own hand. He hates the fact that he calls you that, and even more than that, he hates the wince you make. It's perfectly understandable that you don't like being called that, irrespective of whether it's accurate or not. Which he hopes it isn't. And then he resents himself for even being bothered by whether it's true or not. 

He doesn't fucking know you. He shouldn't care.

You remind him of your name - as if he could ever fucking forget it. You brush it off pretty quickly though, smiling up at him. "Mr. Barnes, do you mind if we talk?"

Bucky is very much not enjoying the emotional turmoil you're putting him through. "Sure. Come in. And it's just Bucky."

He most definitely should not be letting you in. That would be a bad decision and he especially didn't want to get ideas about you whilst you were in his flat. And yet, he found himself readily opening the door and welcoming you in, before closing the door after you.  

You make your way into his flat, looking at him gratefully.

"What's the deal with you and Walker?" The words tumble from Bucky's mouth, gruff and awkward, before he can even think to stop them.

A look of mild confusion passes over your face as you blink up at him. "Oh, John? I mean, we're not really a couple."

"I thought not." Bucky says, feigning impassiveness, even though there's absolutely nothing neutral or disinterested about the hopeful feeling that blooms in his stomach.

"Yeah. It was meant to be good for his public image, you know. The all-American guy with the perfect relationship. And I have debt I need to pay off - tuition and all that - and they compensate me for my time." You explain, laughing lightly. It sounds like bells chiming in the wind, and awakens in him some long forgotten memory of watching the sunset. It's reminiscent of something, someplace happier where his head was a whole lot lighter.

Bucky actually feels a genuine bolt of relief skirt down his spine. Of course he had been right. There was no way that Walker could get with somebody as good as you, somebody who seemed very much like an angel put on earth.

Your eyebrows tug slightly downward, "Was it obvious?"

"You looked like you'd rather have been anywhere else."

That prompts a peal of laughter from you, and all traces of concern simply evaporate from your visage, quickly forgotten. "Yeah, I suppose so. John can be...difficult at times. He's very strong-willed and we don't always get along."

"You two seem to get along well enough on camera," Bucky remarks, voice lower than he intended for it to be. Really, he doesn't want this to descend into some kind of interrogation, and he doesn't want to scare you off.

"I'm a decent actress," You say with a shrug. "And we normally do our TV appearances when we're getting along. John's not always easy to get along with, but occasionally we manage to put it all behind us. It may seem scummy, I guess. We are practically lying to everyone, but I do need the money and it's easy work."

It further reassures him - of what, Bucky doesn't quite know, but he doesn't feel half as on edge as he had been earlier.

You're not Walker's. He fucking knew it.

He couldn't possibly even conceive of a universe in which you would ever even consider Walker's advances. That bastard was lucky you even looked in his direction.

"I get that." Bucky says understandingly, a tentative smile playing across his face, his lips quirking upwards.

"I do actually have a reason for being here, Bucky." You say, sighing softly.

Oh. Yes. Of course you did. He'd almost forgotten that you needed a reason to visit - this wasn't a social call, of course it wasn't. The two of you had only ever met once, no matter how well he thought he knew you after having seen what is probably hours worth of footage of you. It's probably not a good thing that he's feeling so familiar with you - no, it's definitely not a good thing that he's feeling so familiar with you. In fact, it's probably very bad, especially with his proclivity for avoiding any form of emotional vulnerability or attachment.

"I...have the clearance to access some information that may benefit you." You say. Right now, you're being the most serious he'd ever seen you. There was a sort of solemn expression about you - your mouth set in a firm line rather than a happy smile - it's bordering on grave, and he's immediately compelled to listen, a frown forming on his face.

"Yes?"

"You and John both want the same thing, but you're not going to work together. I know for a fact you won't, and I really don't blame you. He's planning on going to see Zemo for information about the serum."

Bucky doesn't even tense up at the name. Helmut Zemo is an absolute bastard who had almost ruined his life, in addition to temporarily forcing him into a dangerous headspace, into a part of himself that, at that point, was very much present and very much not under control. 

But now, the codewords are gone. They won't activate shit. Zemo's practically been neutered in that regard. He may not be able to invoke the Winter Soldier, but the mere mention of his name absolutely does invoke some kind of visceral, biblical rage that howls for revenge.

It's the kind of anger of the Old Testament, though Bucky isn't much for religion these days - the kind of anger that is desperate for 'an eye for an eye', to make Zemo hurt just as much as Zemo had hurt him. For retribution.

"We were planning on seeing him, too." Bucky says, a little stiffly, though he retains his composure.

"You'll want to get there before John does. He's planning on telling the guards not to let you in - Zemo will have his visitation rights revoked and you won't even be let on the premises."

Bucky lets out a tiny noise of irritation, a bitter little sound that originates in the very back of his throat. Of course, of fucking course Walker wouldn't be content with just working separately from himself and Sam. 

Rather than just let it be, he'd try to actively obstruct their ability to work on the case - to help people. There was something about Walker's willingness to possibly prevent a breakthrough for the sake of his own ego that left a very bitter taste in Bucky's mouth. It was a complete stain on Steve's legacy.

"You have two days until John and Lemar visit Zemo. They'll probably be alerted when you show up, though, so I suspect you won't have long." You continue.

There's a possibility that you are working with Walker and this is all part of some elaborate scheme to impede his involvement in this. You could be lying through your teeth. 

You had already told him you were a decent actress, and he definitely believed that to be true. Anybody that could be lovesick around John fucking Walker was either delusional or worthy of an oscar. Bucky was inclined to believe you were the latter.

That story about needing money for tuition made sense, and it also seemed reasonable that Walker's PR team would want to give him a girlfriend. A similar kind of thing had happened with Steve back in the forties. He'd been made to do all sorts of stupid campaigns, and a lot of them had involved pretty women like yourself who were willing to act, hell, even sing and dance, for the money.

Bucky wants to believe you're genuine. Surely he'd be able to tell if you're lying - he's good at that, at identifying people's tells and the falsehoods they're spewing.

"Thanks for the heads up." He says somewhat gruffly as he looks down at you.

"Lemar had a lead on the medicine and vaccines, too. But I don't know exactly what he's found." There's something about the way that you sigh that indicates frustration. "It's difficult to get information out of him. He's nice and all, but we're not close enough that he's willing to divulge a lot."

Bucky's slight frown deepens and he steps just a little closer to you, revelling in the fact that you don't stumble back or glance at the door. You're not afraid of him in any capacity.

"You're fishing for information for us? Why?"

That's the one thing he can't work out. Why show up here? Why bother to give him the warning? What could you possibly have to gain from it?

"It's the right thing to do." You say simply, that solemness receding from your pretty face to allow that sweet smile to return. "Whether it be you or John, somebody has to bring these guys down. It's only fair that you both have the same information, and I can get it to you."

How lovely. God, how had you managed to embody the spirit of Captain America more than the man who carried the shield?

"Right, right." Bucky doesn't even have a hard time accepting the answer. He should - he should poke and prod at your motives, but he doesn't want to. He finds that the desire to do good for the world is sufficient enough, especially when it comes to you. Because of course you want to help people, of course you want to help him - as if you hadn't been perfect enough already.

"I'm looking into the camps, too. It's hard to narrow the parameters, though. There's just so many of them." You say, somewhat aghast, like you're disappointed that they even exist in the first place. 

There's a haunted kind of expression in your eyes, like you'd seen too much. And you probably had. Looking into all of those camps, rampant with disease, crime and horrifically painful deaths, couldn't have been easy, especially if you weren't acclimated to something so macabre or devastating.

"Hey," Bucky places a hand on your shoulder - the human hand - and he can feel the soft texture of your knitted cardigan beneath his fingers, as well as the heat radiating from your body. "Thank you. I appreciate it. You're doing the right thing. You're good."

Words of encouragement are somewhat difficult for him to come up with. He has no idea what will reassure you, so he just tells you what he knows to be true and it's enough. It's more than enough judging by the way your eyes light up and you smile at him. There's something almost devastating about that smile, and knowing that he had been the one to cause it.

"Thanks," You say, your voice barely above a whisper, voice a little hoarse. Oh. Oh. Your pupils were blown wide, and you were staring at him intently.

He falters for a fraction of a second, wondering if he'd done something wrong. And then it dawns on him - you'd liked the praise.

You had fucking liked it when he praised you. Well, shit. The rush he got from that realisation alone made him feel nearly high, like his head was in the clouds and he'd just done copious amounts of illegal substances. It was addicting, in short.

It's then and only then that he actually notices just how close the two of you are, and suddenly he's revisiting the thought that maybe letting you into his flat wasn't such a good idea.

 Bucky can very nearly feel your skin beneath his hand. Having you here is such a unique brand of torture - you're exquisitely close, and you're looking at him like whatever it is that's between you, this mad, mutating attraction is reciprocated. It all feels a little too good to be true.

You probably shouldn't be looking at him like that. There was no way that the attraction he felt could be reciprocated. No way whatsoever.

"I should probably give you my number," You say, your voice still a little low - if anything, it's become silkier. Sultry, even, and it has Bucky's head spinning. "I'll send you everything I have."

"Yeah," He says, somewhat breathlessly. It's with a deep reluctance that he drops his hand from your shoulder, already missing the warmth and the closeness. 

He probably shouldn't have touched you in the first place. You were so small next to him, dressed in your pale little sundress, cardigan slipping down one of your arms, pooling at your elbow to reveal a single, unblemished shoulder. There's something almost painfully innocent about you, the complete antithesis to him.

He had been a killer a thousand times over. Bucky had taken more lives than he could even begin to count, and despite his best efforts to reconcile and to make amends for it, his hands were still stained red with blood. They didn't deserve to touch you, no matter how badly he wants to.

Suddenly, you're turning away from him, snatching a piece of paper that had been lying around his flat and scrawling a series of numbers onto the back of it - your phone number. Without so much as a second thought, he's peering over your shoulder as you write them, eyes carefully following every digit that you inscribe.

You whirl around, paper clutched tightly in one hand and settling the other on his chest, fingers ghosting over his shirt. You're so, so close - a mere matter of inches away from him, and your hand is directly over his heart. Hopefully you can't feel the way it beats slightly faster as a result of the contact.

There was a high chance that if it had been anybody else, Bucky would have avoided their touch and shirked the vulnerability. He liked being in control of himself, which often translated in remaining isolated. But he doesn't really want you to take your hand off his chest. He doesn't want that at all. In fact, he'd much prefer it if you touched more of him.

The tension is literally palpable, hanging about the air like a thick fog. No, more like smoke really, with the way your presence threatened to asphyxiate him.

"Bucky," You say, so softly, your voice dripping with reverence. There's just something about the way you whisper his name that's so much better than any fantasy he could ever concoct. He's half-certain that you're going to drop your hand from his chest or shove him away, admonish him for getting too close. But you don't. Your hand remains pressed against him, fingers splayed over his torso.

He can't help but say your name in turn, his voice raspy as he looks down at you. Carefully, he takes the paper with your number on it from your hands and sets it down on one of the countertops. And still, you don't remove your hand from him. You're looking up at him and your eyes are so dark, tumultuous pits of lust that bore right through him.

Bucky leans ever so slightly closer to you, his flesh hand cupping your jaw. His index finger is curled under your chin, and the pad of his thumb is resting on your plump lower lip. In response to his touch, your lips part ever-so-slightly, and he can feel your breath ghosting over his flesh in light, shallow puffs of air.

"Do you want this?" He asks, his voice a low rasp, rough and bordering on ragged. It feels very much like he's entered dangerous territory. This is like playing with fire whilst being desperate to get burnt. He just needs to be sure. He's desperate for that reassurance, for you to explicitly say that he's not crazy or creepy, that this is mutual.

"Yes," You say, lip moving against his thumb as you speak.

In an instant, he's moving his thumb to caress your cheek and then crushing his mouth to yours. There's something utterly greedy about the way he consumes you, teeth smacking together, tongues roving throughout each others mouths, completely plunderous in nature. Because that is what he's doing - consuming you, entirely ravenous in the way his lips press repeatedly against yours.

Your hands become fisted in his shirt and jacket, and his metal arm wraps around your waist, crushing your chest to his, anchoring the two of you together. It seems as if you've gone weak in the knees. You practically crumble against him, pressing yourself into his torso until his metal arm is the only thing that's holding you up.

Oh. This was definitely reciprocated.

There was absolutely no need for him to wallow in guilt or shame or wish not to see you - because you wanted him to. It didn't fucking matter whether or not his hands were stained red, not when all you wanted was for them to touch you.

All too soon, your mouths part slightly and you're panting against one another. Your lips are red, beautifully swollen, and wet with saliva. With a mixture of his and your saliva.

"Tell me to stop," Bucky mumbles heatedly against your lips. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll never touch you again. I promise."

It's a promise he won't want to keep. Not when he feels like a single kiss has completely fucking ruined him for anybody else.

"What if I don't want you to stop?" You whisper, gazing at him with this blazing fire in your eyes, challenging him.

"Do you want me to keep going?" He asks, and he's afraid of the answer. He has no idea what he wants - he's partially inclined to want to avoid the emotional implications of getting involved with you like this, of succumbing to your allure, but he also very much wants you to say yes, to beg him to touch you like you need nothing else more than you need him.

You tremble against his chest, a soft, keening whine tumbling from your mouth that has Bucky feeling dizzy, like the world had just tilted on its axis without any warning. It's a delightful little noise, melodious and sinful. It was so, so much better than he had imagined. He can barely refrain from rutting against you, high off the sound of your moans.

"Yes." You sound absolutely fucking devastated, pushed into abject neediness. He's reduced you to some kind of desperate mess, clinging to his chest like he's a lifeline, like you're remiss to let go of him.

And fuck, that one simple word is all the confirmation he needs.

 Every single disparaging thought shatters to pieces, demolished by your eager moans. The way your chest wracks with sudden shudders, the way you breathe unevenly, perpetually unable to get enough air in your lungs as he keeps stealing it from you, your dilated pupils and your desire for his touch is all for him. 

It's intoxicating.

Eagerly, he presses his mouth back against yours, revelling in the way you groan into his mouth, your eyes fluttering closed so your lashes can rest against your cheeks. Fisted into his shirt are your hands, bunched up in the fabric, constantly tugging him towards you in eternal desperation for more contact.

In the next moment, he's using the metal arm curved around your waist to hoist you into the air, letting your feet hover above the ground. It's all too easy for him to lift you. 

Your legs had long since turned to jelly, your knees weakened and buckling. Your weight isn't a burden. He could toss a car around if he felt the urge to, which he doesn't. That is absolutely not even close to the urges he's having right now - the urges to make his fantasies a reality, to experience every lewd thought about you that had flitted through his head.

You release a small noise of surprise that Bucky eagerly swallows, biting at your bottom lip and memorising the delightful noises that the action pulled from you.

With his arm anchoring you to his chest, and you quite literally swept off your feet, it's easy for him to maneuver you through his flat, keeping his lips connected to yours as he walks you through to his bedroom.

The only time Bucky's mouth leaves yours is when he relinquishes his steely hold on you, laying you down gently on his bed, letting you rest atop his plain sheets, your sundress riding upwards. 

And even then, he doesn't allow that separation to last long, clambering on top of you and surging forwards, capturing your lips again.

He's practically caging you in with his arms, allowing you no opportunity for escape. 

Your fingers slowly unfurl from their previous position where they're been fisted, harshly gripping the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in what had been a successful effort to bring him closer to you. Now, your hands are wandering, beginning to explore. They roam freely, smoothing over his chest, tracing indecipherable shapes and fragments of words across his torso.

They easily pause at the lapels of his jacket, tugging it off with precision. Bucky has to move his arms slightly to help you divest him of the item of clothing, and he flings it somewhere across the room, not even bothering to check where it's landed. A single item of clothing seems totally irrelevant when you're beneath him, writhing at his touch.

"Please," You say between intense kisses, eyes blown wide with lust. Your pupils have expanded immeasurably, leaving a tiny ring of colour around them. "Off," You demand, tugging at his shirt.

Bucky chuckles, the low noise reverberating throughout his chest, making his torso rumble under your hands. Grinning, he pulls the shirt up and discards that too, leaving himself in just his jeans and you in your pale sundress and knitted cardigan. It's then that he falters, realising you can see the arm - of fucking course you would see the arm. There was no way that you wouldn't. It was just another horror of his existence that couldn't be avoided.  

Strangely, though, you don't look at it in abject horror, reminded of his crimes, of the despicable acts of violence he had committed in the name of HYDRA.

Instead, you look at it reverently, one of your hands coming up to trace the grooves in the arm. 

It was darker than any of his previous ones, a midnight matte black with stunning strips of gold running through the divots between panels. You trace the labyrinth of steady golden lines gently, fingertips tracing over the plates that comprised it. You were just as gentle with it as you were with the rest of him. His breath hitches in a way that is utterly obvious, though you don't outwardly react to it.

Your hand skirts down his metal arm, your fingertips coming to rest against the palm of his hand. The two of you aren't quite holding hands, but you very nearly are. Softly, so devastatingly softly, you tug the dark metal hand towards your face.

And you turn his metal hand over, planting a soft kiss to the centre of his palm before releasing it.

It was rather lovely, really. It made his chest swell up with some emotion that evaded description. Immediately, he's going back to kissing you, licking up into the cavern of your mouth, wordlessly showing you just how much he appreciated the small gesture.

Then, Bucky's mouth begins to traverse away from yours. He plants kisses down the column of your throat, only pausing in his quest to stick his nose into your neck, inhaling strongly. Your skin had a scent - a beautiful, honeyed kind of scent that he could very easily gain an addiction to. Fuck, everything about you was easy to gain an addiction to.

Before long, he's going back to suckling at the skin of your neck, interspersing his licking and sucking with bites that make your spine arch and prompt you to groan loudly. This great expanse of smooth, soft skin is available to him and he intends to take full advantage of it, making your skin bloom like some otherworldly piece of artwork, covered in red and purpled bruises. Interspersed between them were perfect iterations of his teeth, little crimson indentations from his incisors.

There was something absolutely animalistic about marking you up, covering you in aching bruises with his mouth alone. There was something about it that made him feel like he was laying claim to your skin, warding off anybody else who so much as dared to want you, somebody like John fucking Walker.

He probably shouldn't feel thrilled at the prospect of other people seeing you like this, your neck collared with a constellation of bruises and bitemarks that he had put there. Especially if it's one of your PR team, or even Walker himself.

Bucky pulls away from you, admiring the absolute mess he had made of you. Your hair is haloed around you on his bed, your throat is blotched in various shades of red and purple, your lips are swollen, your eyes are blown wide, and your nipples have pebbled against the fabric of your sundress. You look so fucking beautiful.

With some great urgency, Bucky divests you of your knitted cardigan, flinging it away and discarding it with some of his clothes. With his flesh hand, he eagerly tugs down the top-half of your dress, sliding the thin, flimsy little straps down your arms and pulling the fabric over your chest away to expose your breasts to his hungry eyes.

"Fuck," He breathes, shuffling forwards, one shin planted either side of your torso as you lay down, looking up at him in awe.

Bucky lets out a low noise of approval, sliding his hands up to your tits and squeezing them, earning him a strangled sort of noise that rips itself from the back of your throat. He pulls, tugs and pinches, listening intently to the different kinds of moans you reward him with - if he tweaks your nipple just right, you'll give him a breathy cry of his name.

"You like that, hm? You like my hands on your tits?"

"Yes, yes I do," You whimper. The metal hand and the human hand offer very different sensations. The flesh hand is warm, calloused, trembling slightly against your skin. The dark, metal hand with streaks of gold through it is no less dexterous than the organic one. It is, however, slightly colder to the touch, and smoother, comprised of plates of metal that don't have much of a texture. Both make you arch into their touch, perpetually desperate for more.

Bucky really can't help himself. He lowers his head, licking a broad stripe up one of your tits, eagerly mouthing at it whilst he tugs on the nipple of the other one, constantly keeping his mouth occupied. You're wrapping your hands around the back of his head, splaying your fingers over his skull, making desperate little noises as you drag your hands through his short hair.

He has you a squirming, pleading mess beneath him as his tongue roams over your chest, as he alternated between sucking, biting and pinching, watching reddish marks bloom over your torso. He's very much set on making your chest match your neck, painting it with bruises. There's something about this - the marking - that makes him feel absolutely feral, like some kind of rabid animal giving in to its most base urges.

"Please," You're begging for him - fucking begging. When he glances up, he can see your lips trembling, the perspiration beaded at your hairline and your glossy eyes. You look absolutely wrecked, and you sound it, too. Bucky's half tempted to ignore your pleas, but he doesn't want to be cruel. Not with you.

"Please what, doll?" The affectionate word slips from his lips and he hadn't even thought to stop it. "Do you want me to touch you here instead?"

His flesh hand slides down from where it had been cupping your tit, ghosting along your clothed ribs, down the plane of your belly. His touch prompts you to moan, despite the fact his hand isn't making contact with your bare skin. Not yet, at least. It's fascinating how receptive you are - so good for him. 

Bucky keeps going, smoothing his hand down the curve of your hip, tugging your sundress up to expose more of your legs to him. His hand splays over the top of your thigh, thumb resting at the junction of your thighs, concealed by the very edge of your sundress.

You do something that surprises him. With a desperate groan, you reach down and grab his hand, tugging it towards your cunt. "No. I want you to touch me here, instead."

Well, fuck.

The very tips of his fingers meet your panty-clad sex, and immediately Bucky is using his metal arm to yank the bottom part of your sundress upwards, folding it up onto your stomach. Really, it's been reduced to a scrap of white fabric bunched around your waist, having been previously tugged down over your tits.

The panties were lacey. White. With thin, flimsy pieces of lace running up your hips. Bucky takes in a deep breath, staring intently at the slightly translucent patch over your pussy, the delicate fabric saturated, made wet by your liquid arousal. His fingers drift up over it almost in awe. Fuck, you're soaked. Absolutely soaked for him - all for him.  

Bucky's fingers retreat from their position, but only temporarily. He slides your panties over, pushing them to the side so that he can appreciate your cunt. You gasp, your hand flying off his, where you'd previously been guiding his fingers, slapping over your mouth, barely muffling a groan.

With a renewed sense of confidence, Bucky dips his fingers into your folds. They're slippery - slick is seeping out from your neglected cunt, wetting the inside of your thighs, making them fucking gleam. You're soaked, absolutely dripping onto his fingers as he explores the most intimate part of you, slowly dragging his fingers over your clit and then circling them around your hole. You twitch and moan prettily in response to every tiny movement he makes, hypersensitive and desperate.

"Fuck." Bucky chokes out, dipping a single finger inside of you and admiring the way you convulse around him. Tight, hot and wet. His avid imagination and fucking his fist is one thing, but the sensation of you wrapped around his digit is another thing all together. Some stupid fucking fantasy could never compare - why had he even bothered to imagine that it could?

"God, Bucky, please." You whine helplessly, one hand still clamped over your mouth, muffling your words slightly.

Spurred on by your plea, he crooks his finger, pumping it in and out of you a few times before he adds a second one, using it to push against your walls, spreading them slightly in an effort to scissor you open.

"So fucking wet, aren't you?" Bucky's voice is verging on a growl, utterly animalistic as you gush over his fingers. You shuffle slightly, your hips rising and falling in a stunted rhythm. You're trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, desperately chasing an orgasm, your face contorted in pleasure. The fingers splayed over your jaw are twitching. Every single part of you is affected by him, writhing and trembling, perpetually desperate for more.

"Yes - yes," You chant, your voice a dying whisper, almost lost between your moans and whimpers.

"You're dripping," Bucky remarks, watching in fascination as your slick tumbles in steady streams down his fingers, "Fuck. All for me?"

You not emphatically, moving your head up and down, struggling to look him in the eyes, desperate to let your head fall back against the bedsheets. "Yes."

Bucky's thumb rubs harsh, unforgiving circles over your clit, his forefinger and middle fingers rocking into you, stuffed deep inside your cunt, covered in the slick arousal that's practically pouring out of you. You buck wildly against him, crying out in pleasure.

"Please - I'm gonna," You manage to stutter out, working your hips downwards, grinding onto his fingers, chasing your pleasure.

"Come for me, then." Bucky says.

He's incredibly fixated on every single thing about you as you come undone - the way your walls clamp down on his fingers, clenching tightly around the digits, the way your pretty, lust-blown eyes roll back into your skull, and the absolutely angelic noise that the pleasure he and he alone has brought you tears from your throat. Watching you come undone is wonderful. It's some kind of magical sight, made a thousand times better when you moan his name as you reach the apex of your pleasure. It's so fucking gorgeous that it threatens to make him come in his own pants like some rabidly horny teenage boy.

If Bucky hadn't already been uncomfortable, cock straining his jeans, rutting against the denim almost painfully, he would be by now. Especially when you give him that hazy post-orgasm look, a contented sigh leaving you as you finally remove your hand from where it had been clamped over your mouth.

Slowly, he drags his fingers out from inside of you. They're gleaming, coated in your arousal. Without an ounce of hesitation, he brings them to his mouth, eagerly sucking them clean, his tongue darting over every callous, every wrinkle, every crease on those two fingers, chasing your taste, completely ravenous as the flavour of your cunt explodes over his tongue.

He'd fucking ruined himself. There was nobody else after this. They wouldn't be able to compare to you in any way.

You bat your eyelashes at him, biting your already bruised lower lip seductively. Bucky's looming over you, pulling his saliva-soaked fingers from his mouth, the two of you breathing raggedly, panting like dogs.

Wordlessly, you reach forwards and palm his hard cock through his jeans, squeezing him in a way that leaves Bucky groaning, desperate for more.

"You're gonna let me fuck you, doll?"

"God, please." You breathe, eyes darkening almost imperceptibly. If he hadn't been so close to you then he probably wouldn't have caught it.

Eagerly, he undoes his belt, pulling it free from the confining loops of his jeans, and discarding it. Even as he's divesting himself of his remaining clothes, Bucky's eyes are always on you, watching you intently. 

Oh yes, you definitely sparked his staring problem, especially when you're looking at him with hooded eyes, the expression on your face one of pure lust, pure need for him. Quickly, he pulls his jeans down, readily discarding them, along with his boxers.

Bucky's hard, leaking cock slaps up against his stomach. Taking in a weak, ragged breath, you beckon him closer until he's looming over you again, his chest pressed to yours and his cock jutting into your leg.

"Please, Bucky. Don't tease. Just fuck me."

"Oh, gladly," He quips, lips tugging upwards into an infuriating half-smirk.

Your panties are still pushed to the side, allowing him to run his cock through your folds until it's coated in your warm, slippery arousal. He lines the very tip up, teasing you with it for just a moment, revelling in your breathy whimpers and ensuing pleas. The very head of him catches on your entrance, and he uses it as an opportunity to begin to enter you.

His flesh hand is resting on your hip, fingers curling into your side possessively, the black and gold metal arm being utilised in an effort to keep holding himself up. Your hands, gentle and soft, scrabble to find purchase on the plane of his back, nails raking over his skin, leaving tiny red lines in their wake. Fuck. You were marking him up, too.

 He wasn't even bothered by it. If anything, Bucky was pleased - he'd proudly wear whatever marks you gave him. They were little pieces of you, a litany of evidence that you'd touched him - that you had wanted to touch him.

The very head of his cock breaches you, splitting you open. He's thicker than you had anticipated, but the stretch is welcome. He practically burns you as he enters you the first time, stilling half of the way in to allow you a moment to breathe.

Happily, you writhe against his chest. It burns - but oh god it burns so nicely. The wonderful, near-painful intrusion of him is heavenly.

You're panting into the crook of his neck, frenzied breath ghosting against his throat. "More - please, more."

There isn't a single ounce of reluctance within him as he pushes the rest of his cock into you until he's fully seated.

"So fucking tight," Bucky babbles. His chest is trembling slightly, crushed against yours. There's just so much to feel - so many sensations to comprehend and decipher. You're so tight, gripping his cock like a vice, all wet and warm. It feels like fucking paradise - like some slice of heaven that he'd been gifted. Perhaps some cosmic being didn't have it out for him after all. If they did, there was no way they would allow him this.

Your legs shift, wrapping themselves around his waist, coaxing him deeper inside of you. You're moaning directly into Bucky's ear, your breaths fanning across his neck, fingers digging into his back as you cling desperately to him, saying his name like a prayer.

"Please - move." You're begging, on the verge of sobbing, lips pressed up against the column of his neck, mumbling little indecipherable words that all lead back to him fucking you hard.

And he does. Bucky unrelentingly pistons in and out of you, fucking you into the mattress. It's almost aggressive between the two of you. His hips are snapping up against yours, colliding almost violently, whilst your nails are shredding his back, though he barely feels the pain that he should.

You're a fucking mess. If he's destroyed by this, then you absolutely are, too.

Pathetic, mewling whimpers leave your throat, muffled only by the fact that your mouth is pressed into his neck, though your lips will occasionally move against his skin, your mouth falling open in a near-silent gasp as you try to pull air into your lungs. Your tits, marred by bruises and bitemarks that he had put there, are crushed against his chest. Your legs tremble from where they're almost, but not quite, interlocked around his waist, keeping him as close as possible.

He rocks into you, spearing you on his cock, enraptured by the cacophony of reactions he pulls from you.

"Can John do this? Can John fucking Walker make you feel this good?" Bucky's talking incessantly, those words dripping from his mouth before his mind can even register that the thought had ever even flitted through his brain.

He probably shouldn't be thinking about John fucking Walker whilst he's inside you, whilst his cock is nestled deep in your cunt and you're close to coming for a second time. 

But he is. He looks at the vibrant red and purple bruises that litter your neck and torso, the bite marks across your body, the evidence that he's been here with you, the evidence that you had let him touch you, and he can't help but wonder if Walker had ever done this to you.

He can't help but to wonder if Walker had ever taken you like this, like a fucking animal, leaving his own god-awful marks across your throat, fucking into you with one of those sundresses that you wore whilst masquerading around as his girlfriend bunched around your waist.

Bucky really fucking hoped not.

He couldn't conceive of anything that Walker deserved less than you. Walker may not have really been dating you, but he still got to touch you, to put his hands all over you in those stupid interviews, utterly undeserving of that privilege. Walker didn't have any fucking right, any fucking right at all.

You weren't 'Walker's girl'. You didn't belong to John. And for good reason, too. You were so much better than him - the kind of person who was able to look at the mission objectively, put your differences aside, and feed the other team information. All because you wanted to do the right thing.

You gasp against his shoulder, head falling back onto the bed so that you and Bucky can lock eyes as he ruthlessly pounds into you, the obscene sound of flesh hitting flesh filling the room.

"I - fuck - I never fucked John," You say, struggling to even form words.

And god, doesn't that make him glad.

"Yeah?" Bucky challenges you slightly, still grinning as his eyebrows raise a fraction. "And you're not fuckin' gonna."

Walker didn't get to put his filthy paws on you. Bucky wouldn't allow it.

You seize up around his cock, hands grappling at his back, and then sliding over to hold onto his shoulders, the fingers on one of your hands splayed over the seam that ran over his black and golden metal arm. Your fingers gently caress the border between machine and man, gentle, in complete contrast to the way you'd clawed at his back. His blood was probably under your fingernails considering how hard you'd scratched.

"'M so close," You whimper, desperately rolling your hips.

There's something utterly debauched about you. All of that angelisism had easily given way to depravity under his touch. You were practically mewling for him, making these little breathy noises that cause his cock to swell, getting increasingly desperate to climax a second time. That debauchery is located in every single moan that leaves your mouth, in the marks you've scratched into his back and in the way your sundress is bunched around your hips as Bucky fucks you.

"Yeah? Gonna come again?" Bucky asks, breathing raggedly.

He already knows the answer. Of course you're going to come again. He can feel your walls tightening around his cock, constantly fluttering, on the very precipice of your climax. You're close, probably painfully so, and so is he - but he's not gonna come first.

"Mhm," You groan excitedly as Bucky rubs at your clit, sending sparks of pure pleasure racing through your gut.

"Walker couldn't make you come like this," Bucky says more to himself than you, though you seem to really enjoy when he talks, convolusing on his throbbing cock as you desperately chase your high, all whilst he's snapping his hips up into yours, fucking you so hard that at times your eyes will begin to roll back into your skull, and your legs will shake against him. "C'mon, doll. Who are you gonna come for?"

"You. You. You."

"Good girl," He remarks, grinning as you tighten around him. "Fuck, doll. You have the best pussy I've ever fucked - 's mine. Not fucking Walker's. He doesn't get to have you like this. And I do - fuck."

It's then that he spears hard up against something pleasantly devastating inside of you. That sensation, delivered in tandem with Bucky's fingers circling your clit has you coming instantaneously. The barrage of pleasure washes over you like a tsunami, wrenching a cry from within you. You shatter beneath him, falling apart to a thousand pieces, utterly wrecked.

"Bucky," You sob enthusiastically as your orgasm crests, speaking his name over and over again like a prayer, like it's the only word you know.

It was one thing watching you climax on his fingers, and another when it's his cock. It feels otherworldly, watching you come undone as he fucks himself into you. It's probably the best, most arousing thing he's ever seen, you, beneath him, writhing, squirming, calling his name out over and over again.

He doesn't even bother to stave off his own orgasm any longer. It would be impossible of him to even try. If the image of you under him, legs hooked around his waist, trembling from the sheer force of the pleasure he's given you wasn't enough, the fucking heavenly feeling of your cunt wrapped tightly around his cock is. You clamp down around him, as tight as a fucking vice.

Bucky's own orgasm barrels into him like a truck. It's a burst of pure, blinding, hot pleasure that rips forth from somewhere in his gut.

It strikes every single nerve ending in his body, and suddenly he's coming, emptying himself inside of you, ropes of his come painting your insides, filling you up.

You both lay there for some time - it could be seconds, or it could be minutes. It's impossible to tell. Time seems hazy when he's with you. He's still laying over you, panting and grinning at the same time. The two of you just smile lazily at each other, completely spent and sated. He shifts most of his weight to be on the metal arm, lest he crush you with his weight.

Eventually, you surrender his hips from your legs, letting him pull out of you and roll onto his back so he can lay next to you whilst you both catch your breath.

Tentatively, you pull the straps of your sundress back up your arms and fix your underwear. Bucky panics internally, quickly turning his head to face you.

"Going somewhere?" He asks, as casually as he could.

"I do have to get back to work," You laugh. It sounds like bells in the wind. "I have an interview tomorrow that I have to prepare for."

Bucky just nods stiffly, trying to quell the internal disappointment rising within him. What the fuck had he been thinking? He shouldn't have touched you in the first place, and now you were probably regretting the fact that you let him fuck you.

"I'll swing by tomorrow with whatever I can find on the medicine," You say, so sweetly. "If that's okay with you?"

"It is, yeah." He says gruffly.

They need the information. The near-devastating disappointment he's feeling right now is irrelevant. Walker and Hoskins have the state's resources at their disposal. 

He and Sam have whatever leads they can scrounge up, and whatever you're willing to give them. Because you're good - so good, and he knows that, but he also feels like he's dying a little bit on the inside because of you.

"Maybe I'll let you take me out to dinner next time."

And Bucky falters, looking at you with wide eyes. "Next time?"

"If you want a next time." You say, avoiding his gaze.

Bucky sits up slightly, cupping your jaw with his hand and gently tilting your face, forcing you to look him in the eyes. Now, you look enraptured by the sight of him. "I do want a next time."

"Good," Your voice is quiet, a mere whisper, talking to him in soft, hushed tones. "Because I want a next time."

He leans in closer to you, giving you every opportunity to stop him as he lowers his lips to yours. You don't. You don't want to stop him, not when you're completely enchanted. 

Bucky hadn't been the only one that felt rather awestruck that day you'd met outside of the police precinct.

Really, you didn't much like your job. It paid the bills, and kept you ahead on your debt payments, but you didn't like it. The men you worked with lacked the heart that Captain America had. 

And sometimes, the weight of pretending got a bit much for you. It had culminated in your guilt, and ultimately you lying in Bucky Barnes' bed, kissing him tenderly.

"So, I'm sending you back to Walker, huh?" Bucky chuckles as the two of you pull away from each other, proudly eyeing the bruises that descend down your neck and below your, now rumpled and creased, sundress. 

He'd be sending you back to John Walker with small brands of possession bitten all over your torso, not to mention the fact that beads of his come were streaking your inner thighs.

Well, that'd probably show Walker that even though he got to publically call you 'his girl', you'd never belong to him in the most intimate of ways.

Bucky very much wanted Walker to see it - to see what he'd done to you. God, he'd pay so much fucking money to see the look on that bastard's face when he realised the woman he flippantly called 'his girl' was fucking somebody else.

 Not just anybody else, no. She was gladly fucking one of the people that Walker hated the most. Bucky can almost envisage the way Walker's jaw would drop and the rage that would blaze in his eyes.

"I'll be back." You laugh. "As if I'd want to stay away."

Even more beautiful than imagining Walker's reaction, though, was the prospect of you coming back again.