#this was my attempt to fix the problem of the resistance having nothing left at the end of TFA

[gunnrblze]

pls yandere keegan hcs....🙏🙏

Sorry this took so long my dear! I’ve not written yandere shit in a millennia, so if it’s corny I apologize💀 also this turned into a little drabble rather than hc’s. MDNI, 18+, dark fic

big TW below the cut: obsessed,possessive Keegan, reference to violence/murder, stalking, manipulation, reference to sexual activity (no actual sex/assault), home invasion, kidnapping, drugging, mentions of being tied up/caged. it’s dark & fucked up, that’s the warning, please heed it don’t come for me

He sees you one day, his heart melting and his cock throbbing in his jeans. You’re so pretty, so precious, and he feels something light him up from the inside out. He wanted to have you. All to himself. He figured you probably didn’t even know how lost you were, not until he stepped into the picture. He was retired from the forces now, he’d been looking for a new project anyways. This would be your rebirth, that’s the way he saw it at least when he decided to follow you home that day.

Scoping out what he’d be working with, your home, how many entrances and exits there are. The neighbors, if you have any roommates/family, pets, alarm systems, etc. To his sheer pleasure, you lived totally alone. He’d change that soon. Don’t worry, honey.

You had a couple ring cameras set up, child’s play, nothing he couldn’t get past. Not that he really cared, of course. He’d have you any way he could get. He’d just hate to have to involve anyone else with his affairs, lest he need to find a more permanent solution. Cop killer isn’t a good look, but if they sniffed around, they’d get what they’d get, he figured.

Taking you would be easy, that wasn’t a problem. He was a silent, experienced man, you hadn’t even noticed how he’d been following you home for the past week anyways. How he’d sit in his truck across the street and watch your figure move around from behind those curtains that were way too sheer. Hell, if he wasn’t planning to rehome you, he’d have to get you new ones. People could see you like that, sweetheart. People that don’t deserve you. Ones that you don’t belong to.

It didn’t matter, really, when exactly he took you, you’d be living a new life with him anyways. He’d already set up such a nice, cozy little spot for you in his basement. He’d snuck in one day while you were at work, he had to know more about you of course. And he knows your favorite color now, so all the blankets and pillows he bought just for you will suit those tastes. He knows your favorite snacks and drinks, he’ll want you to be comfortable of course, especially when you resist at first.

He made sure to memorize all your products, too. So when he helps you wash your hair, you’ll be using the right shampoo. And when he lets you bathe, you can have your favorite scent of body wash. He loves the way you smell anyhow, that scent was wafting off you when he accidentally bumped into you at the grocery store a few days ago.

All the things you enjoyed, he made sure to make a mental note of them. Music, clothes, books, games, any and everything that you filled your space with. He couldn’t believe how lovely you were. Such a beautiful soul, no? You’d be the best addition to the new home and land he’d purchased after retiring, the acres and acres of property, free of any imposing neighbors.

He’d left your home in the exact condition it was in before he broke in, of course. He’d disabled your cameras through your WiFi router, not the best home surveillance, he reckoned, but he had something much more up to the task on his property. Thank god for military training, no? You didn’t even seem to be too concerned when he watched you come home that evening and check them out yourself. Going back and forth between the app on your phone and the camera near your front door in an attempt to figure out why the connection had cut out for a couple hours.

It almost killed him to watch you get so frustrated before finally giving up, going back inside to simply fix your WiFi. He wished he could tell you that sooner rather than later, you wouldn’t have a problem in the world. He’d take them all from you, give you any and everything you need.

He was expecting a fighter, of course. From what he learned, you had an attitude, didn’t take much shit. That asshole in the mall parking lot got an earful when he almost rear ended your car last week, fucker tried to blame it on you. Thankfully he didn’t, but Keegan took care of it anyway after you left.

Had you noticed the missing man on the news was that same guy? Did you realize what he’d done for you? Nobody would ever get to speak to you like that again, sweetheart. Not when he’s around to take care of you.

He packed extra rope in his truck just for you, just in case you were a smarter cookie than you looked. You can never be too careful, always underestimate your enemy, some of the lessons he’d learned during his career seemed to apply here too. Not that you were an enemy, god no, but you’d certainly consider him one for a while. He was just thinking logically, of course.

Thankfully you still had that spare key in the planter next to your front door from when he’d checked for one the first time he went to your house. He thought it was cute, really. How you figured putting it somewhere else, rather than under the mat, was safer.

He wasn’t stupid enough to take you during the day, but he could’ve. He just figured the darkness would hide his figure more easily. It was almost pathetic, how he walked right into your house without making a sound. He knew you were in bed already, part of your night routine. He felt a little bad for turning the WiFi off again when you were in the middle of your show, but it lured you out of your bedroom, thankfully.

Although it was for the best, he understood that you were scared when he silently cupped a hand over your mouth and locked an arm around your waist from behind. So he made sure to replace his hand with the rag very quickly before you fainted in his arms.

It took him a bit longer to get you into his truck than he’d initially planned. Finally getting his hands on you, laying your limp body down on the living room floor to brush the tears off your cheeks, he almost couldn’t stand it. The sight of his sweetheart, finally in his arms, looking too peaceful for words. He wasn’t one to get distracted, certainly not during a time like this either, but he didn’t account for the time it’d take him to get himself under control.

He had to excuse himself to your bedroom for a moment to jerk his rigid dick off into a pair of your dirty panties. He’d hate to drive with a hard on of course, especially when you’d be waking up around the time he arrived home. He didn’t want to be distracted while he brought you inside, considering you’d no doubt be more combative.

And it’s a good thing he knew how to think ahead, because your wrists were already raw against the rope as he dragged you through his front door. He hated to see you cry, hated the way the gag was soaked with your tears and saliva, but he tried telling you it was okay. You didn’t listen of course, flailing like a fish in his arms as he walked down the basement steps. But he’d wait. He’d wait until the day you thank him, until the day you reciprocate his love.

Until then, you can stay shackled to the wall. Please, just don’t make him put you in the cage again. Really, there’s no need to bite, sweetheart.

[sequinsmile-x]

have you ever written a fic where emily and her daughter have separation anxiety by any chance ?? if not, possible prompt if you like! (LOVE everything you write, hope ur having a great day today<3)

hi bestieee

of course! <3 this turned into a 3 parter because of who I am as a person, so keep an eye out for the next two parts over the next week or so that will explore other moments in their daughter's childhood

hope you enjoy this, let me know what you think! <3

-x-

Slipping Through My Fingers

The one in which Emily and her daughter struggle with separation anxiety.

1/3

-x-

Warnings: None

Words: 3.3k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily presses the touchscreen of her phone, blowing out a slow breath at the lack of messages. She focuses on the picture she has as her wallpaper and smiles, tracing her finger over her daughter's face, the baby fast asleep in her arms. 

The picture was taken six weeks ago on the day Stella was born. Jess had brought Jack to the hospital to meet his newborn sister. Aaron had picked him up and sat on the bed, the enthusiastic little boy wriggling in his embrace as he tried to make sure he was careful with Emily and Stella. Jess had snapped the photo of them all, the first photo of them as a family of four, and then she’d sent it to Emily. 

She’d set it as her wallpaper immediately, finding herself endlessly grateful for the reminder of the joy she’d felt that day in the difficult, relentless early days of motherhood. 

“Still nothing from JJ?”

Emily looks up at her husband, a flash of embarrassment rolling through her until she sees his soft smile, nothing but love and understanding flowing out of every pore. She clears her throat and shakes her head. 

“Nothing,” she says, reaching for her drink and taking a sip. Anxiety she’d felt since they’d left home, Jack and Stella in the care of JJ, bubbles low in her gut, burning up her throat and taking residence in her chest, filling the space her heart used to be before she left it at home. She blows out a breath and shakes her head at herself, “I’m sorry I’m ruining date night.” 

It had been his idea. She’d barely left Stella’s side since she was born, and the longest they’d been apart was an hour when Emily had gone to get her hair done, something that was again at his insistence because he knew she needed a break. He knew she needed this too, that she needed just a few hours where she was Emily, but he could see her resistance. The guilt and anxiety simmering under her skin getting worse with every passing minute, her focus constantly on her phone in case JJ called like she said she would if she ran into a problem. 

He’d spoken to JJ separately when he’d asked her to look after Jack and Stella for the evening, pulled her aside at work and crossed the boundary of professional and personal to ask for her help. He knew what Emily needed was advice from a friend who had been in the same position, and JJ’s gentle coaxing as she settled a slightly fussy Stella into her arms just a couple of hours ago had, albeit briefly, calmed his wife down. He also knew that she was worried about the fact she was going back to work in six weeks, the halfway mark of her maternity leave one of the reasons he’d decided now was a good time for date night, but he knew now wasn’t the time to broach that subject, his worst fear being he’d somehow make it worse. He reaches out and places his hand over hers, smiling softly as he links their fingers together.

“Sweetheart, you aren’t ruining anything,” he assures her, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the heel of her hand, “I’m having a good time.”

She chuckles humourlessly and shakes her head, her eyes fixed on their joint hands, “I don’t think sitting with your wife whilst she obsessively checks her phone counts as a good time, honey.” 

He lifts their joint hands and presses a kiss to her knuckles, “Any time I spend with you is a good time.” 

She presses her lips together in a failed attempt to hide her smile and she rolls her eyes. She never thought that she’d fall in love with someone quite like him. Someone who could disarm her so quickly, his love for her both unexpectedly soft and unrelenting in its nature. Sometimes when she told JJ and Penelope about him, about the things he’d say when it was just the two of them, they struggled to believe her. The romantic and charming man he was in private completely at odds with their stern and serious boss. 

“You say the most ridiculous shit sometimes,” she says, squeezing his hand, “Sweet. But ridiculous,” she finds her gaze drifting back to her phone and she growls in frustration at herself, “God, what is wrong with me?” She rests her head on the hand not linked with his, her fingers tangling into her hair, “I’ve never felt like this before. When we don’t see Jack because he’s at school or we are at work I miss him, but it doesn’t feel like this.” 

He knows he has to choose his next words carefully, so he takes a moment, playing the conversation he’d practised in his head more than once over the last couple of weeks. He knew his wife well enough to know this was coming, her love for Jack one of the many things he loved about her.

“It’s different,” he says, wincing internally when her face already starts to fall, “You-”

“I don’t love Stella more than I love Jack, Aaron,” she says fiercely, trying to remove her hand from his but he just holds on tighter, “I love them the exact same-”

“I know you do,” he says, cutting her off this time, not wanting her to get into her own head about it, “But Jack was older when you came into his life as his mom. Taking him to school or us going away on cases has always been part of your relationship with him,” he says, grateful when he sees the tension in her shoulders melt away as quickly as it had appeared. “I know you love him, Em. Our kids are so lucky to have you as their mom.” 

She blushes at the compliment, one she could never hear too often, her insecurities always taking residence in her chest whenever she couldn’t settle Stella, or Jack was in a bad mood. Seeds that had been planted long before she ever decided to become a mother, so sure that her own mother’s lack of maternal instinct was genetic, that she was doomed to repeat the cycle. There were moments when the insecurity would bloom, the flowers of it taking up all the space in her chest and making it hard to breathe, but Aaron was always there. Always happy to reassure her and pull her insecurities out by the root, slowly healing the wounds that only he could see. 

She fights a smile but fails, only able to roll her eyes when he winks at her, pride for making her smile swelling in his chest before he turns serious, sensing her need for reassurance. She’d never ask for it, but she never had to. 

“It’s normal to find this difficult,” he says, “She’s your baby. You’ve never been apart from her like this before. It’s an adjustment for you both.” 

She blows out a shaky breath. It catches in her chest and it makes her ache, a feeling that had become all too familiar these last several months. She’d, optimistically, hoped that once she’d given birth her hormones would balance out quickly. Her lack of emotional control was her least favourite side effect of pregnancy by far. She hated not being able to hide how she was feeling, the walls she’d built around herself when she was still too young to understand what she was doing crumbling around her at the smallest thing. She was even driven to tears on several occasions by the fact she couldn’t stop crying, something that Derek had once taken great joy in until she threatened his ability to procreate if he laughed at her again. Her dislike of being constantly emotional outweighed her hate of even the extreme nausea she’d experienced in the first trimester, something that had made her sensitive to every smell including Aaron’s cologne. He’d taken it in his stride, as he had with everything, and he’d taken to not wearing it anymore and glaring at anyone who ate something near her that triggered her nausea. 

She looks up to the ceiling to try and stop herself from crying, a desperate attempt to save the make up she’d painstakingly applied, surprised that she even remembered how to after 6 weeks of very little sleep. 

“I…I feel so unsettled,” she says, placing her hand on her soft belly, the skin still looser than she was used to, “She’s either been next to me or living inside of me for the better part of a year.” 

He feels his lips curl up into a smile at the tone of her voice, as if she’s chastising herself whilst simultaneously proving his point, “Exactly. You will adjust though, sweetheart. I promise.” 

She nods, having no choice but to believe him, “Does it get any easier?” 

“Oh god no,” he says quickly, shaking his head, his smile getting wider as she laughs loudly. 

“Jesus, Aaron,” she says, chuckling again, “You couldn’t have lied to me?” 

He squeezes her hand and leans across the small table to stamp a kiss on her cheek, “Never have, and I’m not about to start now,” he pulls back and she takes the opportunity to capture his lips in a quick kiss before he settles properly into his seat, “It’s never easy, but you do get used to it.” 

Her smile shakes and she nods, clearing her throat to try and shift the emotion that had settled there, “I guess that will have to be enough.” 

He lifts her hand and kisses it, and they settle into the silence for a moment, both of them enjoying it, a luxury they so rarely had these days, “Come on,” he says, kissing her hand once more before he lets go, “Let’s order dessert then we can go home.” 

She smiles at the mention of something sweet, her love for chocolate immediately boosting her mood. She picks up the menu and starts to look over it, aware of Aaron’s gaze burning into her. She looks up and finds him staring at her, having made no attempt to pick up his menu.

“What?” She asks, raising an eyebrow at him and he shrugs, finally breaking his gaze and looking at the menu. 

“Nothing, you just look beautiful, that’s all.”

She presses her lips together, love and want spreading through her, burning her from the inside out. She looks at her menu and moves her foot under the table, smiling when he jumps when she runs it up his leg, pride that she could still do this to him rushing through her. 

“Speaking of dessert,” she says, purposely not looking up at him, “I am wearing some very nice new lingerie under this dress,” she smiles as her eyes meet his, “So if we get the baby down to sleep easily…” 

She drifts off and has to stop herself from laughing at how wide his eyes are. It had been a long six weeks for both of them, and her doctor giving her the all clear just a couple of days ago had been nothing short of relief. His brain seemingly comes back online and he looks from her to the waiter, grabbing his attention as he walks by. 

“Check please.” 

___

Emily hums quietly as she looks down at Stella, smiling softly when she sees that the baby is already half asleep, her eyes drifting shut as she unlatches from her, milk drunk and content in her mother’s arms. 

“We need to burp you first, sweet girl. Then you can go back to sleep,” Emily says, lifting her to rest her against her chest, rearranging her dress and bra as she does so, she kisses the side of Stella’s head and gently pats her back. She breathes her in, the sweet scent that she’d come to associate with her daughter over the last several weeks washing over her, creating a sense of calm that eases the last bit of anxiety in her chest, “Mommy missed you tonight.” 

When they got home, Emily had barely acknowledged JJ, throwing her friend a quick smile as she went upstairs to see Stella. Aaron had stayed and said goodbye to their friend for both of them, thanking her again for looking after the kids so they could go out. Stella had been asleep when they first got home, but it hadn’t lasted long. It was as if she’d sensed Emily was in the room, waking up almost immediately when she walked in to check on her. Emily was grateful for it, not only because she’d wanted to hold her, but because her breasts were almost bursting, and she didn’t want to pump. 

“I figured you’d be feeding her,” Aaron says as he walks into the room, a glass of water and a chopped up banana on a plate, “I brought you your snack.” 

She smiles as she looks up at him, Stella letting out a timely burp that makes them both laugh, and Aaron walks over to join them on the small couch they’d bought for the nursery. 

“We just got done,” she says, resting her cheek on the top of their daughter’s head, “I’ll have some of that banana though,” she says, but before she can rearrange her hold on Stella to reach for some, he holds out a slice for her. She rolls her eyes, but says nothing as she opens her mouth for him to pop it in, “I need to text JJ,” she says as she eats, “Apologise for not saying thank you.” 

“She gets it, sweetheart,” he says, passing her another slice of the banana, “She’s a mom too. She gets it.” 

She hums and looks down at Stella, smiling softly when she sees she’s fast asleep already, content and safe in her arms, “I missed her so much, Aaron,” she says, shaking her head as she looks up at him, “We were gone for what, three hours? And I missed her so much. How…how am I going to go back to work? Go on cases and be away for days at a time,” she sighs and cups the back of Stella’s head, tracing the swirl of dark hair, the same cowlick that Aaron had that she’d always been fascinated with even before they were together, “I don’t know if I can.” 

He stares at her as she continues to stare at Stella, and he waits for her to say something else, to clarify further, but she doesn’t, “You don’t know if you can come back to work?” 

She blows out a shaky breath and shrugs, “I’d like to carry on working. Just…maybe not with the BAU.” 

She wasn’t even aware that was truly how she’d been feeling until she says it, but all of a sudden everything she’d been feeling for weeks clicks into place. The panic she felt whenever she thought about going back to work, a job she loved that had once defined her, instantly making sense. It had always been the plan that she’d go back to the team after her maternity leave. It seemed obvious. JJ worked on the team still even though she’d had Henry, Emily and Aaron did despite having Jack at home. Leaving the team had never even crossed her mind until she saw her daughter’s face, the doctor’s words that she’d had a girl still ringing in the air, the sex of the baby something they hadn’t found out until that moment. 

She knew she’d feel the same way even if they’d had another son, but when she was alone in the hospital that first night, Aaron at home with Jack, she’d looked at her daughter and wondered what her own first night of life had been like. If her own mother had sat and stared at her and thought about all the things she could be. 

Aaron nods and clears his throat, making sure his smile is encouraging as she looks at him, “If that’s what you want, we’ll make it work.” 

They’d agreed on it long before Stella was born, and Jess said she was happy to help with the kids when they were away on cases, but Aaron would be lying if he said he hadn’t seen this coming. He’d seen it in his wife’s face whenever anyone mentioned her going back to work, how she’d hold their daughter just a little tighter each time, and a part of him wished that he’d suggested this a long time ago, that he’d pushed it a little more than just an initial idea when they were planning what their life would look like after their little girl was born. 

“Would you be disappointed in me if I didn’t come back?” 

Her quiet words draw him out of himself, and he only realises then that he’d gone silent. The concerned look on her face makes him put his arm around her, around them, and he kisses his wife’s temple. 

As her boss, it would create some work. There would be paperwork, interviews for her replacement, trying to figure out what she herself would do next, but as her husband, he was more relieved than anything else, and he’d do anything to make sure she got what she wanted, what their family needed, even if it meant talking to the director himself. 

“There is nothing you could ever do that would disappoint me,” he says, his sincerity easing her anxiety, “On a selfish level I’d miss having you with me,” he smiles softly and reaches out to tuck some of her hair behind her ear, “But never disappointed. If anything, I’m proud of you.” 

She frowns, her cheeks burning pink with the compliment, and she bites the inside of her cheek, “Proud of me?” 

He nods and kisses her forehead, his hand resting over hers on their daughter's back, “I’m always proud of you,” he says, kissing her forehead again before he pulls back, “And as I said earlier, our kids are lucky to have you as their mom.” 

She smiles, her face bright with it, the same smile he hopes their little girl will one day inherit, “They are pretty damn lucky to have you as their dad.” 

“Don’t say damn in front of the baby.” 

She rolls her eyes lovingly, ignoring his playful chastisement of her cursing, and she uses it to move the moment forward. They had a lot more to talk about, she knew that, but right now she wanted to flirt with her husband. She wanted to take advantage of the small amount of time they’d have before Stella woke up again. She smiles and shifts closer to him, making sure not to disturb their sleeping daughter, and she purposefully lowers her voice. 

“Feed me the rest of my snack,” she says, nodding towards the plate still balancing on his lap, “Then we’ll try and get her to our room without waking her up and put her down,” she bats her eyelashes at him, “And then I’ll show that new lingerie I told you about.” He stares at her for a moment and she laughs, leaning in even closer, “Focus, honey,” she says, winking at him, a smirk spreading across her face as their eyes meet, everything she’s feeling reflecting back at her in his eyes, “We have an hour or two at most before she wakes up again and I have plans for you that involve the shower.” 

He smiles, his gaze flicking down to her chest, to the peek of deep purple lace he can see sneaking past the hem of her dress. He picks up another slice of banana, his focus on how her tongue pokes out to lick her lower lip, “Yes ma’am.” 

-x-

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[theclaravoyant]

I've been hearing the theory that Gerrard is going to captain the precinct for a while because something happens to Bobby?? Do you think you could write something about that? *prayer/please hands emoji*

AN ~ all aboard the Everybody Hates Gerrard Train!! whoo WHOO XD I am loving writing solidarity of these guys against that bench. I do have something angstier in the pipeline (ooof the buckbobby feels) but in the meantime I wanted to have a little fun with it.

tw for gerrard being ... Like ThatTM I may have dialed it up a bit for funsies. and because if Gerrard gets the Captaincy when Hen and Chim are sitting right there it might be dynamically interesting and whatever but imma still punch him tho

equality

“What are you wearing?”

Buck grins, turning away from the oven with a smear of cheese on his nose, and gestures down at his newest favourite apron. Printed across the front it reads: In my defence, I was left unsupervised.

“Hen got it for me.”

Gerrard is distinctly not amused.

Buck's smile falters. Yeah, they warned him about this.

From the table behind, Chimney attempts an assist - “Buck's in charge of the kitchen when Cap's not here. It's kinda their thing.”

“Well.” Gerrard turns back to Chimney and gives him a bitter smile. “Then it's a good thing 'Cap' is here. So I'll decide whose thing is what. Wilson! Get in here!”

“Shocker,” Hen mutters, but she moves nonetheless.

“What was that, Firefighter?”

“I said, yes sir.”

At least Buck, who's been doing his best not to look like a kicked puppy, gets a snort out of that. Chim bites back a grin.

“Good,” Gerrard spits, glaring. “'Cause it'd be a shame to have to write you up.”

“Really?” Hen challenges. “'Cause it would be a joy to report you.”

Buck and Chim's expression turn from quiet glee to panic. Abort, Abort. Hen resists the urge to bite her tongue. She's put her foot in it, and Gerrard relishes the stumble.

“For what, hm?” he presses, closing slowly in on her. “For making one of my subordinates do something she doesn't want to do? Boo hoo.”

Hen takes a deep breath. She has to choose her next words quietly - She can't afford to make a wrong move, and set off the trap. But then a new voice interrupts from the top of the stairwell. Eddie.

“For putting the only woman on the team in the kitchen. Again,” he points out. His voice is clipped. Confident. Impatient. “When somebody else has clearly volunteered to do that task.”

Hen groans silently. She's pretty sure there's nothing Gerrard would love more than to fire them all in one fell swoop. And probably nothing Eddie would love more than to punch the guy and set that chain reaction going. But- it seems to work. Sort of. Gerrard stops closing in on her and throws his hands out as if this has all been an innocent mistake.

“Ohhh, so that's the problem! Why didn't you say so? Wilson. What's something Buckley hates doing then.”

“Uh... Laundry I guess?”

Buck flashes her a look - come on, man ��� but he gets it. She has to take the out.

“You heard the woman,” Gerrard orders. “Laundry. Stat.”

“Okay, um,” he waffles out some handover instructions - “It's on 350 degrees at the moment, if you wait about forty five minutes then dial it up for the last ten-”

Gerrard clears his throat. “Step to it, Buckley! I think the gym rags need doing. And you'd better not have that thing on when you get back.”

Hen mouths, sorry.

“Don't even worry about it. Happy to serve.” Buck forces a smile at their Captain, hands Hen the tea towel he's got draped over his shoulder, and jogs off down the stairs.

“Problem solved, then,” Gerrard resolves on their behalf. “Equality.”

He fixes Eddie with a shit eating grin. Lets his hands linger outstretched as if he's going for a big, weird bear hug. Eddie grimaces as the man goes for a half-embrace-half-shoulder punch instead.

“You've got balls, mi amigo,” he says. “I like it.”

[spiritualdirections]

Why South Africa is falling apart

A priest from South Africa came to our parish to ask for donations to his mission. He was telling us about how South Africa is in danger of falling apart because of problems with electricity due to corruption in all parts of society.

Eskom, the national electric company of South Africa, is failing, causing rolling blackouts everywhere. The man brought in to fight corruption and fix the company resigned recently, because the corruption came from everywhere, including the highest levels of government and from his own company and its board. Oh, and because he was poisoned with cyanide, as he reveals in the interview above.

From an article by Helen Andrews:

"These alarm bells come on the heels of the resignation of Andre de Ruyter as CEO of Eskom in December 2022, three years after he was brought in to lead the embattled utility with a mandate to tackle corruption and end rolling blackouts. Resistance to his efforts at the highest levels, including by cabinet politicians, made his job impossible, and “load shedding” (as the rolling blackouts are called) reached record levels in 2021. With nothing left to lose, last month De Ruyter gave an hour-long interview to journalist Annika Larsen where he spilled the whole sorry story of corruption at Eskom.

The most explosive allegation aired by De Ruyter involved an attempt to assassinate him by putting cyanide in his coffee on December 12, the day of his resignation. “Never have a personalized mug, it’s a bad idea,” he joked. More disturbing than the assassination attempt was the total lack of interest in investigating it on the part of law enforcement. One of the workmen repairing the broken coffee machine on the day of the poisoning “has since absconded from work, he’s disappeared,” according to De Ruyter. “That remains to be investigated.” The detectives who took De Ruyter’s statement “inquired whether I had been experiencing problems with my sinuses. I asked them if they knew what cyanide was.” Weeks later, no arrests have been made.

De Ruyter was Eskom’s last, best hope. The board is not likely to find another CEO with the competence to handle this impossible job and the willingness to undertake it at the risk of death. The criminal forces that harried De Ruyter throughout his tenure will most likely now carry on their predations free of any remaining obstacles, enriching themselves until there is nothing left to loot. The dominos that would fall in the case of a total grid collapse start with phone lines, internet, and traffic lights, and end with looting, crime, and civil unrest.

So electricity could be the pillar that finally brings the Rainbow Nation tumbling to the ground.

I've long been interested in South Africa because of my work on mercy. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission of the early 90s helped South Africa transition to peace after apartheid, when everyone thought that there would be civil war in order to remove the Afrikaan government. Archbishop Desmond Tutu won the Nobel Peace prize for this.

Just a few years later, it turns out that the electric company was forced to change its entire workforce under bizarrely implemented affirmative action laws. A workforce that was 70% white was required to become 50% black within 4 years. The results have finally come home to roost. Engineering requires competence, not symbolism, and much of the affirmative action law seems to have been about symbolism.

Civil chaos on this level is akin to the aftermath of a civil war. So those who were worried about South Africa's future back after apartheid might have been proven right in the long run. And the government's attempts to heal racial wounds quickly through affirmative action policies might have been an important part of what has ruined it.

[mejaydee]

✨How I’d fix Magic the Gathering: March of the Machines Main Storyline✨

So to start, I’d like to be clear that I LOVED this story. I was absolutely giddy reading it throughout, but because of that it’s been on my mind, and so I want to share my only two big problems with it and how I’d address them (SPOILERS AHEAD BTW in case that wasn’t obvious)

1: The use of Chandra

Chandra didn’t do enough. And I’m not talking about after they got to Realmbreaker, I’m talking about everything before it.

What she did do, I loved. Her connecting to Wrenn was beautiful, and Wrenn as sort of a bridge between Nissa and Chandra as both tree and flame was great. Fantastic interactions all around.

But the only thing, and I mean the ONLY thing she thought about was Nissa. And it’s obvious why, but it led to her not being capable of anything other than thinking about Nissa. She’s either thinking about Nissa or thinking about not wanting to think about Nissa. When Koth or Urabrask mentions “the elf”, she gets agitated, but why? She was already on her mind, and it takes up a significant amount of time that could be filled with even minor battles.

<b>Solution:</b> her attempts at pushing Nissa out of her mind work (mostly). She’ll still feel constantly anxious, uncomfortable, unsettled, but she’ll lie to herself. Justify it by saying “of course I’m anxious, I’m fighting the Phyrexians.” So when the Resistance mentions the elf, it <i>really</i> discomforts her.

And in that big moment, where Nissa shows up directly in front of her as depicted in “Traumatic Revelation”, it’ll be both much more traumatic and much more of a revelation. The truth can’t be ignored anymore, can’t be pushed aside. It’s standing right in front of her now, and it’s even more justification that she wasn’t prepared for it, and why she completely froze. She <i>knew</i> she wouldn’t have to see Nissa like this. Because she fooled herself.

Thematically, as “Hope’s Beacon”, giving her more time up front to be a powerhouse clearing out small fry would let us get a feeling of that hope. The Mirrans see a burning sun clearing the way with ease, and think that with her, maybe they really can do this.

And when it’s revealed that Norn was prepared, that it was all a trap, that Nissa was there, and their shining beacon dims and quivers, they’ll all feel the dread that they had hidden until that moment.

As it is, Chandra is a lady that showed up proud and feisty, barely does anything, and then gets completely handled by Nissa.

2: The Ending

I think it’s pretty obviously annoying that out of the seven compleated planeswalkers, only one of them had a really confirmed and “satisfying” death, and it was in a side story, and it was Lukka, and let’s be honest, who gives a shit about Lukka.

We thought they may have learned their lesson after the backlash of War of the Spark, where again, after all the hype, not much changed, and nobody was satisfied. Emotional stakes are important to engaging storytelling, and repeatedly subverting them will do nothing but teach us all not to care any more. Especially in this case, since it <i>seemed</i> pretty obvious that phyresis and compleation were irreversible, only for that to have been retroactively taken away. All that time you spent thinking, “who will it be next? Will my favorite characters be taken?” is now null. It wouldn’t have mattered if they were or had been. It would have been undone in a couple paragraphs at the end anyway.

<b>Solution:</b> let ‘em die (or at least most of them). Some of them can be easily fixed without even retconning.

Lukka: again, he’s the one that did really bite it (or got bitten, technically). Good.

Tamiyo: her real body was killed, but she had left behind a “story” of herself, basically a hologram clone. Not bad to be honest, if it is <i>temporary</i>. If it allows Nashi to get his closure, then it’s great. Let it be a small program, and let it fade away to memory as all stories do. The current ending of her and Nashi coming home implies that she’s just gonna still be there? But she has all her memories and such? So basically it’s the equivalent of just losing her spark. Let her die.

But also side note, Nashi should have ignited his spark in grief, but that’s my own wishes coming through. Just doesn’t make sense to me that in a multiversal flesh abomination invasion only ONE character ignited their spark.

Nahiri: SEEMS like she died, but NO BODY NO PROOF and I don’t trust Wizards to stick to it if they feel like dredging up old characters in a couple years. Unless the aftermath shows her limp body crushed under the Skyclave, I’m not satisfied. Let her die.

Jace and Vraska: I loved the story they had within Vraska’s little mind bubble, even if a lot of it when they were together was just a makeout sesh. That’s straight up good actually, and I like it a lot. That should have been it. Let their real bodies be fought and defeated, and killed. Let their minds live in what feels like an eternity together, and let their true selves be happy as their false forms are destroyed. Let them live their dreams together, and let them die together.

Ajani: let him die. The realest stakes we had in this story was Ajani. His being a sleeper agent was the hit that hurt the most, especially to himself. His “death” was tragic, and was what more than anything fueled Elspeth in this final journey. He was the connection between all of them, and his death would truly mean something. If it wasn’t miraculously reversed. Let him die.

Finally, Nissa: let her live? I’m actually okay with them curing ONE (1) of them. It lets them explore what it would be like for someone to live after what had happened to them, and if any, it should be Nissa. Obviously, as the pure elf with nature powers, being an unnatural being that still has synthetic parts would be a great contrast for her to live with. Also, WotC finally grew the balls to have queer characters in the story explicitly, and having the infamous “I like big manly men” fiasco only be followed by the death of her real love interest before it was canonized would be infuriating.

It didn’t really make sense to me why Karn and Melissa were able to revive both of them anyway. A spark for a spark, a life for a life. How’d they stretch two out of that deal?

Thanks for TEDing to my come talk.

[copwef]

Rottmnt: atoning part 1/3

Tw: Death, mentions of suicidal thoughts

Leo doesn't remember what happened. All he remembers is throwing Casey through the portal, fighting the krang hound's to prevent them from going through the portal before it closed, and then red hot PAIN.

He thinks for a minute. He remembers what he did. No, what he made Mikey do. He had ordered his youngest brother to sacrifice himself for a CHANCE at victory. He wants to cry at the mere thought of what he did. He wants to scream in agony, but he can barely move. His body burns, yet somehow he is alive.

He hears footsteps. Metallic, powerful, and big footsteps. Before he can even attempt to move his head, he hears the voice of the person he hates more than almost anyone in the world.

Krang prime: I know you're alive, green creature. I made sure that the lazer wasn't enough to kill you, but it was enough to make you wish you were dead.

Leo wants to fight krang prime. He wants to beat him, torture him, KILL him. He wants nothing more in this moment than to fulfill the one mission he has left. Avenge his brothers. But he doesn't try to get up. He knows he lost. Why make himself suffer even more when krang prime is about to kill him anyway. He closes his eyes, waiting for krang prime to finish him off.

But he doesn't... Instead he keeps talking.

Krang prime: You green creatures were really annoying. No matter what we tried you always kept coming back. But as I told you, the day we killed the red one and the grey one. Strength will ALWAYS prevail. After they fell, the orange one regained he dumb magic tricks. But the purple one wasn't so lucky. All he had where his dumb machines. We captured him and looked into his mind. He was quite smart. He seems to have been your only hope for victory. But after he was dead and we knew your secrets, You NEVER stood a chance.

Leo tenses up at the mention of his fallen family. He remembers the day his father and raph died. A bunch of krang had broken into the lair and destroyed Donnie's defences. Mikey's arm was broken. Ralph and splinter had given everything they had to keep them safe. But Splinter's back problems were acting up and it got him killed. Raph's emotions got the better of him and he was stabed through the chest.

Leo and Donnie were heartbroken but Mikey... He was the most sad and the most ANGRY. He had somehow gotten his mystic powers back, and he FRIED all the krang. But the sewers were already compromised. They had to leave their home for the second time.

As for Donnie, they snuck some krang into S.H.E.L.D.O.N and when Donnie was on a mission, they captured him. They had invaded his mind, stole valuable intell about the location and interworking of the resistance, and killed him.

After that they. Leo and Mikey decided to do one final fight against the krang. They planned that if it had failed that Leo and Casey, along with any survivors would go through the portal to the past. However there where no survivors, and Leo, feeling the guilt of everything he had done, just wanted to DIE.

Krang prime: I think you know you lost. We have killed all of your family, and every single member of your pathetic resistance. But I bet your wondering why we haven't killed you. After the headache you caused for us we have decided a quick death is to good for you. With your injurys you won't make it to tomorrow. Now go, enjoy your last day in the hell you caused.

Krang prime walked away. Alongside him, all other krang left aswell. Leo was alone, lying in the Battlefield. He doesn't know how long he laid there. But after a while. A thought came into his head. It caused him pain, but as he got up, he began to speak.

Leo: I was the one who lost the key. This is all my fault. All of those death's, the death's of my family. I caused them all.

Leo paused, usually when he was talking like this Mikey was there to tell him it wasn't his fault. But now, he was alone. Leo continued talking.

Leo: I can't fix my mistake. But I can atone for what I did to my family.

Summoning strength he didn't know he had, Leo grabbed his sword, and began the walk to the old lair.

___________________________________________

This was originally just going to be one part. But my hand is starting to hurt from all this typing. This story is going to have a bittersweet ending as there is no hope to beat the krang. This story will take place over the course of one day.

[healthalfa-2024]

Jenna Roberts- Case Study of Weight Loss. Get Her 4 Nutritional Plans

Introduction of Jenna Roberts

Have you ever heard the name Jenna Roberts? I think not. So let's start the topic. In this arena of fad diets, quick fixes, and promises of endless weight loss, true sustainable weight loss can sometimes be a mirage. But a few do manage to thrive in such an environment and emerge with impressive results, sustainable for life.

One of the girl children is Jenna Roberts. Over two years, a 35-year-old marketing manager from Chicago has lost 100 pounds through the combination of structured lifestyle modification, exercise, and mental fortitude. The next case study is an unfolding of the transformation she was about with all those challenges she went through, the strategies she used, and the psychological transformations that helped her to achieve success for a much longer term.

Background of Jenna Roberts

Jenna Roberts's weight problems began sometime in her late twenties as a cumulative result of several life stressors that ended up being encompassed in unhealthy behaviors. After she completed her MBA, Jenna hardly had any time or energy for health; her demanding career sucked out all of her time and energy. The most common food was takeout meals, including bread at least once every hour, and sugars to give her energy and keep going. Her exercise routine, which once allowed her to go to college regularly, became almost non-existent. By the time Jenna Roberts turned 33, she had weighed more than 260 pounds and was starting to feel the physical pains associated with her way of life. She'd get winded easily, climbing even the lightest of stairs or walking long distances. During one visit for a routine checkup, her doctor expressed significant concern that she was obese. He cited high cholesterol and early evidence of insulin resistance, which was at least a precursor to being pre-diabetic. This would end up being Jenna's wake-up call. Hearing the word 'pre-diabetic' shocked me," says Jenna. "I realized if I didn't make a change, I was putting myself on a path toward serious health issues."

Initial Hurdles and Mindset Change

One of the most challenging areas Jenna Roberts had to overcome was her mindset. Having made so many diets in the past, the client had attempted the keto diet, intermittent fasting, and even juice cleanses-undermined everything she was trying to accomplish. Each failure left her more disheartened than the last. The problem wasn't the diets themselves, it was my approach. I wanted instant results, and didn't want to confront the bigger picture—my relationship with food, and how I was dealing with stress.

Jenna Roberts has to begin working on sustainable habits after introspecting for some time. She consulted a nutritionist, took up membership in a local gym, and started working with a personal trainer. It was not a bed of roses, though. "I think for the first two weeks it was tough. I reached a point in my mind where I thought to myself, Oh, well, I'm done because it was like nothing was happening. I was not shedding weight dramatically but my trainer kept telling me 'It's all about consistency and taking care of your body.

The Nutrition Approach: Reinventing a Healthy Relationship with Food

The biggest win with Jenna Roberts is changing her food relationship. Instead of dieting, she was guided into an entirely balanced approach through portioning, eating in mindfulness, and nutritional awareness. She wasn't cutting off food groups or following the rules but somehow became conscious of changing her habits in eating.

She engaged in the following nutrition plan.

Portion Control-

She was instructed to eat off smaller plates and to pay attention to portion size. She quickly learned that the portions she used to eat, specifically the calorie-rich foods such as pasta and pizza, were much more than they needed to be.

Increasing Whole Foods-

Her processed foods were gradually swapped out with whole foods--lean proteins, vegetables, fruits, and whole grains. Her diet became so much more colorful and full of nutrients, balanced rather than deprived.

Mindful Eating-

Jenna Roberts also learned to eat mindfully. She listened closely for many hints from within her body that signaled hunger and fullness. This helped her have much healthier relationships with food and avoid emotional eating that was driven by stress or boredom.

Flexibility

Her plan wasn't about being perfect. If Jenna Roberts wanted dessert or a night out with friends, she was going to do it without guilt, and that helped to avoid the all-or-nothing mentality that had gotten in her way before.

The new eating system devised by Jenna Roberts did not get overnight results, but within a couple of months, she began to see steady progress. Within six months, she was able to shed off 30 pounds- motivation enough to stay the course.

Exercise Routine: Moderation Over Exuberance

Exercise was an integral part of Jenna's weight loss plan, but in the beginning, she used it carefully. Jenna Roberts had initially used boot camp-type programs which always left her feeling pooped and "burned out". This time, however, she and her trainer did things differently: instead of being energetic, moderation and incremental gains were what mattered. The regimen was to include:

Strength Training

Jenna Roberts started lifting weights three times a week. This is the first time, but it has changed her life. She built muscle, which contributes to a metabolism increase that will sustain her in burning more calories even at rest. Strength training also made her body tone and prevented loose skin, typical with most of the weight loss programs.

Cardiac Exercise

Jenna Roberts first began doing lower-impact exercises, such as walking on the treadmill and cycling. As she became healthier, she was slowly added to more intense cardio exercises. The most significant addition was in terms of interval training and running. However, at the tail end, Jenna was enough of a proficient runner to cross the finish line in 5K races-never once in her wildest dreams did that seem possible when she first started.

Flexibility and Mobility

On top of her strength and cardio, she is now a yoganee. She added that it helped enhance flexibility and reduce the level of stress, and the risk of injuries. Yoga also helped to keep her mentally grounded during the weight loss process.

The Daily Movement

Jenna Robertstook on the culture of making more movement in life. She decided to use the stairs instead of going up through the elevator, parked at the far end of the office parking lot, and even made sure to walk during lunch breaks. These easy moves eventually summed up towards the much success.

By the end of the first year, Jenna Roberts had lost 60 pounds. But more important for her was that she became hooked on doing physical activities. What once was a chore to get done was now a proud and accomplished piece of who she was.

Psychological and Emotional Changes

Going beyond the changes in the body, psychological and emotional changes were what a weight loss journey would affect. Jenna Roberts realized that somehow, struggles with weight coincided with stress, low self-esteem, and weakness in overcoming emotional triggers. Before she began her weight loss program, Jenna consulted a therapist who was CBT-trained. She needed to identify and change some unconscious negative thoughts that had long been holding her back. Some of the most important psychological changes that Jenna Roberts went through were:

Self-compassion

She learned to practice self-compassion rather than beating herself up about perceived failure. Such a shift proved critical because Jenna hit stages where frustration would set in when the scales did not mirror the amount of work that seemed to go into the playing field. She kept her eye on her general health and wellness rather than numbers, and that helped her find a healthier relationship with herself.

Her biggest habit probably has contributed to her major weight gain

Using food to cope with all her stresses. Therapy helps her find healthier ways to deal with stress, such as meditation, journaling, and regular exercise. These tools keep her healthy as she navigates challenging moments that would have previously made her reach for food to comfort herself.

The first time, Jenna's weight loss goals had been one of perfectionism. She was shooting for a unrealistic and unsustainable result, one that never materialized, so she quit. This time, she set more defined, more reachable goals: 5 pounds in a month, for example, or gaining strength in the gym. Such manageable milestones kept her thinking she was doing it that day, and progress got marked along the way.

Enabling Environment

Jenna did not walk alone. She had friends, family, and virtual communities with whom to share her experience of transformative change. Sharing her experiences, setbacks, and successes kept moving her forward.

The Results: Physical, Emotional, and Lifestyle Transformation

Two years passed when Jenna devoted herself to a weight loss program. She reaches her ideal weight. She lost a total of 100 pounds. But that was just a little of half the story of physical transformations. Jenna's cholesterol levels became normal, the pre-diabetic symptoms disappeared, and she started having tons of energy. Jenna was no longer bothered by seeing the workout as a burden but rather as a big part of her daily routine.

The emotional change that Jenna underwent transcended the physical alteration; instead, it brought about a rise in personal confidence as she felt empowered through the changes she had undertaken. No longer living in the miserable memory of eating behaviors and weight struggles, Jenna established a new identity marked by health, balance, and self-care. Losing the weight was not just about the aesthetic differences, but also made me feel different. I gained confidence, resilience, and a new sense that I could overcome any obstacle.

Lessons from Jenna's Story

Several such valuable lessons are coming from the journey that Jenna undertakes toward weight loss, which are sustainable in the long term for people who need to lose weight and the following are but a few of them:

Focus on Lifestyle, Not Diets

Jenna succeeded by adopting a holistic approach toward nutrition and exercise and not by following one fad diet or another. Focusing on habits that can last a lifetime was what she did.

Consistency is Key

It wasn't linear, though; consistency and commitment to goals would eventually pay off in achieving the desired result.

Work Through the Emotional Battle of Losing Weight

Therapy did play an important role in Jenna's life, at least in the short term, working through some stress and emotional eating. The battle to lose weight is psychological as well as physiological.

Celebrate Small Wins

Jenna was writing and hence having small wins all along the way to the achievement of the final goal. She kept motivated and kept thinking positively regarding the whole process.

Conclusion

Jenna Roberts is a great example of how persistence, awareness, and openness to change can be the best tools for transforming the lives of people. This is a lesson that the story of Jenna Roberts shows that with the correct frame of mind and support, it is possible to rise above the heavy burden of perennial challenges and see that something permanent will be achieved. In any efforts at weight loss, Jenna's will always remind anyone that it is the winning mentality that does not try for perfection but progress, consistency, and wanting to move on and not backward.

In other words, healthy weight loss comes together through a thoughtful approach that considers the healthy and sustainable aspects. Healthy weight loss tips are necessary for successful, long-term retention of losing weight. Some of the tips may be healthy goals that come within realistic boundaries or tracking your intake of food in tandem with regular physical activity. One must remind oneself that the process is about more than just the figures on a number scale; it's rather about changing lifestyle to ensure overall well-being.

As much as one may want to lose weight fast, most people will search for information online regarding how to lose weight fast. Fast weight loss can be very tempting, but it has to also be done safely. Quick fixes like extreme diets and exercise routines can burn a person out quickly, and sustainable weight loss does not come from them. Instead, take on strategies that result in gradual weight loss, such as an increase in activity levels and healthier food choices.

It is practically impossible to provide a definite diet that can be specified as the best diet for weight loss. Ideally, various diets really resonate with different personalities, lifestyles, and nutritional needs. The famous diets include the Mediterranean diet where ingredients comprise whole foods and good fats. Other diets just operate on plant-based ingredients like fruits, vegetables, and whole grains. Choose a diet that you would be able to maintain in the long run, rather than selecting a diet that might at first seem really quite strict and nearly impossible to achieve.

[raininglamppost]

Runic - Tribe Infosheet

So I started making information sheets about the various Tribes in my world setting back in January - I wanted to get them all done before starting to show them but that didn't happen. So I'll be posting what I've done so far in the hope it'll motivate me to continue these, or failing that, at least these'll be here for you to check out! Anyhow, introducing The Runic Tribe! They're just nice. It's good to just have a nice Tribe with very little bad stuff going on, they just want to create, build, fix, help and generally share affection (though have a hard time being good to themselves) - all sounds a bit too familiar... I tend to have a lot more info then attempt to condense it to fit these, a fool's folly, so I'll also include unorganised info that may or may not be covered above just in case: Character Qualities

Usually alert to surroundings but easily distracted by current mechanical problems or appreciating something they find interesting

Usually busy but don’t mind visitors and can usually find some time to help them out with something

Very benevolent, compassionate when it’s something they can help, but if it’s something they can’t do anything about they tend to become indifferent

Boldness and cautiousness vs fearfulness and rashness vary

Content to be able to work on things, they get edgy if they have nothing to do and will often take it upon themselves to start “improving” the place they’re in if left to their own devices without distract for very long

Dependable, diligent and very determined

Quite short-sighted when it comes to anything non-technical

High endurance

Very enthusiastic about working, faithful that they’ll get it working

Flexible, forging, generous, gentle and honourable

Enjoy company and letting others stay with them if needed but may get burnt out with too much socializing

All try to be humble but some do become a bit arrogant from their achievements

Can fall into self-pity if not properly balancing their lives

Being so large, Runic are naturally quite meek and find it hard to resist orders

Very organized, sometimes to the point of compulsiveness – one’s organization may be a very specific type of messiness though

High patience with work but can get restless very easily if away from it

Persuasive when they know what they’re talking about

Somewhat unreliable when it comes to social meetings as they tend to overwork and sleep in or forget about anything other than what they’re doing

Responsible – if something they made or did caused a problem, they will endeavour to fix it

Find security in life in the know-how they have, which can’t be taken away

Small tendency to be self-indulgent from stress

All strive to be thorough but if they’re taken by inspiration they may cut corners and simply forget to correct them

Very sincere and tolerant

Thrifty – Runic know what’s needed to make what they’re making, they only go beyond what’s needed if it’s requested

[jgyapologism]

I agree with everything you said in this post!

I think it is difficult not to put oneself in Mew’s shoes and rather think about “what would I do” in this situation, and all of our answers will vary from one another. Mew is, after all, not a therapist and he’s just a 19/20 year old boy at this point.

You’re very right that Mew is being blamed a lot, and I apologize if my post came off like I was coming down on him. I don’t necessarily think he was being a bad friend.

He really does do his best, and I agree that we cannot take care of our self destructive friends ALL the time (see og post), and Mew is trying to set a boundary in the beginning - but his immediate expectation that Ray is drunk, that he needs something from Mew, and the tone he uses ... just rubbed me the wrong way. I know it probably says more about Ray than Mew in this instance, and the sheer number of times Mew has saved Ray at this point in time. Mew doesn’t say it exactly, but the tone he uses implies that he’s tired (rightfully so), but in Ray’s mind, he likely infers this tiredness as, in fact, being the burden he thinks he is.

(About the burden thing: I don’t see Mew OR Sand as evil for those things - but I will just say this: when we see Boston call Ray a burden, Mew says nothing, even knowing that this is what Ray thinks of himself. Even if it’s 2 years later, if I heard a friend call another friend those words, that would bring back that traumatic experience of said friend calling and using those exact words as he was on the verge of suicide. But again ... that’s just what I would do. I don’t know why Mew doesn’t speak up in the situation. Maybe he’s just forgotten. But I find that hard to believe.)

I think Ray’s trauma plays an intricate role in his relationships to love and relationships. He’s never known familial love, and before Mew (as far as we’re aware), has never experienced platonic or romantic love. His understanding of love, like any other unloved child I reckon, probably comes from media and societal expectations/explanations of what love means. Pack that on top of his innate trauma / fear of being left by the people he loves (see: his mother and father), you’re right, he DOES have a habit of expressing love in an attempt to keep people around.

Because Ray has an anxious/preoccupied attachment disorder.

“Adults with an anxious attachment style tend to have a negative self-view, but a positive view of others. This means that they may view their partner as their literal “better half.” Because someone with this attachment style deems themselves to be less worthy of love in comparison to other people, the thought of living without their partner (or being alone in general) causes high levels of anxiety. In other words, they deeply fear abandonment.

To ease this fear of abandonment, people with the anxious attachment style strongly desire security within relationships, and attention, care, and responsiveness from a partner tends to be the “remedy” for their feelings of anxiety.

On the other hand, the perceived absence of support and intimacy can lead someone with the anxious attachment style to become more clinging and demanding, preoccupied with the relationship, and desperate for reassurance that they are loved.” (Source: The Attachment Project)

I don’t think he means to do this at all. I think, like you said, Ray is a VERY traumatized person who needs professional intervention at this point and has needed it for a long time. Nobody can force him to change or get better on his own - that’s solely his decision.

I think understanding his trauma and his inability to form healthy relationships is important, and explains why he’s resistant to getting professional help. He thinks that Mew could fix him, if only he would return his love; and we see the same pattern forming with Sand. The answer to all of Ray’s problems (in his mind)? Love.

I agree that Ray is too toxic right now to be in any sort of relationship, and I truly do hope we see him get the help he deserves.

The aro-ace theory for Mew is definitely a solid one too, and makes things infinitely more difficult when thinking about Ray’s feelings and advances towards him. But speaking of attachment styles, I think Mew tends to mirror Ray. Instead of being anxious/preoccupied, he’s avoidant/dismissive.

“People with the avoidant/dismissive attachment style tend to have a positive self-view and negative one of others. Consequently, they prefer to foster a high sense of independence and self-sufficiency–especially on an emotional level.

Someone with the avoidant attachment style tends to believe that they don’t have to be in a relationship to feel complete: They do not want to depend on others, have others depend on them, or seek support and approval in social bonds.

Adults with this attachment style generally avoid intimacy or emotional closeness, so may withdraw from a relationship if they feel like the other person is becoming reliant on them in this manner. They also tend to hide or suppress their feelings when faced with a potentially emotion-dense situation, such as conflict.” (Source: The Attachment Project)

The fact that they mirror one another through their opposite attachment styles could explain why we see such tension between them on Ray’s part, and the distancing on Mew’s part.

I don’t know ya’ll. I just woke up so I don’t have many coherent thoughts. But I just think these characters and their relationships are really interesting.

You know, I just can't get the opening scene of only friends ep 4 out of my head, and not just because it broke my heart.

When the scene opens, Ray is doing a voice over, and the first thing he says is: "Everybody has an emergency contact. Someone to call when we need urgent assistance. That person can be a lover, a sibling, or a family member, but for someone who doesn't have any of those, my emergency contact is Mew."

And it just really makes me wonder how estranged he and his father must be from one another, for Ray to not even consider him a family member, or even consider having his own father as his emergency contact. Instead, he chooses the friend who, immediately upon answering, says: "Are you drunk again? I'm not picking you up this time."

And Ray's response to that? "I just called to tell you that I love you."

That right there should be raising alarm bells in Mew's head. But what does he say? "You're drunk and talking nonsense."

And Ray responds with: "Thank you for being a good friend to me and always taking care of me."

And fuck. It just makes me so, so sad. Because Ray is reaching out. He's fucking SCREAMING for help in this moment, calling the one friend he trusts enough to be his emergency contact, and that friend is responding in the most unsupportive way imaginable.

(Listen: I've been that friend. I've been the one who's been called upon by drunk family members or friends who are ALWAYS drunk. It can be exhausting, but if they said that shit to me? I would be IN MY CAR already on the way. I would have my phone ready to call a fucking ambulance if need be.

And like, yes. Setting boundaries is important. We can't always take care of our self destructive friends/family, but at moments like THIS, when they start using language like THIS, you better fucking pay attention.)

"If I'm gone, I won't be anyone's burden anymore, right? You take care of yourself."

Just ... the way Ray responds to indifference, or to insults, is to internalize it. He always blames himself. He is always viewing himself as the problem. And I just know it fucking stems from his mother and his father - a mother who apparently never hugged him and a father who seems to have abandoned him.

It just makes you think about the fucked up relationship that Ray must have with love, and how people express love towards him, that he has internalized it to the point of thinking he's a burden.

So here we have Ray, on the verge of suicide, calling the one person he thinks will be there for him during a moment of crisis, or perhaps the one person he thinks will offer him a way out - and Mew just, doesn't. Not until he realizes what Ray is about to do.

And I don't know. I just think it's a lesson for us all: If you care about somebody, fucking show it. All the time.

It reminds me of the very first episode, when Ray tells Boston, Mew, and Cheum that he loves them, and Boston's response is to say: "He's saying please don't leave me."

It just really fucking breaks my heart that Ray's response to being ridiculed is to not only internalize it and blame himself, but to still show love to that person, to still show his sincerity. And even then, his sincerity isn't accepted.

Because he's just a drunkard. How could he possibly be sincere?

[bluiex]

I heard 'Mumbo getting tired of the war with Mycelium' and "Scar wants both the mayor and his assistant' and my mind took off.

~~~~

"What happened to all that vigor you had, Mr. Mayor? Has your body finally given up on you?"

He doesn't bother to move as he gets pulled back against someone's chest, not even trying to grip on the grass in a feeble attempt to prevent it. He's just...done. He's over it all. Everything that happen was a show of how he would do as mayor...

And he failed. Horribly.

He couldn't do anything to prevent the mycelium continuing its spread across the server. He couldn't find anything that could put a stop to it for good, only using what the others discovered and meager temporary fixes that only slowed the progression of the problem.

He's lost friends to that fungus's influence. Those who believed in him, encouraged him to keep going...Who he wanted to protect more than anything. They were all lost to the infection, minds changed to enjoy accept it moving through their veins and taking over their bodies. All the times he so futilely tried to bring people back, having to look at their smiling face and hear how they didn't want to be saved...It's only a matter of time before one get so defeated.

And even now, when the infection continues to spread through the server, he's off somewhere hiding instead of helping. He's left this impossible problem in the hand of those who are still unafflicted, the remaining hermits who have managed to escape 'Father' Spore's grasp for this long.

He can only imagine what the remaining survivors hermits are saying...Maybe things about they show still have hope, that he'll figure out something and everything will get better? Or the more reasonable answer of they should have never elected him to be mayor, that all has been lost because of his leadership failures.

"What, got nothing to say?" Scar Father Spore asks, hands moving to his shoulders. "No more about how you'll win? How'll you'll defeat me and my resistance? That you'll find a cure and save all who fallen under the mycelium's control?"

"What do you want..." He asks in a quiet and low voice. "You've won. Shouldn't you be celebrating you win as you track down the remaining uninfected? What more do you get out of plain talk with me?"

"Because, my dear Mumbo, there's still something important we have to do."

He huffs quietly. Of course...What else is there for them to do. Why else would they come to him themselves instead of sending their lackeys pawns?

A hand travels up his shoulder and throat to his chin, tugging his head back for him to look them in the eye. Them, who uses the body of the first friend he lost, using their face to trick and deceive all who fell under its control. Using their mouth and voice to promise safety and lying that the infection wasn't as bad as everyone thought.

"Go on then," He murmurs. "Solidify your win. Crush the hopes of all who still survive. Declare it for the entire server to see."

"Just what do you think I'm going to do?" They scold him, like he's all but a misguided child.

"You're here to kill me...Why else would you be here."

Scar They stay quiet for a few moments before chuckling like he's said something funny, which makes the quiet rage build up in his chest. Oh good, he can't even get death without being mocked by them...

"Oh Mumby...Is that what you thought this all was about? Power over the server? My little sporeling, things would have gone much differently if that was all I wanted."

"...What more is there for you to get? Everything you could possibly want, everyone you wanted, is within an arms reach. What else is there?"

They chuckle some more. "Everyone, hmm? You think so?"

His breath hitches as their other hand moves down his chest, slowly caressing the area through his shirt. He tries to look down, but his head gets moved back up when he does.

"What-What are you-"

"Everyone, huh? How about everyone except this rather stubborn little mayor who I also wanted at my side?"

"You're lying..."

He lets out a shocked noise when his thigh gets squeezed, and he holds back a different noise when his leg gets moved to the side, spreading him out.

"Am I, darling? Do you really think that?"

"It's-That's-You-"

They gently shush him. "Focus on what you want to say, Mumbo. We have time. We have a lot of time..."

His head gets tilted up more, and they start to lean down. He tried to reach a hand up, to stop them maybe, but quickly uses it grab at the wrist of the hand that was over his crotch now.

"I don't understand..." He says weakly. "You...You took...You have Grian. You paraded him around the server as yours. You...Why...How..."

"Maybe I'm greedy, selfish even, but I promise since the start of all this...I wanted you both with me. One of you was just more difficult to get than the other."

Their thumb gently rubs his jaw, and he can feel their hand move up to rest on his stomach.

They're so close to him. Their lips are practically ghosting over his...

"I didn't mean to hurt you..." They Scar says softly. "Honest. I wanted...I hoped you would come to us by yourself, and then we could talk without anyone saying I was tricking you...I guess I'm just a tab dumb at expressing my feelings."

He hmphs. "A tad? More like a lot, mate...A little heads up would have been nice."

"I know."

"I could feel you sometimes...Trying to poke in at the edges of my mind. I always thought it was because you thought it to be easier to take over the mayor than to go through a whole war..."

Scar presses their lips against his in a quick and chaste kiss. Though their lips didn't touch for a long amount of time, it was enough to leave a light coating of whatever substance is on their lips.

They quickly wipe it off.

"Sorry, forgot about that..."

"It's fine. Lips are a little numb now, but it's fine."

"Too used to kissing someone with the same problem, I guess...Can I take you home? Make it up to you somehow? Me and Gri can show you the spot we left for you in our bed..."

"You two saved a space for me?"

"Of course, Mumbo. Always."

Scar's hand gently pets his cheek, and they rest their head against his. Something in the back of his mind tells him its another trick, to smell for any sort of scent that seems off, but...He can't find any deception in their face. He can't smell anything that should set him off. They're just...here. With him. Loving him.

Why shouldn't he trust this?

"Yeah...Okay. Let's...Let's go home. I-I missed you two..."

"And we missed you. Grian lets me know all the time how much he misses you."

"Yeah, I bet he does."

HHNNGNGNH AWWW ough Mumbo.. I love this ty ty

Aaaaah you guys are so good

[deripmaver]

laurent is a good person - book 1 meta

one of the most amazing things about captive prince is how the reveals in book 3 recontextualize all of the scenes leading up to them, including about laurent himself. in book one, all we see is damen pov as he’s being abused and humiliated by this supposedly spoiled, vile ice prince. when the regent comes to damen and subtly (and not so subtly) insults laurent, calling him unfit to rule - well, why would he think anything different? laurent has insulted him, had him whipped within an inch of his life, and even attempted to (and later successfully lmfao) have him raped while drugged out of his mind. 

after book 3 we can reread most if not all of book 1 as a very traumatized boy who has finally been confronted with the man who killed his brother, leaving him alone with his abusive uncle, and who he clearly has made into a complete monster in his own mind. damen of course sees him as a complete bitch, but there’s textual/subtextual evidence that laurent is well liked, and that his behavior during book 1 was actually pretty out of character for him. i’d like to provide some examples of that now!!!!

“Laurent had stopped dead the moment he had seen Damen, his face turning white as though in reaction to a slap, or an insult. Damen’s view, half-truncated by the short chain at this neck, had been enough to see that. But Laurent’s expression had shuttered quickly.” Captive Prince, Chapter One

i couldn’t resist adding this one in hehe. laurent recognizes damen!! he’s come down, knowing his uncle has devised another truly horrendous and triggering “gift” and that he’ll lose support if he calls it our for what it truly is, only to find out that it’s fucking damianos of akielos sent to him as a sex slave. a jab at laurent’s trauma about auguste and also a jab at laurent’s frigid sexuality - which ofc is completely the regent’s fault. fuck that guy so much lmfao 

“‘It’s so rare to see you at these entertainments, Your Highness,’ said Vannes.” Captive Prince, Chapter Two.

this is right before the fight between govart and damen in the ring, of course. damen sees laurent as depraved and vile as the sexual sadism on display by the veretian court, and considers him to be a willing purveyor of it. this is wrong, of course, as said by vannes here. laurent has only shown up because he wants to humiliate damen lmfao.

“He did remember being supported by two of the guards, here, in this room, while Radel stared athis back in horror. ‘The Prince really . . . did this.’ ‘Who else?’ Damen said. Radel had stepped forward, and slapped Damen across the face; it was a hard slap, and the man wore three rings on each finger. ‘What did you do to him?’ Radel demanded.” Captive Prince, Chapter Four

this scene, to me, was the most telling lmfao. it’s right after damen is whipped. you could argue that radel is just a servant in the employ of the royal household, so is of course going to be loyal to the prince, but he seems genuinely surprised of the prince’s cruelty towards damen. not only that, but he slaps him and immediately assumes damen must have done something. which - i mean, technically he did lmao. not necessarily enough to deserve having the skin flayed from his back, but you know. if laurent was in the habit of torturing pets and slaves, why would the overseer react this way?

“The men guarding him were the Prince’s Guard, and had no affiliation with the Regent whatsoever. It surprised Damen how loyal they were to their Prince, and how diligent in his service, airing none of the grudges and complaints that he might have expected, considering Laurent’s noxious personality. Laurent’s feud with his uncle they took up wholeheartedly; there were deep schisms and rivalries between the Prince’s Guard and the Regent’s Guard, apparently.” Captive Prince, Chapter Four

laurents relationships with his guards are also some of the biggest indicators that he isn’t just a spoiled brat, but can insire a deep loyalty in his men. even if they do all want to fuck him. ah, sexual harassment. it’s also hilarious that damen immediately assumes they’re loyal to him because they want to fuck him - nice projection there, dude. we know a bit more about laurent and his guards thanks to green but for a season, but this little bit here is interesting.

“Laurent was indeed good at talking. He accepted sympathy gracefully. He put his position rationally. He stopped the flow of talk when it became dangerously critical of his uncle. He said nothing that could be taken as an open slight on the Regency. Yet no one who talked to him could have any doubt that his uncle was behaving at best misguidedly and at worst treasonously.”  Captive Prince, Chapter Five

idek what to say here. laurent my beloved <3333

“‘When someone doesn’t like you very much, it isn’t a good idea to let them know that you care about something,’ said Laurent. Damen felt himself turn ashen, as the threat sank in. ‘Would it hurt worse than a lashing for me to cut down someone you care for?’ said Laurent.” Captive Prince, Chapter Seven

this isn’t really relevant to my thesis lmfao i just love this exchange bc it gives SO MUCH information about laurent and his uncle in just three lines of dialogue. what has the regent done, who did he cut down just to hurt laurent? when and how did laurent learn that? p a i n 

“Laurent’s fussy horse began acting out again, and he leaned forward in the saddle, murmuring something as he stroked her neck in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture to quiet her.” Captive Prince, Chapter Nine. 

HORSEY NO- lmfao this scene just hurts so badly on the reread. especially later on, in book 3 i think, where laurent says something like “i provoked my uncle.” he’s really blaming himself for his uncle KILLING HIS HORSE, his horse that his murdered brother trained, one of the only living connections to auguste... all because his uncle could not let a single miniscule plan laurent had set go through without some kind of repercussion. literally all laurent did was do something to stop an innocent group of people from being abused, nothing to undermine his uncle’s rule, but because the regent is VILE he could not let laurent have even this. he’s so good with her, too. he must have known by this point and also known that there was no way to stop this. P A I N

“‘I know that you have somehow arranged this,’ said Erasmus. He was incapable of hiding what he felt, and just seemed to radiate embarrassed happiness. ‘You kept your promise. You and your master. I told you he was kind,’ Erasmus said. ‘You did,’ said Damen. He was pleased to see Erasmus happy. Whatever Erasmus believed about Laurent, Damen wasn’t going to dissuade him. ‘He’s even nicer in person. Did you know he came and talked to me?’ said Erasmus. ‘—He did?’ said Damen. It was something he couldn’t imagine. ‘He asked about . . . what happened in the gardens. Then he warned me. About last night.’ ‘He warned you,’ said Damen. ‘He said that Nicaise would make me perform before the court and it would be awful, but that if I was brave, something good might come at the end of it.’ Erasmus looked up at Damen curiously. ‘Why do you look surprised?’ ‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t be. He likes to plan things in advance,’ said Damen.” Captive Prince, Chapter 9.

this is the first in-text confirmation we have that laurent has a good heart beneath his layers and layers of trauma-induced lashing out. book one often skeeves people out because of its graphic and, honestly, yes, kind of sexualized depiction of rape, slavery, and depravity, but beneath it all you meet these two protagonists who are going to have all of their most deeply held views about each other challenged. laurent from very early on is shaken to his core when damen refuses to rape nicaise in the ring - it cracks the very foundations of the person he’d built up in his head as this horrible monster who killed his brother in cold blood. and damen keeps defying laurents expectations by being a good person through and through. on the other hand, laurent spends the first part of the book taking out years of anger on damen, but here for the first time we see him do something just because its the kind thing to do. yes, torveld is an ally against his uncle, but laurent has clearly been scheming with him for a while now, and he’s now overlooking his hatred of damen and working with him just because none of the slaves deserve whats happened to them. it’s such a sweet moment.

“One of the other men, eyeing them, approached a moment later. ‘Don’t mind Jean. He’s in a foul mood. He was the one had to stick a sword through the mare’s throat and put her down. The Prince tore strips off him for not doing it fast enough.’” Captive Prince, Chapter Nine.

HORSEY NO- pt 2. this is just another really sweet and sad detail - laurent being so upset that the horse’s death could have been more painless. it must have hurt so much to see her in pain, and to know that the only way for that pain to end was being put down as quickly as possible. i wuv him. im sad

that’s it, though there are still a few more chapters left in the book. this isn’t providing any new information, of course, the path of the three books is to show that laurent isnt the man we meet in book one, that he’s actually sweet, and earnest, and he’s been fighting his own battle practically alone against his abuser since he was fifteen years old. also, the reveal that laurent knew who damianos was from the start makes it clear imo that all of his violence in book 1 was supposed vengence, not... him being evil. he apologizes explicitly in-text, and also, all of the acts of violence he commits cause serious problems for him in terms of his future alliance which he then needs to fix. i just love how layered these books are, how there’s so much information in them that makes rereading almost more fun than reading them for the very first time!

[yessoupy]

not finished fic, but i wish it were

the summary i wrote without realizing it was a summary and i’ve got about 4500 words of this that will go nowhere but. i tried.

Corellia.

He’d left home when he was eighteen years old, trying his hand at the family calling -- saving the planet. Into the CorSec Academy he’d gone, but after earning his Bloodstripes and losing the most important person in his life, he left the system for the Starfleet. He found his place on the hangar deck and hadn’t returned home until the Resistance had sent him back in a series of diplomatic missions.

With Hosnian Prime vaporized and the structure of the New Republic’s government effectively destroyed, every reason Corellian businessmen had given him before as to why they could not support the Resistance were gone. Marek heads back, this time with Poe on hand, to charm whomever he can into donating a few good starships to a worthy cause.

And oh yeah -- Poe has to meet the family.

fuck it, i’ll post what i have here under the cut. it’s been fucked to hell by TLJ. in fact it’s pretty certain that everyone mentioned in this outside of poe and leia has been killed, which is such a fucking waste???

Marek Antilles is sweaty, smells of droid lubricant, and has worked three straight shifts when he’s summoned to the base headquarters. He tries his best on the walk from the upper hangars to make himself look presentable, but there’s only so much he can do with his oil-stained hands and exhausted body.

He does manage to snap off a sharp salute when he enters the headquarters.

“At ease, soldier,” General Organa says kindly, and Marek allows himself to relax just a bit. “You look dead on your feet,” she observes, and Marek nods.

“Yessir, I’ll be off my third shift here soon.”

General Organa raises an eyebrow. “Third shift in a row?”

“Yessir.”

She turns to Admiral Statura, who shrugs. “We’re short-handed. He’s our best mechanic. We can’t afford to make mistakes.”

“Well son, take a seat here and let’s get to it.”

Marek eases himself into the chair after his superiors have sat. He knows this is probably about another diplomatic mission. After the destruction of Starkiller Base and all the rest of the battles leading up to it, the Resistance has even fewer ships and soldiers and pilots and it’s all a bit overwhelming, thinking of what he could be sent out to do next. There’s so much to acquire.

General Organa clears her throat and Marek focuses on her again. “I’ve got a mission for you, and with it you’ll get a little break.”

Marek tenses. A break? “Where am I off to this time?”

Admiral Statura chimes in. “Back to your home, Corellia. With Hosnian Prime gone, there’s been an increase in material support.”

There’s a sick and twisted part of Marek that is almost glad the First Order had laid waste to most of the New Republic’s politicians. He hasn’t ever been able to get a straight word out of any of them, and even when faced with the truth of what the First Order had done to harm innocent beings, they would hem and haw and refuse to back the Resistance. “I would expect that to be the case,” Marek says instead.

“You’ll take a freighter, and there are a few days we’ve worked into the schedule that you can have to yourself. Visit your family,” General Organa says gently.

“I appreciate that,” he says, and he really does. He misses his parents, his Uncle Josef, his grandparents. “All of our freighters are two-being crew minimum, who’s coming with this time?” While he’s interested in getting to know many of his fellow freedom fighters, there’s just one he’d want to meet his family.

“We’re sending Commander Dameron with you.”

Marek’s heart leaps at the words. “Poe? He’s coming with me?” They haven’t had more than a few hours to themselves since they joined the Resistance. The hectic schedules they’d kept with the New Republic Starfleet were lazy vacation days compared to their lives with the Resistance. “Please say you’re serious, I don’t think I could handle a joke in this state. Sir.”

“I understand how draining this experience can be,” General Organa says, and Marek can’t think of anyone who really would understand better than her. “It’s important for your continued contributions to our cause that you have a rest, and that you get to experience the kind of life you’re fighting to preserve for beings across the galaxy. We don’t need or want mindless drones fighting for freedom. Commander Dameron needs a break and refuses to stay grounded. As much as you might consider this a favor from me, please know that taking him off my hands for a mission will save me a lot of headaches.”

“I’ll send you the mission details,” Admiral Statura breaks in, and Marek nods. “You’ll leave in thirty-six standard hours, taking The Hide’s Teeth, that Corellian freighter we picked up last week.” He checks his wrist chronometer and winces. “I’ve got to be off, Major Ematt’s waiting for my input about base relocation.”

“Should I pack up our quarters then as well?” Marek can’t wait to get off D’Qar. It’s hot and wet and wreaks havoc on the starfighters. He knows Poe will miss it a little, for as much as it reminds him of his own home.

“That’s a good idea, if you’ve got the time and energy. If not, we’ll have droids do it should you not be back before relocation commences.”

Marek is sent on his way back to the hangar, finishes up his task list, and trudges back to the quarters he shares with Poe. They’re so seldom together that sometimes it feels like he’s living alone, even with Poe’s possessions taking up space on every spare surface.

Poe’s there when he arrives, and by the state of their quarters (relatively clean) Marek assumes he’s already been briefed. Poe launches himself at Marek before the door has even slid shut and Marek leans gratefully into Poe’s arms. “We’re going to meet your family!” Poe says happily, squeezing him tightly.

Marek laughs tiredly. “Yeah, we will.”

Poe pulls back. “You don’t sound that excited?”

“I’ve been on my feet for 24 hours straight.”

---------------------------------------

The thing is, Marek would be a competent pilot if he wanted to do something like captaining a freighter for some company. He’s perfectly serviceable in getting himself around the galaxy, but to be an Antilles and only serviceable... it’s not like his family has actively looked down on him, but it’s hard not to feel like a disappointment. He’d been proud of his name until he’d failed in CorSec, and since then all he’s wanted is to just get rid of it.

He looks over at Poe, who’s happily leaned back in the captain’s chair, eyes flitting over the instrumentation as they await leaving hyperspace, and he wants to laugh. The irony, that he’s been trying to shed the Antilles so he won’t be expected to be a crack-shot pilot, it kills him. He’d take Poe’s name in a heartbeat, if he asked, and Poe was the best pilot since Wedge Antilles -- Marek’s cousin.

“What are you smiling about over there, love?” Poe asks, turning that soft gaze directly on Marek.

Marek feels his cheeks heat up. “Nothing.”

“Oh come on, share! We’ve got nothing but time right now.”

“Just that -- just that I love you. And it’s nice seeing you in your element.” Neither of those things are lies.

“Oh, this cockpit isn’t my element. This ship is too large and clumsy to truly exhibit my magic touch.”

“Go on, cocky flyboy. Don’t miss our re-entry. Wouldn’t want to end up in Corel.”

Poe grouses about all the safety mechanisms a ship like this has to keep that very thing from happening, “You just end up further away and it takes ages to get in-system, really, I could get us closer but Statura doesn’t like it when I mod the freighters.” Marek lets him ramble on, bring them out of hyperspace and respond to the flight control’s inquiries about their purposes in this fine system.

Poe gives control of the ship over to Marek, who’s more familiar with the airspace. That’s the excuse he gives, but Marek knows it’s Poe being gentle with him. He doesn’t know if he should feel thankful or babied. He gives his name and the ship’s designation -- The Hide’s Teeth, Marek has no idea what that’s referencing. His name gets them a prime slot at the port and he’s made it this far but the heavy feeling of guilt settling in his stomach had to show up sometime. There’s not a trip to the system that he manages to avoid it.

-------------------

Marek is decked out in all his Corellian glory. Poe eyes him up and down from his seat on the galley couch where he’s lacing up his boots. His eyes linger on the yellow Bloodstripes stitched down his trousers, and it does something to Poe to see his man wearing his military decoration. He doesn’t wear them on base, and Poe still doesn’t know the story behind them.

“One day,” Marek promises, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Poe agrees, words belying his impatience to know. “What’s the first stop on our itinerary?” They’ve been docked for a standard hour getting cleaned up, grooming habits off-planet lacking in civilization. Poe is truly along for the ride. He’s not a diplomat at all, but Marek says his presence will give his requests -- and demands, if they’re honest -- more weight. Corellia is, after all, a sucker for a good pilot.

And Poe is the best.

“Well, we’re in Coronet City now. I’ve got an appointment with a board member of the CEC. That’s a big deal, but it could be mostly show and just because you’re along for the ride.”

“Anything I need to know about this board member?”

Marek sighs. “He sponsors a scholarship for wayward youths to attend military academies to become pilots. He likes to say that if his eyes were better he’d be a pilot, too.”

“So he’s got credits to burn,” Poe surmises.

“He does, but we need ships more than creds.”

“Would he give us creds? Then we could buy ships.”

“It’s not that simple. It’s difficult to buy ships if you’re identified as affiliated with the Resistance. Corporations get blacklisted for aiding rebels. What good is a handful of cash if no one will exchange goods for it?”

“Then why are we even bothering with this guy?”

Marek takes a seat on the couch next to Poe. “He’s got creds, and he’s got influence. Say we make a good impression. He’s got connections all over the system. Maybe we impress him -- maybe you impress him -- and he leans on some other guy and we end up with a freighter. Fully outfitted, wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Would be nice,” Poe agrees.

“So we put in our time with Garm Temblik at the CEC headquarters and then we’ve got drinks with an important politician. She was on the fence last time I was here, and Starkiller Base ... well, she might be willing to make a stand, finally.”

“And tomorrow?”

Marek squeezes Poe’s hand. “Tomorrow we go out to Lumin and you meet my family.”

---------------------

They take the mag-lev train from the spaceport to downtown Coronet City. It’s been so long since he’s been in real civilization, Poe marvels a bit at the hustle and bustle of the beings around them. They’ve been off fighting a war for months now, and here’s a city full of people continuing on like billions of beings hadn’t been disintegrated in the blink of an eye.

“This is wild,” Poe comments as they stand outside the headquarters of the Corellian Engineering Corporation. “I can’t believe you’ve been out here like this, going back and forth.”

“Each time it gets more disconcerting,” Marek agrees. “Ready?”

Poe straightens his formal jacket and brushes a bit of dust off the front. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Just remember -- I know you’ll be tempted to scoff at him and tell him how it really is, but don’t. Flatter him. He’s really not that bad.”

----------------

Garm Temblik is a charming man. Poe had been put off by Marek’s description of him, always wary of the politicians who can talk but can never do, but he is soon laughing along with the filthy rich aristocrat and leaning in as he tells Temblik a particularly lurid story from a mission he’d undertaken while with the New Republic. Temblik’s belly laugh is genuine, and when the story is over Temblik turns back to Marek.

“Mr. Antilles, thank you very much for bringing Commander Dameron to visit with me. I feel as though I can live vicariously through his adventures.”

“It’s no trouble. General Organa felt it was necessary to give the Commander a break from missions, but he refused to stay grounded and volunteered to be my pilot for this trip home.”

“You’ll take him to the old homestead, I assume?”

“We have plans for that tomorrow.”

“And this evening, I hear you’re taking Assemblywoman Starline for drinks.”

“She requested a meeting, that’s true.”

“She reached out to me for my advice. Of course I told her to see you. I’d do more if my hands weren’t tied, but you know I can’t offer the Resistance anything officially.”

Marek waits a beat. “But unofficially?”

Temblik leans back in his chair and pulls open a drawer in his desk. He fishes around and places a datacard on his desk. At the man’s nod, Poe reaches for it and loads it into his datapad. “You’ll find a list of sympathisers there, the list you’ve been requesting. After Hosnian Prime was zapped it frightened the pants off a number of fence-sitters. Starline included. She’ll tell you tonight that she can’t promise you anything, but push her. Lean on her humanity. Commander, List Three contains the coordinates for a number of re-sale yards with ships that aren’t on any inventory. I’ve made arrangements for you, but you’ll have to convince them the investment is worth it.”

“It is,” Poe insists. Temblik nods.

“I know. I trust you can make them see it.”

Marek scans the list over Poe’s shoulder. “Mr. Temblik --”

“Please, call me Garm.”

“Garm, I ... I don’t know what to say. This is more than I expected.”

“Is it really? I thought I’d been up-front with you about my intentions here. Maybe the message got lost in the shuffle.”

“You had, but ... I suppose I’m only disbelieving because this is everything we wanted, really. It isn’t often that we get that these days.”

“Well, it’s about time, I suppose.” Temblik looks up at the ancient chronometer on the wall and clucks his tongue. “Boys, I’ve got an appointment in a few minutes and I can’t keep them waiting. I trust you’ve got everything you need there? Should I send for a transport?”

“No need, we’ll take the mag-levs,” Poe answers, standing as Temblik does with Marek following soon after. “Thank you, sir, you don’t know how much this is going to help our cause.”

“Don’t forget me, Mr. Antilles. When the time comes to name out the supporters, I expect to be right there at the top.” He winks to pretend a joke, but Marek knows that a large part of Temblik’s support is being made with an eye to his image. They shake hands and Marek assures him that his generous work will not be forgotten.

---------------

It isn’t until they’re sitting down with Assemblywoman Katta Starline that Poe realizes he’s holding at least a dozen death sentences in his datapad should it fall into the wrong hands. Marek hadn’t had time to brief him on the way to the swanky bar and Poe feels dreadfully out of place. Marek’s Bloodstripes had gotten them prime seating and a round of ale on the house. It’s the first time he’s seen what that decoration can do and it only makes Poe want to know even more.

“So this is the famous Poe Dameron,” Starline begins. She can’t be much older than the two of them, but her hair’s gone gray at the temples and there’s a weariness in her eyes that age her a decade. “Just as handsome as reported.”

“Now Katta, we’ve been over this --”

“Taken, I know. One day I’ll get that story out of you, but I understand we’re here to discuss business, not pleasure.”

Poe flushes and Marek squeezes his knee under the table. Starline orders a complicated drink from a sentient waiter, not a droid, and once they’re alone Marek gets down to business. “We were with Garm Temblik today. It seems as though there’s been a shift in positioning among many people in your same situation.”

“There has, that’s true.”

“Can we count you among them?”

“You know I’ve always been a supporter of the Resistance --”

“Not formally, no. Just in the shadows.”

“It’s difficult for someone in my position to openly align herself with admitted rebels. You have to understand --”

“We understand,” Poe breaks in. “But all the rules have changed. It’s no longer rebels fighting against a group that may or may not be a true threat. We know it is a true threat, and a threat to the New Republic specifically. Hosnian Prime is gone. I know you lost friends that day.”

“I did.”

He doesn’t press after that, letting her think of those friends gone in the blink of an eye. The waiter brings Starline her drink, and Marek waves him off before Poe can order another round.

Marek picks up where Poe left off once the waiter is out of earshot. “Your influence on this planet, with these people, is so important for our cause. If you were to openly support the Resistance, it would tip the balance.”

“Marek, I need time.”

“We don’t have time.” Frustration is evident in his voice.

“A few days. Surely you can spare that? You’re not leaving Corellia tomorrow, are you?”

“No, we -- we have more meetings planetside and a few days to arrange for the additional ships to be transported out to the new base.”

“Have your meetings, and I’ll contact you in two cycles. There are some conversations I must have before I can give you my full-throated support.” Starline finishes off her cocktail and sets the empty glass on the hovertray nearby. “It was lovely to finally meet you, Commander. Marek here is a private fellow, as you know, but it’s always been difficult for him to conceal his affection for you.”

“Thank you for meeting with us, Assemblywoman. Your support, however you’re able to offer it, is appreciated.”

Marek says his formal goodbyes and they watch as Starline effortlessly cuts her way through the crowded room. They should be on their way, but the waiter approaches them again with another round of ales -- “From the Duro over there.” -- and it seems impolite to turn away the drinks.

“Think if we stick around long enough someone will buy us dinner?”

“Probably.”

“Do they even know your name, or is this just the expected reaction to spotting someone sporting Bloodstripes?”

Marek shrugs, sipping his drink. “They might know me, but it wouldn’t matter.”

“Do they know what happened?”

“If they were on-planet when it happened, it’s likely.”

Poe is eyeing his ale like it contains the secret to life. “I’ve known you for nearly five years, love. I understand that it’s not something you like to talk about, but all these strangers know --”

“Could know. I don’t know every single Bloodstripe winner in the galaxy --”

“-- All these strangers could know, and could walk up to me at any moment and say something, and I wouldn’t know what to say. Are you ashamed of what happened? Is that why you don’t wear them off-planet?”

“I’m not ashamed,” Marek says firmly.

“Talking helps, you know,” Poe says quietly. Marek knows that Poe has seen his share of traumatizing events. And Poe knows that you don’t just win Bloodstripes for showing up to a blaster fight. Marek is good when it comes to taking compliments, he’s got a healthy ego, but whatever happened to put those stripes on his trousers has him hurt. “I don’t want you to feel hurt,” he says out loud, then finishes off his ale and stands. “Alright, enough heaviness. Up with you, let’s find a traditional Corellian diner and stuff ourselves silly with real food.”

“I’m not sure you could handle the spices, Poe --”

“You haven’t had any Yavini food, have you? You let me decide what I can handle.”

------------------

They rent a transport to take from Coronet City out to the exurbs where Marek’s family still is. His parents have talked about moving off-planet, but they love their property and for all they complain about the vagaries of living on a politically turbulent planet, Marek knows they’d never leave.

“Okay, brief me. Any topics I need to steer clear of?” Poe is sitting in the passenger’s seat staring at the blur of the foliage outside the windows.

Marek laughs. “Uncle Jo hasn’t been off-planet in his entire life. Try not to act surprised if it comes up. We’ll probably get embroiled in a discussion about how much quicker the war would have ended if the Corellian Resistance fighters would have just stayed on Corellia and not joined the Alliance --”

Poe laughs. “Are you joking?”

“Absolutely not. Two of those fighters were my parents, another my Aunt Jarmila. It’s Uncle Jo’s favorite topic.”

“So am I the first man you’ve brought home to meet the parents?” Poe’s tone is light, but Marek hears his question for what it is. Marek tightens his grip on the transport’s yoke and tries not to let his frustration show. It’s not Poe’s fault. He has no idea what scab he’s picking.

He says lightly, “We’re close, and you’ve got to remember that I didn’t leave the system until seven standard years ago. It would have been suspicious had I kept that part of my life a secret.”

Poe makes a noise of understanding and Marek winces at his doubletalk. The guilt curls tighter in his stomach and the closer they get to Lumin, the closer they get to his story not being his to tell.

------------------

Marek is suspicious of how easily the conversation is flowing. His family have accepted Poe with open arms. He knew they would, but it’s a relief to see it actually happening. He even feels ... settled. Like bringing Poe home and letting his family see that he really is okay almost made him actually okay. But it’s only a matter of time before --

“Marek here earned his ‘stripes fighting the Human League. First Antilles since Jaromir, even beat out Cousin Wedge.”

And there it is. “Uncle Jo --”

Marek looks to his father for help, but he’s engrossed in his pie. His Aunt Jarmila would jump in, but she’s in the kitchen with Grandma Felicity and the dishes.

“I haven’t told him that story.”

“Why not?” Uncle Jo looks scandalized. Of all of his family, Josef had been the most proud of Marek’s actions that night. It was quintessentially Corellian, according to Josef, what Marek had done.

“Respectfully, Jo, I think Marek wants to tell me about that in private. In his own time.”

Marek could just kiss him. He settles for throwing Poe a grateful look.

Josef huffs and gets back to his pie.

---Marek---

It’s odd, lying in the same room he’d occupied as a child. It’s no longer his room, his mother had long since converted it into space for visitors, and that’s a good thing, too. His old bed would be much too small for him and Poe. This one is more spacious than their standard-and-a-half on base and he’s looking forward to a good night’s sleep -- safe, warm, and showered.

Poe returns from his own shower and the air is cool enough in the room that Marek can see the steam rising from his bare skin. “There is nothing in the galaxy like a real shower with piping hot water.”

Marek smiles. “You say this every time you get one.”

“When you grow up with something and it’s taken away from you abruptly, you appreciate it when you’re afforded the chance to greet it again.”

“Every time.”

“I truly believe that the day I take a hot shower for granted is the last day I get a hot shower.” Poe shrugs into an old worn shirt from Marek’s later youth. It’s got a barely visible design inked onto it from some event he’d attended while in upper division. It feels like two lifetimes ago that he was that young. He hadn’t even left the Corellian system until he joined the New Republic Starfleet, and now he’s ... well.

Poe groans as he slides into bed next to Marek. “This bed is like a vacation all by itself.”

“Should I be jealous of the guest bed in my childhood home?”

Poe scoffs and leans close to press a kiss to Marek’s mouth. “Oh no. Ninety percent of what makes this bed a vacation is your presence in it.” Poe moves to deepen the kiss but Marek leans away. “Please?” Poe pouts.

“I want to tell you about it.”

“You want to tell me about kissing me?”

“I want to tell you about my ‘stripes.”

“You’re ready?”

Marek sighs. “I’m not ready, exactly, but Uncle Jo isn’t going to keep his mouth shut and I’d rather you hear it from me first.” He takes a deep breath and tells the story of his ‘stripes, of taking the mag-levs with Caz down to the city, a casino with a stage where freed Twi’lek dancers put on a show. He leaves out how they’d held hands for the first time out in public, exchanged sweet kisses once they’d taken their seats. He tries to keep his narrative straight-forward, like he’s being debriefed. He tells of the Human League cell, the siege at the casino, and how they’d been there for hours before they saw an opening.

Marek glances over at Poe, who’s been silent the whole time, just listening. “I hadn’t been in a situation like that before. Neither of us had. I kept thinking, If only Dad were here or My grandfather would have taken these guys out already.”

Poe only nods at him to go on.

“We couldn’t speak, they would have heard us, but I always knew what he was thinking. We made a plan. There were hundreds of beings in that room and they were going to kill every non-human. I knew it, in my heart. And Caz, he --” Marek pauses, physically pressing back against the ache in his chest. “Caz knew it too. We saw an opening. We knew that we would die, but that’s what we’d been trained to do -- put ourselves in harm’s way to keep Corellia secure.” I gave him one last kiss. “They say you ‘win’ the Bloodstripes. Like it’s a game. I’ve always had trouble with that. Maybe if you’re living it’s okay. You make a decision to put your life on the line, and you come out alive? Yeah, you’ve won. But saying Caz won his -- first class, the red ones -- it’s like a sick joke. Everyone else was so proud of him and I just hated myself.”

“Caz was your lover, wasn’t he?”

Marek nods, and the tears leak out of his eyes, unbidden. “I had everything, you know? I had the love of my life and a job where I felt like I belonged, finally. Then it was gone, and I had these scars, some ‘stripes, and a bunch of condolences from people who didn’t get it. Twenty-one years old and I felt like my life was over. I had to leave CorSec. It was so new, and that night was our first real time together out in public. We hadn’t told anyone together, and only my mother knew, then. Everyone thought they understood because I’d lost a brother-in-arms, but they were wrong. I couldn’t see his photo up in his locker, I couldn’t pretend I was mourning a friend. I had to leave. Mom helped me find a spot with the Starfleet.”

Poe reaches out and lays his hand on Marek’s wet cheek. “I love you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

“I still feel so guilty. First for being here and he can’t be, and then more guilty when I think about you, and how I should just move on, that wanting him here means not wanting you --”

Poe shushes him. “Survivor’s guilt plagues all of us. You don’t have to suffer alone in it. I understand it.” He smiles sadly. “He’d want you to be happy. You know that.”

[goldammerchen]

Experimental. Could be better but I made it in a short period of time *shrug*, might fix/remake in the future:

In less than a day since the initial outbreak, the floor where their kind hold their meetings has become a quarantine zone. Five days later, they often wonder if the humans have forgotten about them, but anyone that dares to take the elevators meets guns when trying to get off other floors, ordered to go back.

(At least humans still send food through the lifts).

After being spitted and bitten by the infected, none of them have shown any symptoms, except the injuries healing slower than the usual for them, which could be considered a symptom in itself. Humans still tried taking biological samples, even when knowing that it never worked on the immortals, anything leaving their body quickly rotting, time reclaiming anything that can reclaim—No matter how many times I tell Antonio that I don't think they were joking when a human was heard suggesting freezing some of us before taking samples, he doesn't want to believe me.

Then, there's Gilbert, who, unlike the others, has been examined daily, thirty-three floors down. A guard escort him to a clean room, where he stays until they go back to the elevator. Medical personnel take a few hairs from his head, make him undress, and look at him thoroughly, all while telling him to shut up, and never telling him anything substantial.

Back during the outbreak, a mask didn't prevent Gil from getting spitted in one of his eyes. This eye sclera lost its white thanks to a hemorrhage, therefore any attempt to hide having been infected would have been stupid. Aside from eye discomfort, nothing else, ignoring him starting to bite the inside of his cheeks until drawing blood when sleeping (the doctors seeing this and still allowing him to return with the rest), and today being unable to keep food down since breakfast.

'It must be anxiety', everybody thinks (or wants to believe). Of course it is some of that, I know, but it isn't the only reason I kept biting my cheek until recently opening a hole, and I think humans know too, why would they keep giving me new masks and sending me back otherwise. The problem is that I have bled into my last mask, so I've gone to the bathroom to hide before it's time to go some floors down.

(I must admit I had forgotten which side I was spitted on, a quick look into the mirror reminded me it was my left. The truth is that I don't feel anything anymore... Well, not pain for sure... Seeing my molars through my cheek greatly amuses me. Oh, same side of my bad eye).

Gilbert hides in a cubicle, while continuing to chew on his cheek. He taps the floor with his feet, waiting, resisting the idea of starting biting his nails: if he does that, he won't stop there, nor in his fingers, and so on.

He holds his breath when someone enters the bathroom.

"Gilbert?"

Yes, that silky voice: Austria's voice.

"Yes?" I try my hardest to hide my excitement.

"You feel bad? It's been a while since you went here." Roderich stops in front of the only occupied cubicle.

It's been a long time since I feel this amazing. "I'm, uhm..."

Gilbert clears his throat, deciding to remove the lock and kick the door open. Roderich jumps back, startled. The insult dies on his lips when he sees the bloody stain in Gilbert's mask, who points at it.

"Don't tell Ludwig." Gil clears his throat again. "Alright?"

"I think I'll decide that," Roderich answers, trying to regain his usual composure.

"Rod—!"

"You must see the humans, now."

Roderich takes Gilbert's arm, practically pulling Gilbert around, walking at a fast pace that Gil struggles to follow at first. They ignore anyone crossing on their path to the lifts, while Gilbert hides his stained mask with a hand. Before Ludwig or François can speak to them, they enter a lift, Roderich pushing Gilbert inside. "You will see Prussia later!" he exclaims, not allowing the other two to get in the lift.

Mirrors on three of four sides, Gilbert is dazzled by them, not putting attention on Roderich using the lift's buttons. He needs to see, yet Roderich smacks his hand when he tries to remove his mask. Without any words, Gilbert grabs both of Roderich's hands.

"Idiot, what are you doing?!" he asks, his eyes wide-opened.

"Remember how to kill someone?" Gilbert places Roderich's hands around his own neck. "Or have your delicate aristocratic hands never broken a neck?"

"What—? I'm not breaking your neck!"

"You sure?"

Roderich makes a pause. "Yes," he replies, later gulping.

"Don't tell me I didn't warn you..."

"I know."

Once again Roderich is startled, this time by Gilbert dropping onto his knees, still holding Roderich's hands. He tears out his mask, while now Roderich is trying to push Gilbert's head back. "Don't!" he says, but I already warned him. I catch again one of his hands, and after a kiss on its back, I bite, tearing skin that I barely chew before swallowing, his scream sounding like music.

I yank his shirt up, and now sink my teeth on his side, bumping into his hip bones. I drink his blood while touching his body, ignoring Roderich hitting my head: if he really wanted to hurt me, if he really wanted to stop me, he would shove his thumbs in my eyes.

But he doesn't.

First floor, the elevator doors open. The armed men find the representative of Austria bloodied, sitting on the elevator floor, with his pants down to his knees, meanwhile the ex-representative of East Germany is crouching like an animal over him, ignoring the men outside. East Germany has exposed Austria's adipose tissue of his lower abdomen and thighs, though it was easy to see some injuries on the legs have torn muscle.

"I will be fine, don't do anything to him..." says in a barely audible voice Mister Austria, who's also bitten hands pull Mister East Germany's hair without avail, hair stained in red as it is his whole head. All Mister Austria manages to do is wince in pain, Mister East Germany refusing to let go the side of his left thigh. Not only that, the ex-country growls.

"We know you will be fine, sir," one of the armed men says, as he and the rest point their guns.

dreamed of a zombie virus in the UN during a nation-person conference, gil getting it but pretending to be a smart and helpful slowly turning zombie, until he manages to be alone with rode. letting himself to succumb to his zombie urges, gil kneels and bites rod on the belly, right above the hip bones--and after that in the thighs, but conscious me might have added that...

[jangofctts]

As You Are (Bucky Barnes x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: smut, explicit language, mentions of alcohol, mentions of violence and injuries, light choking, brief thigh riding/grinding, vaginal fingering with them metal fingies, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (dont be a dick, wrap that stick), fucking on sam’s couch

a/n: ok hi this fic is very self indulgent bUT YKNOW WHAT WHO CARES EKJHEJHKEJH this is my first fic for marvel and AH I hope I did Bucky justice. ENJOY YALL

This had been a terrible idea. 

Right from the minute you tailed after he and Sam to the Baron’s extensive vintage car storage. Bucky had explicitly withheld any and all information regarding this little excursion to protect you but of course you’d shown up—none too jazzed about the little stunt Bucky pulled regarding the Baron. Fair. 

You were right—Bucky should have called but that overwhelming guilt of dragging you into another one of his problems stopped him from pressing that little call button. He never wanted to be the reason you ended up back on the run again. Though judging by the way things were going, it was more than likely you’d be in prison by the end of the week. 

Luck had your back in that sort of regard—too bad it could never rescue you from your own stubbornness and grief regarding that damn shield. 

You’d taken a devastatingly hard hit from Walker—a fractured orbital, a split lip and a dislocated shoulder. All preventable—if only Bucky kept better track of you before you showed up in that warehouse alone. Left to fight the shadow of what was once a symbol of hope for some—another man playing dress-up in something that will never belong to him. 

It was just their luck Bucky and Sam arrived in time—preventing you from becoming another red stain of violence splattered over that shield. 

James Buchanan Barnes is not afraid of much—but fuck. Seeing you crumpled over the concrete floor, all bloodied and struggling to raise a hand to protect your face… It was the same feeling as injecting his veins with a pure shot of adrenaline and anger shrouded in fear. He promised Steve he’d look after you… 

And as Sam carried you out of that warehouse you had the gall to tenderly tell them that you were just fine—as if your mouth weren’t full of blood and a face blooming with patchy bruises. The jealousy that sparked through Bucky’s chest when you clung to Sam’s chest did nothing to help that dark festering pit inside his ribcage he’s attempting to suture back together.

Bucky clenches his jaw. At least you’re asleep now. Curled up against the window, holding your injured arm in a way that limited the turbulence from jostling it. It’s the first time Bucky would describe you as fragile. He know’s you’re anything but that—stubborn mostly—yet most of all brave. It’s what Steve admired most about you—what Bucky loves most about you too. That vibrant spark flowing through your blood and how you’re not afraid to shout along to your favorite songs despite the odd looks you get. Bucky envies how self-assured you are, how you’ll never lose yourself because you know just where you’re headed. He wishes he still had that sort of drive instead of all this uncertainty and guilt clouding each muscle and fibre in his body.      

Bucky doesn’t realize the jet has landed until Sam stands and and places a large hand over your shoulder. Your face scrunches as you whine and curl further into your seat. “C’mon, kiddo.” You grumble something inaudible. “You want me to carry you?”

The delicate plates of vibranium clink together as Bucky’s hand tightens into a fist, jealousy flaring hot and bright. He quickly stands, too fast to be considering anything less than awkward. Sam’s brow quirks. “I can do it.”   

“It’s cool, man,” Sam says as he scoops one arm under your legs and the other around your back. “I got her.”

Bucky bristles. Whatever. 

It’s not like you and him have anything together. A one sided plague of affection that you’ll never know about—he wants to tell you. Fuck, the words burn through his tongue and collect like ashes between his teeth and yet they are never voiced from self sabotage. There’s no possible way to voice how you’ve haunted his thoughts and his dream since the moment his eyes met yours. How he’s memorized the lines of your smile and the sweet sound of your laugh, the sweep of your lashes and the rhythm of your steps. Bucky would know you deaf, blind, numb, in this world or any other twisted reality. 

He had said that he wasn’t afraid of much, but that’s not entirely true. Eternity, oblivion, crowded rooms, being alone too long. And you. You terrify him. You have the power to pluck at the very strings of his soul and unravel him completely until he’s no more—and you don’t even know it. Bucky Barnes is less afraid of dying than he is of loosing you but that fear never once provides him the courage to tell you. You may not be a scribbled name in his book, but he still hopes that one day he’ll earn the chance to strike his cowardice and put to rest the wretched ache in his heart that he feels for you. 

He wishes he told you in Wakanda, after the Blip, Riga, and right this instant. He watches Sam carry you out of the jet—what’s a little more time?

                          -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The sun is beginning to melt into the horizon, turning the expanse of water into molten gold and shimmering blues. The hazy humidity from the late afternoon heat collects at the back of Bucky’s neck and the light breeze does nothing to cool. Bucky sighs and swipes at the bead of sweat creeping down his forehead with the back of his hand—he glances up. 

A ghost of a smile creeps across his lips. You’re exactly where he and Sam left you three hours ago. Surprising to be quite honest—you never did like to stay in one place for longer than ten minutes. You’re a pain in his ass, simply said.  

But now—now you’re haphazardly splayed out on the lawn chair you were forced into, a juice box loosely held in your good hand while the other still remains in the sling. He can’t tell if you’re asleep—Steve’s sunglasses do an excellent job of hiding your eyes. Yet as Bucky wanders closer, your head rolls to your right in greeting. 

“It’s rude to stare, y’know,” you grumble, lifting the juice box to your mouth. Your lips purse around the plastic straw. “And before you ask—yes, I have a very important job I’m currently overseeing.”

Bucky quirks a brow. “What—hogging the lawn chair?”

“No—“ You huff. You gesture with your juice box at the large cooler your sandaled feet are propped up on. “I’m the booze master. God of the ale, destroyer of sobriety—“

“Alright, Booze Master,” Bucky interrupts with a snort. “Why don’t you bestow upon me a beer, your majesty.”

You tap your index finger over your chin as a lazy smile fixes itself over your lips. “Granted.”

You slide your legs off the cooler and with a pained grunt you shift forward. Bucky shoots his arm out and steadies you back against the chair by your shoulder before you get any further. Your face pulls into a grimace.

“I got it, kid. Relax.”

Bucky pops open the cooler and fishes out a beer and pops the cap off between his left index finger and thumb. You watch with a frown, “I could’ve done that for you.” 

Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes and takes a seat on the cooler. The bitter fizz floods his tastebuds as he takes a sip of his drink, a tangible silence blanketing the space between you. He gets it—people like he and you can never settle for complacency. As if the rest isn’t deserved despite the bloody knuckles and the shattered glass that slices through skin—the bruises and the broken bones. None of it is enough—not worthwhile to preserve yourself when other’s so desperately need your help. 

Or maybe it’s penance. 

Bucky sure as shit finds himself swallowed by the black maw of guilt each and every day. Battling the never ending shadow of doubt that clings to his soul like glitter to a an old carpet. Bucky believes it’s safe to say that you’re the same—every good deed you do added to the imaginary scale weighing against the bad despite it feeling hollow and insurmountable. Paying in blood to equate the amount you’ve spilled. A hopeless battle you both insist on fighting. 

Bucky sighs through his nose, bends at the waist and collects both your ankles in his left hand. You let him lift them both and settle your legs over his knees. You shiver, an eruption of goosebumps rushing up your skin at the cold metallic shock of Bucky’s vibranium thumb scrapinh over your bare flesh.

Bucky’s lips tilt down ever so slightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“Never,” you rush to say before he has the chance to flee. “S’just cold.” 

His hum reverberates low in his chest as those cerulean blue eyes fall to his hands. You clench your jaw until your teeth ache as his left thumb continues to stroke over the delicate skin covering the joint of your ankle. This is…new…

You’d been close with Steve and Sam, and by proxy Bucky—in some weird adjunct way. Compared to Sam’s teasing bumps of the shoulder and that infectious laugh far more addicting than the golden liquor of the sun, Bucky is frigid. Still attempting to shake off the whole Winter Soldier thing that’s molded onto his bones like stubborn permafrost. Touch had always been tricky with him—even a friendly pat over the back or a simple tap to the harm had him tensing under the touch—muscle and steel bunching to prepare for a harsh blow that would never arrive. Never from you.         

Bucky rarely sought out your physical comfort—you were always the one to initiate those friendly touches even if he was the type to just sit and ignore you like a grouchy old cat barely clinging onto that ninth life. The first time he breached that fragile barrier was in Wakanda—something in Bucky cracked and split into a cavernous ravine of nebulosity. Stitches shred apart then stapled back together as he grabbed your arm and wrestled you into a bone-crushing hug. You didn’t need to ask to realize he cried the entire time, gripping your shirt like a lifeline while he shuddered and sobbed into the crook of your neck. To him everything from the rain to silk sheets felt like shrapnel and the stars tasted like old blood and the past of things long gone—yet you were familiar. 

A comfort for the much needed healing of the scattered pieces of a man. You don’t mind helping him pick up the tidbits and reattach them with veins of silver. It’s the least you can do. 

The second time occurred after the loss of Steve. Some part of you had been wrenched out with his departure and he never bothered to return it. It doesn’t matter anymore—the hollow ache had been soothed with the Winter Soldier clutching you to his chest until you drifted off into a fitful sleep. A tether to a new reality you both partake in. 

Which brings you to now. There’s no cathartic reasoning behind his touch…it’s simple…a risky leap of faith into unknown territory. Bucky’s eyes lift to meet yours—curiosity swimming in those icy irises. You don’t mind—in fact you quite like the calloused warmth of his hand and the opposing chilly metal one tentatively exploring your exposed skin. 

“You have a scar here,” Bucky murmurs, skimming the thumb made up of flesh and sinew over the mottled skin occupying the crease of where the top of your foot meets your ankle. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I fell on barbed wire.”

“Clumsy,” he chides, quirking a dark brow. 

Your shoulders bounce with a huff. “I was like—twelve when it happened, James.”

His mouth quirks in a half smile, quite liking the validation of his name in the way your mouth speaks it. He wonders if you know the weight of granting you that leeway of calling him that. Shit—he doesn’t care what you call him, everything sounds lovely when you say it. 

There’s another silence—holding your breath until something splits and shatters into a million pieces. You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t want anything more than just friendship with Bucky but fear of rejection is a tricky thing. You take the easy way out and offer him the chance of something more on a silver platter. 

“Bucky?”

His fingers whisper up your shin as he inclines his head.              

“I’m tired. Drive me back to Sam’s?”

“Sure thing, doll.” 

                            -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Bucky holds the door open for you as you stumble in, escaping the hazy southern heat. He disappears into the kitchen as you make a beeline straight for the couch, sighing loudly once the plush cushions meet your back. You lazily lift your head once you hear his familiar footfalls nearing. 

With him he brings two Otterpops, one blue raspberry and the other cherry. Once he hands it to you he takes a seat on your left, close enough that his thigh and shoulder bumps against yours. ���Don’t tell Sarah’s kids that these were the last ones.”

You roll your eyes and promptly stick the Otterpop into you mouth. “‘M ain’t no snitch.”

His low chuckle reverberates through his chest. The silence that follows isn’t an awkward one as you enjoy the cold treat—it’s filled with the humming cicada bugs outside and the breeze through the wind chimes. Comfortable with the normalcy—just a couple of regular old people enjoying life for a suspended amount of seconds.  

Once you finish the Otter Pop, you crumple the plastic up and rest it on the coffee table. He does the same—hints of the blue syrup sticking to the cracks of his plush lips. You force yourself to avert your eyes. You cheeks heat with a flush as you rush to occupy your mind with anything but wild fantasies of Bucky’s mouth. You lean forward again, pointedly ignoring the way Bucky’s eyes track your movements as you shuck off your sling, the prickle of unused muscles and bruised ligaments rushing through the limb. You wince as you slowly roll your shoulder. 

The muscles in Bucky’s jaw clenches. You sigh—he’s still blaming himself for your injuries. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not everyone has freaky healing powers, Buck,” you snort. You rush to appease him when he frowns. “It’s getting better though. Still can’t sleep on it—but eh.” 

“I’m sorry.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. No matter how many times you tell him he’ll never believe you. That’s something only he can fix. Doesn’t stop you from telling him anyway. “Stop blaming yourself for my idiocy. I made my choice and paid the price for it.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to his hands. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. Steve told me to look after you.”

Your heart constricts within your chest like a fist. You inhale and reach out to rest your hand over his wrist. “Funny—he told me the same thing about you.”

It surprises him—his dark brows furrow as his mouth parts, but nothing comes forth. Grappling with the right words that fit with what he feels. He’s still learning how to give his soul a name that fits. Learning how to take the dark, twisted bramble of his heart and make it into something that doesn’t ache each time it beats. He’s still learning how to look himself in the eyes, point to himself and say that there’s nothing frightening in there. Not anymore. No more. 

You suck in a breath and muster up the embers of courage. Here goes nothing— 

You cup Bucky’s cheek, the scrape of stubble welcome against your warm palm as you gently turn his face to look at you. His eyes drift to yours when the mumbled syllables of his name tumble from your lips. His eyes are framed with dark circles of wildflower bruises, his small smile a moonbeam stark against battered skin. You’ve dreamt so many times of swallowing it whole and pressing him close enough that your heartstrings become entangled with no hope of separation. But that’s something for him to decide. 

You drop your hand cradling Bucky’s jaw, but before your hand completely falls Bucky surges forward. His large hands rush to cup your face, swallowing your noise of surprise as his plush lips fall onto yours. The syrupy flavor of a Blue Raspberry Otter Pop he stole from Sarah’s freezer lingers on Bucky’s mouth, mixed in with the smell of old leather and cracked cardamom. Bucky nips at your bottom lip, tugging once and then rolling it between the blunt enamel of his teeth. Despite all the bad jokes regarding his age and senior citizen status—fuck he’s a damn good kisser. Compared to him you feel clumsy, sloppy, but no matter how hard you search for his distaste he doesn't seem to care in the slightest—if anything he’s pulling you closer. 

Bucky’s kisses may taste like the middle of June and a first love, but desperation lines every action like a wound with jagged edges. It’s a slow process learning to be free, but one day he’ll transform into starlight—and instead of a kiss like fire, it’ll be like touching your lips to a constellation’s aureate mouth.   

When Bucky pulls away, sucking in air and resting his forehead on yours, you catch a whiff of his hair. Freshly washed and smelling a bit like Sam’s shampoo. Your lips quirk. You’ll make sure to keep that a secret from Sam.

You pull back just enough to meet his eye, resting your palm over his vibranium hand that still cups your cheek. “Am I the first person you’ve kissed since the stone ages?”

His lips pull into a cheeky smile. “Maybe.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, skating your palm down the front of his shirt, the heat of his skin near searing through the fabric. “I guess we have a lot of catching up to do, huh?”

Bucky’s lips smother your small moan as he drags you into another kiss. You can feel his smile as he murmurs his agreement between desperate kisses and the enticing warmth of his tongue skimming along yours. The next time you part for air, Bucky drops his strong hands from your face to instead wrap them around the curve of your hips. He tugs you over his right thigh with ease and breathes a gentle sigh of your name, beginning to pepper kisses over you cheek and down the slope of your jaw.

Bucky reaches your ear and carefully nibbles the cartilage, his voice a warm scrape in your ear. “I want you.”

It’s such a simple phrase…and yet…it tears through you and pools like a heavy weight right to your center. “Then take me.”

Quick as a strike of a match, you’re tipped backwards, cradled right between the arm of the couch and the back of it. Heat rushes through each limb and gathers in your cheeks as Bucky’s vibranium fingers skate up your chest and curl around the column of your throat—that hardened soldier he’s tried to bury bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. You don’t care. You gasp into his mouth as he squeezes ever so slightly while he pushes a firm thigh between your legs. Shit—this is how you’re gonna die—grinding on Bucky’s muscled leg while he’s got a hand around your throat. 

What a way to go.    

With his other hand he grips the meat of your thigh and pulls you higher, grinding the rough material of his jeans covering his crotch into yours. You whine and arch into him. You need more. 

You both stay here for a good while up until it feels like you’re ready to burst at the seems if you don’t have him now. Bucky is no better—cheeks flushed as he fumbles with the zipper to relieve the noticeable bulge straining against it. Impatient and needy, you shoo away his hands and do it yourself, easily sliding your warm hand down his navel and over his boxers to palm at his cock. Bucky’s hand twitches around your neck, a sweet groan filling the air when you softly squeeze him through the elastic.

“Fuck, you’re gonna…” Bucky trails off and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. “Gonna make me cum in my pants if you don’t—don’t stop.”

While the thought is tempting, you want this to last just a little bit longer. Rush after the glorious high of just being near him, his kisses, everything about him. Bucky grunts at the loss of your hand and mouths a wet trail of sloppy kisses up your neck and returns to your lips. When you part he sweeps a stray strand of hair and tucks it behind your ear. He smiles softly.

“Can I try something?” He breaths. Before he can even tell you what his idea is, you’re happily nodding along. “Wanna taste you. Been thinking about it ever since Wakanda.”

Oof. His words shoot straight your center. “Bucky—why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

His mouth quirks. “You make me nervous.”

Rolling your eyes you plant a kiss on his forehead and grant him his simple desire. Bucky sits and slides to the floor, close enough that he’s still able to hover over you. You lift your hips as Bucky tugs your shorts and underwear down and off your legs. Besides the general anxieties of being half naked in front of an incredibly attractive man and performing something so sinful on a friend’s couch—there’s a strange stroke of pride that alights through each of your vertebrae. A powerful man willingly dropping to his knees to please you. 

Bucky shoots you a smile and slides his hands around your ribcage, bends forward slightly and captures you mouth in a deep kiss. He parts and nips down your jaw and over your throat, sliding his tongue over the marks he leaves with his teeth as if to soothe the slight sting. You whine and arch into him as he slides lower, leaving an obvious trail of bruises and teeth marks in his wake until he reaches the collar of your shirt. Bucky moves his palms under the fabric to grab at your breasts, the flats of his fingertips rolling over your nipples that peak through your bra. You suck in a shaky breath when Bucky catches the pebbled bud between his forefinger and thumb, the hard vibranium of his fingers scraping over it. A low hum rumbles through his chest as he leans forward to playfully nip at your collarbone.

“I wanna see you naked.” Bucky admits as he slips his hands out of your shirt. You shiver as those chilly metal fingers gently come to rest on the outside of your bare thighs. 

“Not here, Buck,” you sigh. “T-they—fuck—they can come back any minute.”

Bucky quirks a brow, eyes dropping between your legs, then back up with a smirk. His plush lips part, yet before he can disprove your silly point—that your bare ass is already out and taking off the shirt would barely make a difference—you interject. 

“Shut up.”

His shoulders bounce with a chuckle. “You have such a way with words, y’know that?”

You make a noise low in your throat and reach out to sharply tug his ear. He easily bats your hand aside, hooks his hands under your ass and hauls until you’re all but hanging over the edge of the cushions. You squirm, unable close your legs or to relieve some of that burning tension collecting in your core as Bucky lowers himself and wedges his shoulder between your thighs. He slides his hand over your calfs and wrestles them over his broad shoulders—earning a perfect view of your pussy. You’re already wet—worked up and running on borrowed time. You roll your head back onto the back of the couch and clench your jaw. You don’t want to rush him but Christ—you really don’t want Sam or Sarah to find you like this.   

It feels like ages before Bucky’s lips touch your belly and then your navel with his warm tongue. With a grunt he shoves your shirt up to your breasts and circles your bellybutton with the tip of his tongue—his enhanced strength easily pinning you down as you jerk and giggle.

Bucky picks up his head and grins. “Try and hold still, doll.”

No sharp retort comes to mind. Fuck—he’s already got you so expertly wrapped around his finger. 

Bucky hums, satisfied with your weak nod and continues on.  

Bucky’s bare fingers trace minuscule patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver that rushes through your body. They tickle towards the apex of your thighs and settle close enough to reach your aching center. He pauses for a moment and while you know he’s there, you curse when you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. They gently work up and down, smearing your wetness around but never enough to give you any friction as your body adjusts to the feel of flash and vibranium. You bite back a groan as your hips unconsciously twitch. 

Unsatisfied with simply touching you, Bucky shifts his weight to better reach your core. “Fuck—you’re so pretty.”   

There's a moment just before Bucky swoops down, face hovering close enough that you can feel his sticky, warm breath fan across you inner thighs. Anticipation grips your heart with an iron hold, and then— Bucky licks a broad stripe from the base of your cunt all the way up to your swollen clit. His mouth is molten, tongue like liquid velvet as you shudder and grab at his hair. Bucky grunts against you as you drag him closer by the short strands—greedy for any and all touch he gifts you. Bucky’s mouth slips around your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your eyes flutter shut as a quiet moan wrenches free from your vocal cords.  

He trails lower, sucks on your labia, and makes his way down to your soaking entrance. The wet heat of his tongue circles your cunt, skips over it completely to catch the wetness before it leaks over the couch. Bucky opens his mouth wide and groans in appreciation, devouring your pussy like he’s been denied this his entire life. Desperation lingers on his tongue and all you are is the honey sweet taste of salvation. 

“Shit—Bucky,” you cry, throwing your hips forward in search of more friction.

It's perfect. So fucking delicious. 

You tense as the vibranium tips of his fingers, two of them, press at your entrance, teasing the clenching ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The chilly digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness. With a self-satisfied grin, Bucky thrusts them back in, then out—setting a steady pace that makes everything ache with desire. It leaves you just hovering over the sharp edge of ecstasy, the catch of his knuckles and imperceptible metal plating dragging along your walls pure torture. Fuck—he’s going to be the death of you—

Bucky’s mouth dips down a second time and sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body seizes up tight. You're flying off that edge, faster than a fucking freight train. You cum onto his tongue and fingers with a strangled cry of his name, sparks of blurry white lining the edges of your vision as your back arches. Bucky continues to lick you through your orgasm, even as you buck and squirm in his iron hold. Supernovas implode behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire and jet fuel spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, lucid enough to hear Bucky murmur his praise—feeling the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue. 

Your brain swims in hazy bliss as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into your pussy and it damn near hurts. You're too sensitive. Nerves rubbed raw and still throbbing—but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your orgasm to push him away. Bucky is all too happy to remain between your legs—takes this opportunity to tilt his fingers into your cunt faster, suckle and lave his hot tongue over your clit that burns from overstimulation—somehow you're back at the very edge again.

It's sharper than a vibranium razor against bare flesh. Your thighs shake around him as he twists his fingers inside you and bumps agains that tiny, little patch of nerves. You cry out as an orgasm floods through you veins, rupturing each cell in your being with molten pleasure. Your core pulses around Bucky’s fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually cease to a fading throb. You whine and push at his forehead because he's still going. You panic a bit—fucking hell, he’s gonna make you cry—but he pulls away, his mouth and chin wet with your slick. 

“Feel good?” Bucky purrs, resting his cheek on your thigh. 

If judging by the way you thighs still quiver and your chest heaves—then yeah—it felt good. 

Cheeky bastard.  

“Get up here—“

You grapple with his shirt, fisting the thin fabric, but he’s heavy and your entire body feels like jello. Your grip strength is all but laughable at the moment as Bucky clambers back onto the couch and grabs both of your legs, slotting his narrow hips between them. One leg is stuck against the back of the couch while the other hangs off the edge, foot skimming the hardwood floor to accommodate Bucky. Not the most comfortable but fuck it—who cares.    

Bucky grunts when you lift your hands and hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging them halfway down his legs with a sharp yank. Already a dark patch of wetness stains the fabric of his boxers, the impressive bulge straining against the elastic and begging to be released. Your eyes meet his icy blue ones as you slowly pull his boxers over his cock. It bounces up towards his navel, thick and beautiful just like the rest of him. 

Impatient, Bucky’s fingers curl around your wrist and presses your open palm against his cock. He’s thick and heavy in your hand—perfect. The bead of precum that pools at his flushed tip smears against the inside of your palm as you experimentally roll your wrist, fascinated with the feel of his foreskin rolling over the steel heard flesh with each stroke.You give his a cock a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears. 

A sharp hiss of hair passes through his clenched teeth as you lightly tug on his cock. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the throbbing flesh, flushed and pulsing and all for you. His cock bobs when you let go—he huffs out a disappointed noise. “I need you, Buck—please.” 

Your previous two orgasms did seemingly nothing to soothe the growing ache for him. It prickles up your spine and singes through every nerve and bone—you whine and arch your hips, trying to touch your slick cunt to his cock. Bucky growls your name and pins your hips to the couch with ease. 

With his left hand, Bucky firmly grips your jaw, his stare folding into something serious. “You sure?”

Your tongue runs over your bottom lip. You grin. “Do your worst.”

Bucky curses and readjusts your calf slung over his hip and grips the base of his cock. You shudder as he runs the blunt head through your folds, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the flesh of his forearm as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and arch. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s certainly not small in any way shape or form. You’ll feel him for days afterwards as your cunt swallows inch after inch. 

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw clenched tight as sweat beads at his hairline. Shit—he’s gorgeous—struggling not to loose control the moment he’s buried inside of you. You allow yourself to adjust for a moment but your own impatience rakes down your spine with claws of scorching arousal. You rock your hips in curiosity and squeeze around him. 

“Fuck—“ A ragged moans severs his words as your gentle rocking tilts into abrasive jolts. At this angle it’s difficult to fuck yourself onto his cock, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. His left hand shoots to your throat, the chilly metal a stark contrast to your flushed skin. You dip your head back, exposing more of your supple skin—all his for the taking. 

You dig the heel of your foot into the small of his back and grab at his shoulders—tempting him into fucking you already. You’ve waited long enough. Bucky snarls your name, hooks one hand under your ass and pulls his cock nearly all the way, out only to slam back in with devastating force. There’s no time to adjust or gather your obliterated thoughts before Bucky sets a pace, desperate and feral. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what seems like a millennia—and maybe it has been. Bucky shifts, widening his knees as much as he can to sink lower onto your body—his soft hair tickles your cheek as his choppy exhales burn hot over your skin. 

Bucky turns his head to steal a kiss, open mouthed and catastrophic. No words are exchanged as he fucks into you with brutal strength aided by that damn super-soldier serum—there’s no need for them, not now anyway. You complete each other without the spoken utterances—still both a work in progress. Though most things are you suppose—constantly remaking yourselves, but instead of smashing the haphazard pieces back together alone—you have one another. You bury your hand in his hair and cry his name.  

You choke out another groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter and damn—you really hope nothing gets on this stupid couch. You don’t want to explain that Sam. 

Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, blazing through each and every vein with the brilliance of a wildfire escaping the edges of the forest. This is gonna ruin you. Bucky’s hand reaches between your bodies and rubs tight, controlled circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a calamitous surge of warmth that sweeps your very soul off its feet. Your nails dig into Bucky's back as you shake and fumble for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor. 

You have no time to recover because he’s still going. Thrusting into your pussy with violent slaps that echo through the room and will more than likely leave bruises against your ass. Through the pressure of his hand over your windpipe—threatening to cut your air off completely—you garble out his name. Bucky drops his head to his chin, the weight of his gaze landing between your legs, watching the way his entire length disappears inside of you. When he raises his head he molds his mouth to yours. The soft, wet kisses rapidly morph into pricks of his teeth, his gravelly moans so pleasing to hear. 

You arch and tilt your head back as he presses you harder into the couch. The vibranium hand latched onto your jaw, works it open and slides a thumb past your plush lips. You lave your tongue over the digit—the metallic tang flooding your tastebuds. “Good girl—m’close. A little longer.”

Bucky’s panting breaths mingle with yours as his pace turns vicious. Chasing his high that he so desperately needs. Overstimulation bites at your nerves, but with a gentle tug to the soft strands of hair on the back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, Bucky bursts. His moan jumps up an octave, eyes slamming shut as he buries his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he cums. He’s shuddering in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides. You whine and tilt your hips up to prevent it from spilling onto the couch. 

Finally he slows to a stop, ragged breathing filling the air as the heat and weight of his body becomes a welcome comfort. Eventually that warmth grows stifling. He lazily pulls away, observing gaze drinking in each inch of bare skin exposed—the marks and the light sheen of sweat. You hiss as he curiously drags his thumb over the bite mark lingering just above your collarbone.

He parts his plush lips but before he can apologize, you interject. “Don’t—I like the reminder.”

Bucky shakes his head and drops down to tempt your lips into a lazy dance. “You’re a weirdo.”

You smile and cup his cheek. “I’m not the one with a staring problem. You know that you can’t kill people by glaring, right?”

Bucky kisses your cheek, your jaw, and then the dip of your throat. “You don’t ever shut up, do you?” 

You shudder as his softening cock twitches inside of you, another coal of desire flaring in the pit of your stomach. You flash him a coquettish grin. “Maybe if you give my mouth something to do, you’ll finally get some peace and quiet.” 

Something dark and dangerous flickers within those eyes. You shiver as one hand returns to your throat while the other draws teasing patterns over the outside of your thigh. He draws in close, nips at the shell of your ear and chuckles darkly. “You’re on.”

[moon-lixie]

word count: 2.242k

song: Too Fast - Sonder

cw: Explicit sexual content, dom Chan, edging, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, protected sex, and creampie. There's also a bit of angst in there.

Useless, numb, and mediocre. You were now the things that you had feared the most, nothing but a piling clump of failures. It was hopeless to try to convince you otherwise, because that's all that you saw reflected in the mirror.

You felt nothing but sheer hatred towards the product of a lifetime. You had lived so long and yet this was the best you could do, perform poorly at everything that you meant to be good at.

You hated pitying yourself and being pitied but it almost looked like that was the only thing that you wished for now. Hands giving up even on begging for the slightest crumb of attention.

But you still tried, because if you were to beg then he would surely comply. His will would melt under your pathetic pleads, restrain dissipating into thin air, reluctancy being washed away by the thought of helping someone else.

He was the purest man alive, only when it came to his intentions. Always willing to try and fix the broken and stay by the side of pitiful souls.

But he was completely foolish sometimes, because some people had no repair and he never understood that.

"Are you sure?" He was reluctant but he would never explicitly say so out loud, that could possibly hurt you and he would never risk making you feel bad.

You nodded slightly annoyed that he kept asking over and over again if you were sure of this. His question was valid, you were intoxicated on failure and despair, so perhaps it wasn't the best option to take impulsive decisions. But you were laying already on his bed so you had no desire to back away now.

A soft sigh managed to reach your ears as a mere miracle, that's how meek it had been while coming out of his mouth. Following the puff that meant to release tension, he smiled at you. It was the sweetest smile you had seen in your whole life, it most surely belonged to an angel.

His hands wavered just like the wind; that's what you liked the most about him, he had the nerve of being shy after all. But then his hesitation would evaporate a second later, like the fake confidence that you allowed yourself to have often.

First he just caressed the side of your torso, slowly and taunting, knowing fully well that he drove you to the edge with the slightest graze of the tip of his fingers.

Lips were fast to follow his eager hands, crashing against yours hungrily. Whatever doubts he had a couple of minutes ago were now long gone. It was obvious on the way he moved his lips hastily against yours.

This is what you needed, so much attention that you couldn't even think about anything else.

He nibbled on your lower lip, softly at first but it became harsher as seconds passed by. A hiss escaped your lips when he bit down especially hard, he chuckled lightly at such a sound making its way up your throat before allowing his tongue to glide over your lower lip to soothe the stinging sensation.

With him you didn't have to feel so scared, he would take care of you no matter what. So you finally tangled your fingers on his soft locks, because he made you feel like it was okay to melt into his touch. If you did then he would still stay by your side and that was enough for now.

Despite having made several breaks in the connection of your mouths, to try and get some air, he still didn't leave the softness of your lips. The only difference was that now he eagerly let his tongue explore inside the cavern of your mouth.

Veiny hands pressed down on your torso as if it was possible to sink the mattress more under your weights. Then his fingers finally grabbed your waist firmly to stop you from moving, but it's not like you were planning to do such a thing.

You like the pressure of his grip, it reminds you that you're in fact there, alive and breathing the same air as him. You like even more the way in which he finds the way to rest his knee against the mattress in the small gap that your slightly parted legs allow him to.

When his mouth finally leaves yours for good you whimper shamelessly, wishing for him to be well aware of the displeasure his actions provoked in you. He chuckled once again, amused by how needy you could become. "Don't worry, baby. We're obviously not finished yet."

Cushions of flesh made their way along your jaw and the skin of your neck with kisses that feel so present yet quick and faint. Your hands fall limp on both of your sides as you try to relish in his warmth. He was your last anchor to life and right now the only one that you needed.

"You're boring me." You had the nerve to say when your agitated breath completely said otherwise. He knew better than to take your words literally so he slipped both of his hands under your shirt and explored the texture of your familiar skin eagerly.

He made you sit on the bed before tugging at the hem of your shirt. You complied and raised your arms so that he could get rid of the thin layer of fabric that hid you from his sight.

He unclasped your bra before tossing it aside and pushing you back towards the mattress. His mouth soon rested atop of your breast, sucking and biting hard enough for you to squirm under his touch but gentle enough not to hurt you.

After a couple of seconds he looked up at your closed eyes and smugly smiled. "I guess I'm not boring you anymore. Or are you still not entertained enough?"

"More." You lightly whispered under your breath. Immediately he dived back in to resume his previous activities while caressing your torso with his hands.

The pads of his fingers were soft and warm, just like the chocolate tone of his eyes. But his intentions were as burning as fire itself.

You would rarely allow him to help you, always closing yourself to the possibility of voicing your worries out loud. And that pained him; it completely broke him to watch you struggle on your own while he sat by your side. The only moment in which you were fully vulnerable were moments like these, in which you were literally bare under his eyes. So he always made the most of them, always gave his complete self into pleasing you.

Every time that he had the chance to have you this close he would claim you as his. Leaving purple and red proofs that he had been there, close to your heart even if just for a second.

He bit down harshly on your collarbone causing your nails to dig on his pristine white back. It hurt but it was better than feeling nothing at all, better than being on an amazingly boring loop of absolutely nothing.

His back hurt too, but he loved the kind of pain that edged him more into pleasure. The pain that you brought him was always the best he had ever experienced.

His teeth sunk into your skin various times more before he felt satisfied with his piece of art. He moved away from you to catch his breath and admire the purple and red combination of his neediness on your skin. It was perfect, just like you were in his eyes, but he knew that convincing you of that was perhaps impossible. That still didn't persuade him from trying to make you believe it.

"You're perfect." His thumb caressed your cheek with the same amount of affection that his eyes held while looking at you. And it felt too burdening, because you could never deserve him and all the love he had to offer.

"Ruin me, please." Ruin me until I have no tears left to cry, until my worries dissolve in between your thrusts, until I forget all of my problems. That's what you really meant to say, but luckily for you, the three words you mustered to pronounce were enough for him to understand exactly what you wished for.

"Your wish is my command, princess." It had been enough playing around already, his fingers finally found themselves at the height of your waistband. The button of your jeans presented no resistance against his complying fingers and soon you were completely raw in front of him.

Black fabric abandoned his torso before he lowered himself on the bed. His face ended up facing your inner thigh, the perfect excuse to kiss away at the skin of that area.

His lips were swollen and warm like flames, causing his kisses to be the responsible for the soft tremble of your knees.

With a swift movement he made room for him to lower himself onto your heat. It took a single puff of air for you to relax fully against the fluffiness of his bed.

You spared one last glance at him before closing your eyes and what you saw was a satisfied smile on his lips. It was nothing like the heartwarming smile that he had given you before, this one made you shudder in anticipation.

One kiss at the sensitive bud of nerves and you were sighing in satisfaction. That’s all he needed to continue joyfully sucking at the sensitive bud and slipping one digit at your drenched core.

He fingered you at a steady pace before he retreated his face away from your core. He slipped another digit and his fingers kept going steadily while his lips found its way to rest against your cheek.

You were biting down on your lip to stop yourself from making any noises. He started kissing your cheek adorably, making an obvious contrast between his lips and the sinful thrusting of his fingers.

“Please, make a sound for me.” The words floated on the room in between soft and tender kisses. And instead of complying to his plea you bit down on your lip with more force. “Please princess, do it for me.”

It seemed like he wasn’t the only one whose will dissolved in between pleads because you were soon reaching your high loudly, and his chest filled with pride at your sinful moans.

Eyes closed and head resting comfortably against his pillow, you attempted to catch your breath. Meanwhile he unbuckled his pants and discarded his undergarments; you knew too well that you were barely getting started. With him it always proved to be all or nothing, he wouldn’t stop until he was sure he had fully ruined you.

He tapped twice against your waist with his index finger and you quickly moved to rest against your knees and hands. You knew him, exactly what he liked and what he would never be willing to try just like he was well aware of how to make you scream. It was laughable to a certain degree; he knew of your deepest and most obscure desires and yet you wouldn’t allow him to take a glimpse inside your head, too afraid that he would end up seeing you in the same way you did.

Kisses were littered on your back as he opened a silver package and slipped a condom over his length before slowly pushing himself inside you. Once you had adjusted to his size he started pushing himself in and out at a pace that you could only call pleasing. Soon picking up his pace and not allowing your still sensitive core much room to last for long; you felt your high approaching and you whimpered loudly at the feeling of a knot tightening on your lower abdomen.

The loud and high pitched sound that slipped from your lips were the sign he needed to stop his hips abruptly and deprive you from the blissful feeling that was going to wash over you in a matter of seconds.

Before you had the time to comply he started moving again, slowly, one thrust at a time. Breathy moans were stolen from your mouth by the angle of his movements that allowed him to hit the perfect spot that made stars litter beautifully behind your lids.

He kept the slow pace for a while before moving rapidly without a warning; whimpers got stuck in your throat. Once again he suddenly stopped but this time you weren’t having it anymore. You tried to move to face him as you complained but his hands firmly held you in place.

“Don’t be so impatient.” He said almost mockingly before thrusting inside of you with force, just once. “If you wait then I’ll give you what you want.”

He was surely enjoying himself and you couldn’t deny feeling exactly the same. It would be futile and useless to deny the fact that just a simple glimpse at his torso could suffice to turn you on; when he touched you, you managed to make your way up to the clouds.

When he got impatient of waiting and teasing, he started thrusting in and out of you, going back to the perfect and somewhat relaxed pace from the start. The speed of his movements increased little by little, the knot in your lower abdomen making its presence noticeable more and more as he kept going.

Once he reached a pace that caused the mattress to rock along with your bodies, you knew you were done for. It wasn’t long before another wave of overwhelming pleasure washed over you, but this one made your legs and arms tremble as the pleasures came back every time you tried to close your eyes.

His thrusting became sloppier when you tightened around him and his pleasure was let loose not long after you had finished.

As you laid in bed trying to come back to your senses a couple of tears started rolling down your temples. After a couple of seconds it wasn’t a couple of droplets but a whole storm of emotions that didn’t allow you to live in peace.

You hadn’t forgotten your problems but at least you could finally cry with freedom. You could finally feel everything escape your eyes and tears while he held you close.

A soft kiss on top of your head and arms securely holding you close to a warmth you were too familiar with. That’s how you ended up.

[robininthelabyrinth]

The Nie brothers time travel but something goes wrong and they end up in each other bodies. So now they have to defeat WRH, find a way to curb JGY worst tendencies, and hide (and undo) the switch before any cultivator decides they are possesed by evil spirits

“I can’t do this,” Nie Huaisang announced heavily. “I can’t. Nope. Cannot. No way.”

“You apparently found a way to time travel into the past,” his brother pointed out. He was taking this entire thing very calmly – or, rather, like he’d heard a really great joke. It wasn’t that Nie Huaisang had forgotten that his brother had a sense of humor hidden under the rage, especially in the earlier years before Jin Guangyao got at him, but he may have downplayed his memories of how annoying it was to be the target of it. “Your abilities are clearly well beyond what you’ve been leading me to believe.”

“I’m sneaky,” Nie Huaisang explained. “I can scheme and plot and play politics, sometimes, if I have to. But I cannot be a general!”

I cannot be you, he meant. He might currently be inhabiting his long-dead brother’s body – an unfortunate side effect of messing up the time travel array, he suspected, but then again experimental things were often imperfect – while his brother’s spirit had been cast out into his own former self, but he wasn’t his brother.

He could never be.

(But Nie Mingjue was alive, alive and well with bright eyes and that stupid smirk that didn’t fit right on Nie Huaisang’s smaller face except in the ways it sort of did, and that was all Nie Huaisang had ever wanted in his life, other than Jin Guangyao to pay in blood and shame for depriving him of it.)

“Why not?” his brother asked. He leaned back and stretched lazily. Nie Mingjue never did a lazy thing in his whole life, so it was deliberate. He was enjoying this. “We have a battle strategy, already decided; most of the rest of it is on-the-ground tactics, which can be done just as well from behind the lines as at the front of them. There’s a reason that no one ever settled on the best place for a war-leader to be – it comes down to temperament.”

Nie Huaisang threw his hands into the air. “I know that! I was sect leader for nearly two decades, da-ge; I assure you, I’ve heard all the sect’s philosophical musings by now. But I don’t have your temperament – there’s no way someone won’t figure out what’s happened, that we’ve switched, and that’ll be a disaster.”

“Two decades,” Nie Mingjue said thoughtfully, focusing on the entirely wrong part of the conversation.

“A decade and a half to avenge your untimely murder,” that got a flinch out of his brother and his focus back, just as Nie Huaisang had wanted, “and another five to find a way to come back and avert it entirely.”

Nie Huaisang had always been resourceful. Resourceful, and ruthless – sometimes to a degree that scared even him.

When he was younger, it was okay. After all, the only thing he used it for was sneaking treats and spoiling himself, and it didn’t really matter if he was ruthless about stuff like that. And then his brother died – was murdered – and suddenly he knew what it was like to be his brother: a young man suddenly shoved into the role of sect leader, and having to balance everything he now had to be against the overwhelming blistering hatred he bore for and the crippling weight of the vengeance he had sworn against a man who had taken away someone he loved forever for something as pointless and ephemeral as political advantage.

(He had to take a deep breath at the mere thought of it, the family rage spiking under his skin. It was a bit of a surprise, actually, to find that his brother didn’t have more of it - he’d always assumed that his rage was lesser, weaker, the way his golden core was, but no. It turned out their rage was just the same.)

“So what you’re saying,” his brother said, and he was smirking again, oh no, “is that you’re focused, efficient, and unyielding in pursuit of your goals, given the right motivation. That sounds like general material to me.”

“Not if the goal is to make sure no one knows what’s happened,” Nie Huaisang hissed. Had own face always looked so incredibly punchable? “Da-ge, it doesn’t matter what type of general I might be. What matters is that it’s not the same type of general you are – you’re always at the front line, leading the charge. I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” his brother said. “By the time you’re in the middle of a charge, you’re not really thinking tactics anymore. It’s all just fighting, and I know you know all the moves, no matter how much you bitch and moan about having to practice them.”

Nie Huaisang glared, crossing his arms over his chest – his brother’s arms, his brother’s chest, and this was still just too weird. He hadn’t even had time to properly weep and cry and hug his brother the way he’d expected to in the event the time travel array worked; they’d had to jump straight into explanations and strategizing because there was a pretty big battle happening in less than twenty-four hours and they needed to fix this first.

His brother rolled his eyes at him, and for the first time Nie Huaisang realized that his brother was going to have no problem at all pretending to be him – the acting problem here went only one way. “Just let Baxia handle the aggression part, okay? The rest is muscle memory, and I, at least, have done enough to build that in.”

“Letting the saber spirit in like that is dangerous, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang reminded him, eyes narrowed. His brother was also assuming that Baxia would agree to be wielded by anyone other than her beloved master, which was a stretch – she barely even agreed to be sharpened by someone else, resisting violently whenever someone tried. 

Jin Guangyao had died still bearing the scars from his attempt. 

“Well, apparently I get murdered before it becomes an issue, so why worry?” his brother cackled, and Nie Huaisang glared harder. It had no impact whatsoever: Nie Mingjue stood up and stretched again. “You know what, Huaisang, if you’re feeling the need to sit around and pity yourself, you’ve got at least a few incense sticks’ worth of time to do it in before actually doing something becomes necessary – I, on the other hand, am going to do something productive with my time.”

“Like what?”

His brother grinned at him with teeth. “Saber training. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Nie Huaisang picked up a teacup and hurtled it at his beloved big brother’s head. Naturally, Nie Mingjue dodged, effortlessly, and left laughing.

“At least pretend like you’re going to behave!” Nie Huaisang bellowed after him, but his brother just waved at him, and – ugh. This was vengeance for a lifetime of laziness, wasn’t it? Coming to bite him in the ass.

After a few minutes, Nie Huaisang picked up another teacup – they always had dozens of them in the Nie sect, cheaply made in bulk and specifically designed to shatter easily because of the family tendency to throw stuff around and not calm down until something was broken, and better a cheap teacup than an expensive door or table, better something designed not to hurt anyone who happened to get in the way or didn’t know how to duck faster enough – and threw it against the door again.

It shattered beautifully. NIe Huaisang had only rarely been able to get it to do that, and never so effortlessly – the advantage of his brother’s strength.

Strength, and height. Nie Huaisang was tall now.

Okay, self-pity could wait until later. Nie Huaisang was going to go patrol the camp for a little bit and enjoy looking down at all the people.

It was going to be great.

It was, too. Even talking with people wasn’t as difficult as he thought it was going to be. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised at that; he had been sect leader for years, so he was accustomed to answering questions and making on-the-fly rearrangements and responding to things with leading questions that made the other person come up with the solution on their own, not to mention saying encouraging things that made people feel better about things. 

He’d had to do a lot of that, being the Head-shaker, and even more afterwards, when he’d shed his disguise like a cicada shedding its skin.

It was easier now than it had ever been before, of course. The Nie sect was still strong, under his brother’s leadership; his disciples didn’t have that discouraged look lurking in the back of their eyes, the shame of being led by the disgraceful Head-shaker. It was easy to brighten someone’s day with a nod in their direction, disciples blooming like roses at the sight of their stern sect leader looking approving, and the questions he received were far more intellectually stimulating than the usual – less about making sure he knew what he was supposed to do and more actual puzzles, things that had really tripped people up.

Nie Huaisang tried at first to keep his answers short, tried to pretend to be more stoic and stand-offish the way the famous Chifeng-zun ought to be, except when he did everyone just smiled at him the way they always had when he’d been the Head-shaker – a little indulgent, a little pitying, a little “well he’s trying his best” – and after a while Nie Huaisang started remembering things he’d long ago forgotten.

Things like how his brother was actually kind of a mess sometimes, emotionally speaking – he was the sort of person who got weepy over dramatic literature – and how he’d never quite gotten the hang of people, how he valued his friends like gold and held grudges way too long and promoted people just because they seemed decent; how he sometimes spent his entire money pouch and more on buying Nie Huaisang stupid trinkets because it seemed to make him happy, even borrowing money from their escort, which would always be doubled over laughing at how their fearsome sect leader couldn’t bring himself to say no.

Like how Nie Huaisang’s sect was his family, aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters, whether born in or adopted or just part of the sect. The good type of family – not always the closest, not always your friends, not always even people you really liked, but still all predisposed to take your side in a fight if it came down to it.

These were the people who supported him and stood behind him – even when he was the Head-shaker.

He’d almost forgotten.

And so, despite himself, Nie Huaisang softened a bit. He stopped trying to respond to everything with a grunt or a huff, started asking about people’s families, making suggestions, telling them they’d done a good job.

“Glad you’re out of your mood,” Nie Yongbiao, who’d been quietly trailing him, finally commented, and Nie Huaisang blinked owlishly at him. “What kicked it off this time? You usually only get that closed-mouth after having to host guests.”

And that was true, wasn’t it? It had been such a long time, and after so much trauma, that Nie Huaisang had forgotten how his brother used to shut down whenever there was a discussion conference or an important meeting – how it took him longer and longer to get better on the other side as the qi deviation drew nearer, his meridians filling with Jin Guangyao’s spiritual poison. By the end, he had barely ever been open and free, barely seemed to remember how to drop his guard and relax, to act like a regular person with a sense of humor again, be the person Nie Huaisang knew his brother to be. 

But that was then, and this was now - war had been good for Nie Mingjue, in a strange way. Here in the camps there was a lessened expectation of etiquette, a great appreciation of strength, and his brother was more free to be himself, straightforward and blunt as the off side of a saber.

(Nie Mingjue had tried so hard to be a good brother to Jin Guangyao, Nie Huaisang abruptly remembered, but he’d shut down after every visit, worse than ever before. His heart had known the truth, even if he had allowed himself to be convinced by Lan Xichen and Nie Huaisang to keep giving Jin Guangyao second chance after second chance. He should never have listened to them.)

“Argument with Huaisang,” he said, a safe answer, and Nie Yongbiao nodded wisely.

“Can you say what it was about?” he asked, rather unexpectedly – Nie Yongbiao wasn’t exactly talkative, and no one ever pried about their family affairs. Catching Nie Huaisang’s surprised look, he shrugged. “He’s obviously very upset.”

“He is?”

“He’s at the training field,” Nie Yongbiao stressed, and Nie Huaisang had to choke down a hysterical laugh. Of course Nie Yongbiao would think that something must have gone horribly wrong to get “Nie Huaisang” to go willingly to train.

Nor was Nie Yongbiao the only one, for that matter: when Nie Huaisang arrived at the training field they’d set up in the middle of the camp, he saw an entire crowd of Nie sect disciples milling around at the edge of the field, bearing a suspicious resemblance to a flock of over-anxious quail.

He reached up to his face, pretending to want to pinch the bridge of his nose but actually to smother a smile, and luckily he had regained control of his features by the time he reached the edge of the small sea of disciples because they immediately all turned to him with relieved expressions, their cries of “Sect Leader! Sect Leader!” ringing in his ears like the coos of his pet birds.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, and immediately received the full story: Nie Huaisang had come to the field looking upset – one person insisted there had been tears in his eyes – and had set himself up against a practice dummy, and he hadn’t stopped whacking at it ever since.

Clearly, the world was ending.

“We had an argument earlier,” Nie Huaisang admitted, and managed, barely, not to laugh at how they all looked at him with disapproving eyes. “I’ll talk with him.”

Approving nods all around, although they didn’t disperse.

“Sect Leader,” one of the older generation said, very hesitantly. “If it’s about – the clan matter – if there’s anything we can do to help –”

Nie Huaisang shook his head, feeling touched. When it really had been him, his brother had kept the specifics of it secret – the tombs, the inevitability, the deterioration he was so avidly trying to put off – until it was too late, and he’d had to learn about it the hard way; it was nice, though, that they apparently all worried so much on his behalf about it.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it. “But it’s a different issue.”

Namely, the issue was that the person doing the training wasn’t Nie Huaisang at all, he thought, but when the crowd finally started breaking apart, people going back to their assigned tasks, and he finally managed to make his way to where his brother was, he was surprised to see that his brother really did appear to be upset.

He wasn’t practicing any of his normal training routines, but rather wielding Aituan in the same way a novice woodcutter would wield an axe: repetitive strikes, made wildly and with too much strength, as if hitting the practice dummy was the only thing that could vent his feelings.

“Uh, ‘Huaisang’?” Nie Huaisang asked, worrying his lip as he came closer. “Are you –”

His brother dropped Aituan to the ground – which, hey! Watch it, that was his saber! – and turned, and Nie Huaisang had only a moment to see his glassy eyes before his brother threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight.

Nie Huaisang automatically responded, wrapping his arms back around and holding Nie Mingjue close – it was nice, he thought, to finally have the reach he’d always felt he should have, big and tall and enveloping in its warm the way his brother had been for him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice low enough not to carry. “Did something happen…?”

“No,” Nie Mingjue said, but his lips were pressed together to keep them from trembling. Nie Huaisang’s body had always been free with his emotions, much to his annoyance; he’d learned to cultivate it into a disguise, but he hadn’t really liked it. Tears had never been a relief for him the way they’d been for his brother. “No, it’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously not nothing,” Nie Huaisang said firmly, and carted him off back to his tent. Being as worried as he was, he did his best not to be too smug about finally being the one who was strong enough to pick his brother up, rather than the other way around – not that he needed to, what with his brother following docilely along with him – but there was, perhaps, a little bit of smugness. “Okay, we’re back, silencing talismans are back up because we apparently have the nosiest disciples. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing, really…”

“Da-ge.”

“I left you alone,” his brother blurted out, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “For twenty years. Whatever I did, however I got murdered – some moment of carelessness – it doesn’t matter. I failed you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no– 

“No,” he said out loud. “No, da-ge, you were tricked – it wasn’t – it wasn’t your fault.”

“I always said I would hold up the sky for you,” Nie Mingjue said bitterly. “And instead I left you with the same inheritance that I received. I never wanted that for you, Huaisang. Never.”

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said helplessly. “Da-ge, you don’t understand. You were trying. You wanted – you were doing everything you could. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t fail me. I was the one who failed you. I’ve always failed you –”

“Never!”

“I’m lazy, I’m selfish, I’m good-for-nothing, a head-shaker –”

“So what?” his brother said, glaring up at him. His eyes were red, but with tears, not qi deviation. “Even if it’s true, which it isn’t, because no head-shaker could have avenged me, could have found a way to come back, could have become the Nie sect leader and kept it for two decades, even if it’s true – so what? As long as you’re safe, I don’t care. As long as you have a way to defend yourself, and you so obviously must have, then nothing else matters. Nothing has ever mattered but your happiness.”

“And yours,” Nie Huaisang shot back. “You have the right to a life too, da-ge! You – you should have had my support. You should have been able to share your burdens, I should have helped you instead of anchored you down –”

“Huaisang –”

Nie Huaisang pulled him in tight again. “It’ll be different, this time,” he promised, his voice rough. “I’m older than you ever go the chance to be, da-ge. This time, I can help you with the things you’re not good at – I can do the politics, the people. We can bear the weight of the sect together.”

He felt a whisper in the back of his mind that was strange and yet familiar, approving. Baxia, he realized. Baxia, approving of him; Baxia, who would let him wield her,   and he sensed her confidence that no one would get past her iron guard, together protecting his brother in both body and soul.

“All right,” his brother said. “Together. You and me – and the others.”

“Others?”

“After so many years, you must know who’s trustworthy,” Nie Mingjue pointed out. Already back to being practical, even if he was wiping his eyes. “If we tell those people, they can help us keep up the impression that I’m you and you’re me for as long as we need it.”

Nie Huaisang was nodding along, because that made sense, only then his brother said the last part and it was like a sunrise had opened up in his head, the way terrible and wonderful ideas always did.

“Da-ge,” he said, tasting the words in his mouth. “Da-ge, how do you like my body?”

His brother blinked up at him. “It’s fine, I guess? You’re actually in pretty decent shape, better than I thought, and your cultivation is – well, you could do a bit more with that, honestly, but it’s not uncomfortable or anything. Why?”

Nie Huaisang smiled. He’d always been remarkably resistant to their family’s cultivation curse, and not only, as he’d pretended to Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji all those years ago, because he didn’t practice - it was his temper, or lack thereof, that softened the saber spirit’s effects on him. 

Even if his body’s cultivation increased, he was far enough behind the curve, with his mediocre talent, that it would take decades for him to reach the level that it would be dangerous to him, while his brother’s prodigious talent, coupled with his inheritance of the family temper, made him even more likely to succumb – it was that prediction which had worried him so much that he had sought out treatment even before it had become a serious problem, the same worries that had driven him into Jin Guangyao’s trap.

What do you think? he asked the brand-new whisper in his mind. Aituan would probably bitch and moan about having to actually do things, but he’d secretly enjoy getting a bit more evil-killing in; the question was Baxia. What would she think?

A purr of agreement.

“I was just thinking,” Nie Huaisang said. “Chronologically speaking, I’m older than you are. I ran the sect for years – it might be hard to let go of that habit. How about we just…stay as we are, for now?”

Nie Mingjue frowned. “Baxia –”

“I’ll use her in public, and Aituan in private,” Nie Huaisang interrupted. He’d known that would be his brother’s first concern. “And you’ll do the opposite. And when we’re settled enough, we’ll come up with some excuse to switch.”

His brother hesitated. “But…you don’t like doing things. Responsibility. That sort of thing.”

“I got over it,” Nie Huaisang assured him. “Trust me, I have a whole system – I’ll implement it once the Sunshot Campaign is done; you’ll be amazed at how much easier it makes things, and then all the things that are left over are the stuff I actually enjoy. And this way, you could…I…”

He swallowed, and put his hands on his brother’s shoulders. He didn’t want to manipulate his brother into something like this – he didn’t want to manipulate his brother at all. His brother deserved the truth and honesty he had always freely given the world, and so Nie Huaisang could only offer up the unvarnished truth.

“I want to do this for you, da-ge,” he said. “I want you to have the life you should have had. I want you to have hobbies again, to make friends, real friends that will put you first. I want you to have fun with them without thinking of how people might think about it…please, da-ge. I came back here to keep you alive, but I want more than that. I want to see you live.”

“Okay,” his brother said, and he was choking back tears again. “We’ll – we’ll discuss it later, but I’ll think about it. Okay.”

“Good,” Nie Huaisang said. “Now catch me up on the tactics we’re planning on using in tomorrow’s battle, and I’ll let you know everything I know about what happens in the future…oh, and one more thing.”

“Oh?”

Nie Huaisang’s hand dropped to the table, parallel to Baxia; he could hear her purr in his mind whistling like the rumble of thunder. He smiled.

“Can you tell me where Meng Yao is?”