#you know shits fucked when america does better than your country at something medical

[lunarflare64]

AUSTRALIA'S ME/CFS CLINICAL GUIDELINES ARE BEING UPDATED! THE GOVERNMENT APPROVED FUNDING FOR THE RESEARCH! FUCK YEAH!

[vtforpedro]

long, long health update - tw in tags please read them

I am going to speak very frankly about suicidal ideation; please don't read further if this is triggering for you ;3; but please know that I love you I had my follow-up appt with my neuropsych on monday to go over my results and whatnot. it was virtual, and I was in the middle of a head episode and I told her I wasn't doing well, but within about 5-10 minutes, she was saying I should probably go to the ER lkajflaj I guess it looked pretty bad lmao anyway I told her all the reasons I couldn't. medical trauma, being dismissed b/c I have doctors who manage my headaches, and I know it's not life-threatening even if it is 10/10 agonizing, so why are you here. they're so dismissive. she said that they have medication to possibly help break the cycle of constant migraines but I've been treated with those before and they didn't do shit migraines are secondary to iih. it's the iih that needs to be fixed ._. she said I still deserved to not suffer and that the ER is very strict about keeping covid patients away from other patients and I didn't have the heart to tell her they intubated a covid patient 10-15 feet away from me last time I was in an ER 😭 anyway so the results. she said she wasn't worried about anything going on that was concerning or indicating something wrong in my brain. I DID score quite a bit lower for someone my age on information processing (which is exactly what I said I was struggling with to my two neuros who were both like ehhh) and some issues with memory but they weren't super specific and so it could be something neurological, could be my migraines and constant agony lmao, could be my Emotional State. could be all of them at once, I suppose ;) she went into more detail about some of these things but it was the two questionnaires I filled out that were HNNN. so once all the data is entered from like 300 questions it shows a good look into my personality and perceptions and all that and it makes a cool little graph (OR SO I THOUGHT). the kind that looks like mountain peaks. so she points at the one that is waaay higher than the rest and nearly touching the top of the box and she's like 'do you see this one' me: yeah 😬 her: this is your feelings and ideations about suicide me: 😬 😩 😬 her: when I see a score this high, I stop what I'm doing and I call the police to have them escort you to a hospital me: 😬😬😬😬😬 her: but I didn't do that. because when we spoke in office you told me you felt this way and why you don't do it. you told me it's something you've lived with for a long time and the pain you are suffering is what makes it so bad. and I trust you me: 😭😭😭 okay her: do you see this line down here? this is people who have suicidal ideation recorded on this test. you scored 98% higher on suicidal ideation compared to people reporting suicidal ideation HNNNNNN. she said it probably wasn't surprising to me and asked me if I was safe again and all that. I assured her I was and said in my previous appointment; I've had suicidal thoughts since I was like 12? maybe earlier. there have been very few times in my life not surrounded by abuse and trauma so I'm never really free of it. I've had four traumatic incidents causing increasingly horrible episodes of ptsd in nine years. all through my 20s. still here woo, lol and she said she knew that and had a patient not long after my first appointment who had similar circumstances in their life. and they told her it's almost a comfort having it. cause I was saying it's in the back of my mind at all times and I won't do it, but yeah, it's always there. anyway she said they said the same thing; it's always there, always in the background as 'hey I'm an option!' even though we aren't going to harm ourselves. it's a comfort knowing there is an option even if we plan on never using it? idk it just spoke to me and I felt it in my soul we talked about some emotional stuff after and I cried and it was a thing. it felt really good to speak to a psychologist who, just as she was in the first appointment, seemed genuinely concerned and wanted to help

me. I told her I was ready for therapy and she said she'd already looked for therapists for me lkasjdlkja and gave me a group that I emailed yesterday. I don't think they'll take my insurance but she said to message her through the portal if they don't and she'll try to find someone who does I don't remember if I mentioned it, but since she knew about the head shit before I met her, she dimmed her office lights without asking if I needed it and like as soon as we started the virtual visit, she leaped up and dimmed them and said she should've thought about it before the appt 😭 (I keep my brightness really low on my computer and use the warming feature 24/7 on comp and phone and my apt is really dimmed but it still helped a lot when she did it) she kept saying 'you did nothing wrong. it was the choice of others to do what they did. you don't deserve to carry their choices. you deserve to be able to hand it back to them. you don't deserve to be in pain. you did nothing wrong. you deserve to be free of what they did and you deserve to not suffer in such physical pain' I'm so wary of doctors but I really like her and I feel fortunate to have been referred to her ;3; speaking for a long time and especially emotionally is hard for me, so I might try to do two sessions a month once I find a therapist and see if I'm ok with that. trying to keep everything virtual while delta is out there I read her report and her official diagnosis is uhh really strong for major depressive disorder, severe. and severe ptsd with disassociative symptoms so!!! I claimed both of those on my disability application and the person handling my claim told me when I had this appt to call and let her know because she wanted the info. I signed a release the day I was there when I told my neuropsych that cause MH stuff is different than other medical records. she said she faxed it to the woman handling my disability application but I was gonna call her and ask if she received it and also tell her I have a new neuro so she will probably request his stuff too I called today and her voicemail box is full so lol try again later today's been awful. last night was horrible. got a bill for over $800 from my colonoscopy/endoscopy even though I asked numerous times if insurance was covering it and was told yep, every penny. so I was on the phone with insurance and the surgery center for 45 minutes. insurance seemed confused af but the agent I spoke with got some help from people who handle this stuff I guess finally she told me not to pay it, they're going to send them a letter to get it sorted (idk if this means I won't have to pay it at all or if they're going to try to make it that way. but I think govt insurance, which is what I have, works differently. like doctors kinda have to follow what they say vs. the other way around) and not worry about it for the next 30 days. I'm still gonna worry about it lmao they used a nice scare tactic on the bill that this was the 'LAST AND FINAL NOTICE' despite the fact they've never sent me anything else. my mom and the insurance agent said nah that's just what they do to scare people into paying fuckin love america <3 land of the free. the american dream! greatest country on earth 💜🖕💜 I just don't want it to go to collections and have to fight credit bureaus to get it off my credit so it's not destroyed |: anyway my head hit like 10/10 bad while I was on the phone cause of the talking a lot and trying to PROCESS INFORMATION and stress and also the fucking hold music, which I have to hear in some way b/c I gotta know when they're back on the line hnnnnn bad day. it's 1pm and bad, bad, bad day. bad month all around. I want this shit to stop anyway. I'm sorry about the suicidal ideation talk, but it's important to talk about that stuff. it can get severe but it can also get better. it does, eventually, even if it comes and goes. it always does get better I'm sorry, I also really needed to get this down somewhere. feel like I'm going to explode emotionally AND physically and I need to talk about it. hopefully

soon I'll have a therapist to talk to so I can get a lot of this stuff worked on. got my whole life to chat about so it'll probably take a long time but I'm willing to let it lmao therapy doesn't usually work for me anymore but idk I've had a lot of shit happen in less than two years so maybe it will this time I'm trying! I really am trying if you read this rambling monster, thank you. love you all and please stay safe

[ladynyctophilia]

Avoiding Red

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Mature Themes

Pairings: Vivienne Tang x MC (Rozario)

With the heist gone wrong, it all felt like a dream. I fell off of the helicopter with guns pointed at me in every direction, but somehow I was still shoved into an ambulance and rushed to a hospital for surgery.

At this point, I didn't know the difference between fantasy and reality. There was even this one night where I thought Vivienne was at the hospital with me, kissing my hand, but I knew that wasn't true. The Poppy should be laying low by now, probably in another country after all that heat we attracted in Paris. Again. 

I've been left with nothing but questions. Did I really join The Gilded Poppy? Was Vivienne Tang real? Or was I just waking up from a coma? However, whenever I moved, the gunshot wound on my lower abdomen, and the breaks in my ribs told me otherwise. My heart ached.

This is real. 

And every night I had to relive those same events in my dreams, but in my dreams I died on that rooftop. 

However, my thoughts were interrupted by the clicking of my room door opening. The nurse was probably back with this morning's pain medication. 

More pills to shove down my throat. Yay. 

But to my surprise, it wasn't the nurse, and I could feel my heart quickening as a short man dressed in a well-tailored suit that complemented his sun-kissed features entered the room. I tensed, ignoring the pain from my wound. This man wasn't a doctor or a nurse, and he didn't look lost either. That could only mean one thing. He stared at me, and I stared at him, but none of us gestured to speak. The man's hair was black as a starless night, even darker than Vivienne's, but his eyes were full of warmth. The green of his eyes reminded me of the emerald eyes of Vivienne's serpent ring, but unlike the color of envy, his gaze felt safe, and not like the cunning nature of the thieves and criminals I was acquainted with. I sighed. 

Vivienne...

However, a glint of light brought my attention to his chest, where a badge rested, flashing with justice. I didn't think about the police or anything like that when I was here. When I could think straight…

Ha. Straight. 

Shut up, Rozario.

...all I thought about was Vivienne and the look on her face when I let go. Did she really poison me? My heart wanted to deny any suspicion of betrayal in Vivienne, but my head knew better. Vivienne did have a past of lying and running away. She was a criminal after all, and I've been burned before. 

" Rozario Inmaculada Cruz," the man finally announced, waiting for my reaction. 

I winced at my full name that was weighed down by tradition and religion and stained by the memory of my father's stern voice, but other than that, he was getting no reaction out of me, and my eyes quickly narrowed. 

Excellent detective skills, Jimbo, you know my name. 

I didn't reply. To my surprise, his voice wasn't French; it was American, with a hint of something familiar. Very familiar. Spanish, but not from Spain. He was familiar to me, like a ghost. 

Sus. I was growing suspicious, but that didn't help the squeeze of anxiety in my guts. Technically, I was in France legally; I just wasn't doing legal things...my situation suddenly dawned on me. I was going back to America in chains and would probably be locked up for the rest of my life. I was terrified. Before it could begin, my life was over. I will never-

"Rozario," the man's deep voice called to me again," you don't have to talk," he hummed, with a hand scratching the stubble underneath his chin thoughtfully. A habit whenever he was thinking most likely. "Just pay attention, I don't have a lot of time here, and neither do you." I'm assuming that the detective was a very patient and reserved man, but my eyes lingered on his antique, probably handcrafted watch. 

Damn. I really have spent too much time around thieves. 

The detective noticed and cleared his throat, pulling down his sleeve." Rozario, I'm going to be blunt with you, you're fucked," he said with a shrug, taking off his glasses as if to see me better. "No matter what you do or say, you will end up in the slammer, but," he held up a finger, checking to see if I was still paying attention. "The number of years can be significantly reduced if you cooperate and help the French government and I catch these so-called members of The Gilded Poppy," the detective got right to the point with a casualness that I didn't associate cops with. It was like he didn't care, whatever my answer was, but there was a gleam in his pale eyes that told otherwise. 

He had a lousy poker face. Remy taught me the signs. I wanted to be stern, I wanted to be hard and cold, with no emotion, but there was a ball growing in my throat that I couldn't swallow. I was scared, but I couldn't give The Gilded Poppy away, could I? No. I quickly shook my head away from that thought as my eyes glistened with tears. 

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry...COME ON, ROZARIO!! 

I mentally slapped myself. 

Cry like a little bitch later, you can't cry in front of this man, or you will die a hundred deaths of shame. 

With that much needed mental pep talk, I lifted my chin up and locked eyes with the detective...cop whatever he was, and opened my mouth. 

"No, I will not help you, or anyone hunt down The Gilded Poppy," I declared firmly, trying to sound as emotionless as I could, but I came out more stubborn than I wanted. Both a blessing and a curse, hiding my emotions was never my strong suit. "So��" I looked away, trying to deflect whatever feelings from giving me away, "you are wasting your time, whoever you are." 

"Whoever I am?" The man raised a brow, pulling up a chair next to my bed to sit as if he was here to tell me my Abuela died. "Yes, I'm a private investigator that deals in foreign affairs, but I took your case because I know you, Rozario, from high school." 

WHAT???!!!! 

My panic was apparent, and whatever pathetic excuse of a mask I had on my face crumbled away, never to be rebuilt again. You would have thought I looked shocked. No, I was just sad, and it showed. I still wasn't quite sure who he was, but I believed him. Shit. 

"Now," the investigator spoke after waiting for a reply he never got. "It's been seven or eight years, but yes, we attended the same school in Florida, but I was a year below you. Thomas Parker," he hesitated, but continued, dropping his investigator persona for a slight second, glancing around the room as if someone was there. Still, no one was, and he whispered, bashfully while avoiding my gaze, "we were in the dance club together...." 

Tommy. Dance club. For a naive moment, all my worries had washed away, and my heart raced with excitement. It was like I had never left America and could recite the "old days" with Thomas and complain how terrible Mr. Jenkins was, but no, that wasn't the situation. He was an investigator, and I was now a thief...an art thief. The same coin, but different sides. "Tommy...Thomas," I finally said, savoring the taste of that familiar name, a name I knew as real and not fake. "Yes," I nodded, still avoiding his gaze shamefully. "I remember," outside of the dance club, I didn't know him well, but I knew that his mother was from Cuba like my parents were. However, he had grown into a completely different person. Puberty had really hit him like a truck because the Tommy I knew was shorter, hairless, and had the cutest chubby smile and carried around a deck of Magic The Gathering cards. He was adorable, but the Tommy that sat beside me wasn't that person anymore, now he was Thomas Parker, here to take me away for my crimes. 

His sigh brought my attention back to him, "what happened, Rozario? After high school?" For a second, he looked betrayed, and I was taken aback, still too stunned to conjure up any answers or explanations, "did you not have money?" He asked, but didn't wait for me to answer. "For a while, I assumed you were kidnapped and forced to do these crimes, but you definitely robbed that jewelry store on purpose. So, what happened?" He leaned back, now crossing his arms like a child would if they were pouting, but he just seemed...angry...and hurt. Why? He was only ever an acquaintance. "What happened to the girl who was constantly doodling in her sketchbook, with dreamy eyes and a contagious smile?"

"I...I…" I opened my mouth, ready with excuses, but the ball in my throat had grown too large for any words to be processed, and if it weren't for the wetness on my cheeks, I wouldn't have known I was crying. "A-adventure…" I finally whispered, not knowing if he heard.

Thomas's eye twitched at my answer, but seeing my upset state, he slipped back into his role as a private investigator and not Tommy from the high school dance club. "Your parents don't know, but they will," he said, pulling out a notepad and pencil from his pocket, "and you are looking at a thirty-year sentence, at least, when you return back to The States, but," he paused, clenching his jaw. "With good behavior, that sentence can be lowered to as short as a decade if you cooperate and help me put the rest of The Gilded Poppy behind bars. I know that the real Rozario would have never committed those crimes. Can't you see that they've tricked you?"

Thomas and I both knew that wasn't true, all those choices I made back then were mine alone, but it seemed as if he was trying to convince himself otherwise. I opened my mouth to speak, but he put a finger up to hush me. 

"Don't say anything," he asked, voice going soft, "I've seen cases like this many times before. A naive girl gets charmed by a few criminals, and then the said criminals offer to show the girl the world and offer them wealth, a life of excitement and freedom. The naive girl accepts, she does a few crimes and has fun, but when something goes wrong, the criminals escape as the naive girl gets arrested and framed for their crimes."

"They wouldn't do that to me," I blurted out, much louder than I had meant as my heart quickened on the verge of another panic attack.

Thomas shrugged, gesturing to the hospital room, "then why are you still here? You've been chained to that hospital bed for a week, and rumor has it that you were poisoned," he raised a brow, "and the last time I checked, french security guards don't poison burglars."

"No," I shook my head, still denying the possibility, but the deeper Thomas's words sunk into me, the more insecure I felt about the trust I had in The Poppy, and he was right. It didn't help that I had been betrayed and abandoned by Vivienne the first time I was in Paris...but that was before they really knew me. I was on a trial heist then, but honestly? I would have thought Vivienne would have gotten me out of the hospital by now….or at least given me a sign that The Poppy was here. Maybe they weren't coming back, and my heart sunk further, like a dying whale, panging with something I could only describe as regret. 

"Look," Thomas stood up, "whatever our past was, I'm here as an investigator, but I don't want to see you wilt away in prison when I know you don't belong there. We all make mistakes," he set down his notepad and pencil on my lap, "here, I know drawing puts your mind at ease." He gave me a small, sad smile before heading towards the door, "think about it, Rozario, you have twenty-four hours," and with those words said, Thomas left me alone with nothing but my thoughts and his notepad. 

I blinked, my eyes crusty and sore from crying. I didn't know what I was going to do. The thought of having to live a life in prison terrified me. I didn't want to betray The Poppy, but was it worth a life in prison? Maybe I could find a way to cooperate without The Poppy getting caught. 

Honor among thieves.

I snorted at that quote, beginning to sketch without even thinking. All I knew was that I was hurt, alone, scared, and depressed. I needed the embrace of a loved one more than ever.

Where had my life gone wrong? 

A few of my tears dampened the paper, and when I got a closer look, I could tell I was just drawing a woman with Vivienne's likeness. Vivienne. I wanted to burn hotter than coal with anger, but instead, my soul wept as I clutched the drawing to my chest. Despite it all, I missed her. 

There was a knock on my door, and I couldn't even compose myself properly before the nurse let herself in with a tray of today's breakfast. French hospitals put America's cafeteria food to shame, like always. Besides some language barriers, the hospital staff had been very kind, I owed them my life, but I was a mess right now and couldn't survive any more human interaction today. This experience had really brought out the introvert in me that I didn't even know was there, so I stayed silent, with my eyes on the notepad and flipped it to the next page, but instead of finding another blank page, there were words. 

You are a thief now, aren't you? Escape the hospital and head to the hardware store down the road. You have 24 hours.

I read over the words at least twenty times before they registered. Escape. I had to escape. Was Thomas helping me escape? Or was The Poppy here to rescue me? It seemed like an almost impossible task, but it gave me hope, and I looked over to my left hand, chained to the hospital bed. Thanks to Nikolai, I could pick that, quite easily, in fact with my other hand free. Child's play. My heart fluttered with anxiety, and I looked at the nurse, but she wasn't in the room. Huh. I didn't even hear her leave. Suddenly, a long, slender hand cupped the side of my face and turned my gaze to the body it was attached to, the nurse, Vivienne. When our eyes connected, the stars aligned, making my heart flutter and eyes glisten with equal amounts of disbelief and admiration. "You're another hallucination…" I whispered, sunken eyes dreamy as her thumb dragged slowly down my lips. 

"No," Vivienne shushed me with her lips, soft and flushed against mine, but she broke the kiss with a hiss before we could get lost, pressing her forehead against mine in promise. "A hallucination wouldn't burn the world for you." 

To be continued…

[volkswagonblues]

I wish you would write a fic about piandao and jeong jeong, like just anything about them but i'd read the SHIT out of the modern au you told me about where they bicker about politics

SO. This is the WORST time to be writing 1.5k of fiction about a modern (well, 90′s) AU starring two dudes who have never even spoken to each other in canon, but uh, the world is awful and I consider creating rarepair content a form of self-care, so here we go.

The context for this is of course, JJ is second-generation Korean-American from LA, Piandao is a foreign student from Taiwan pursuing a doctorate in the US. The year is 1993 and ideas about race, activism, the term “Asian-American” are all up in the air. We are one year post the ‘92 L.A. race riots and four years away from antiretroviral therapy becoming the new treatment standard for HIV. The AIDS crisis is in full swing, as it has been since the 80′s. Welcome to America.

--

“Jujube”

The week after his appendectomy, Piandao is up and moving around by the end of the third day, a full four days ahead of schedule. His shoulder aches, the scar on his stomach hurts, but still, he is up and moving, even though Jeong Jeong rolls his eyes when he catches him walking up and down the length of his bedroom, working the muscles that are suffering more from being bed-bound than from surgery. 

Jeong Jeong, underneath the surly exterior, is a surprisingly maternal caretaker. Piandao has no appetite for anything flavourful in the first few days, which the nurses said was normal. So for every meal since he’s back from the hospital, Jeong Jeong cooks him a bowl of porridge and does it with a degree of care that Piandao honestly did not know he possessed. Piandao wouldn’t have minded just plain white rice and water, but Jeong Jeong, in his typical Jeong Jeong-fashion, disagreed. He spends a long time in Piandao’s kitchen every morning, making what he claims is the superior (ie, Korean) juk that his mother makes, but is really exactly similar to the zhou Piandao is used to back home, only it’s made by an angry Korean man swearing at the morning cable news, taking only occasional breaks to bemoan the sad state of Asian grocery stores in Midwest college towns.

“I’m feeling well enough to cook,” Piandao says on the morning of his fourth day home. “JJ, relax. You don’t have to do everything around here.”

Jeong Jeong looks up from his work: crushing sesame seeds in a plastic bag with the back of a soup spoon. “Shut the fuck up,” he says easily.

“I can at least wash the dishes—“

“I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to Bill Ritter.”

Piandao looks at the television in the corner. A news show was on, some Sunday morning thing he doesn’t remember seeing before. Currently, it was showing them three glossy-looking American hosts sitting on glossy-looking American couches. A man in a beige suit was saying something very earnest about the President and Haiti and also taxes. Piandao guesses that he’s Bill Ritter.

“Fucking Clinton already retracting on his fucking word,” Jeong Jeong mutters, then smashes the spoon down with ferocious force; in their plastic bag, the sesame seeds die and ascend to paste in an instant.

Piandao bites back a smile. He switches the channel: ads now, more glossy Americans driving glossy American cars, big and square. The ad changes: a family of four arriving at a motel, everything even bigger and squarer than the previous one. The mother in a big square jacket; the father smile with big square teeth. The kids chatter in excited tones: We’re so happy to be at Holiday Inn Express! Then Piandao hits the off button, and the American family disappears; the screen puckers up into dark silence again.

He slowly feels his way into the kitchen instead. He rather watch Jeong Jeong cook.

On the stove, the porridge bubbles. Jeong Jeong adds the pounded sesame and gives it a stir, then adds more sugar, then milk. He ladles it into two bowls and brings it over to the kitchen table, which is also the living room table, which is also Piandao’s desk where he grades students’ lab reports and corrects exams. There were a few back issues of various astrophysics journals still stacked there; Jeong Jeong puts them to use as coasters. Volume 10, issue 4 of Space Science Review goes to Piandao’s bowl; the special Winter 1992 edition of Annual Review of Astronomy and Astrophysics to Jeong Jeong. Piandao, trailing behind him, brings the spoons. They sit down, knees almost touching.

“How is it?” asks Jeong Jeong.

Piandao blows on his spoon and takes in a mouthful. “Not bad,” he says. “Although it’ll be better with some – I don’t know the word – but those little red fruits.”

“Jujubes,” says Jeong Jeong, and then: “Fuck off, be grateful for what you’ve got. You know how long it took me to even locate some sesame seeds in a Salt Lake City grocery store?”

Sunday morning slants in from between the slats of the crooked window blinds. In the sharp angle of the light, his features look different: the sun picks out the bronze-ish tint in his dark hair, makes the shell of his ear glow pink and red. In front of him, the steam from the porridge unfurls in delicate, thin grey spirals.

Piandao put his spoon down. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “You really didn’t have to. The plane ticket from Los Angeles must have been expensive.”

A shrug. “Couldn’t let you die alone in Utah, of all places.”

“It was just an appendectomy. How much did you pay for the flight? I can…I can pay you back, the university gives me a stipend, I can afford it.”

Jeong Jeong sets his spoon down too, picks up the bowls and takes them over to rinse in the sink.

“When I got the call from the secretary,” he says, not looking up from the dish sponge. “She didn’t say what happened. She just said, please can you be informed that Mr. Liu has been taken to the hospital for a medical emergency, she had just gone down the list of his emergency contact numbers and you happened to be the first one who picked up, and then she hung up. I barely got the name of the hospital out of her before she did. Nothing more. I called back and got a busy line. And then I thought – I started thinking – I didn’t know what I was thinking. I got scared. I just came back from SF that day – I went to see Johnny and Gene at the General, and when I got back in and the phone rang and the woman said you were sick too…I don’t know.”

The bowls, scrubbed to death, are getting beyond clean. Jeong Jeong throws the sponge down, where it lands with a wet smack.

“I know you’re not like me,“ he adds wretchedly. “I mean, I know you’re not a homosexual. And besides: fucking Utah? Of all places? I knew it was probably nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Piandao says.

Jeong Jeong stabs a finger in his direction. “But don’t you dare pay me back though. Don’t you even try that shit on me. I will actually punch you if you try.”

Piandao says nothing. He pictures the cramped kitchenette of Jeong Jeong’s apartment off Hoover Street, with its ugly green plastic phone duct-taped to the wall, opposite to the grimy stove and the eternal stacks of takeout containers and the Proud Berkley Grad of ’87 fridge magnet that Piandao had bought him as a joke, when Jeong Jeong finally carried through on his threats and really dropped out, for good this time. He pictures Jeong Jeong stumbling back in fron the hospital, exhausted, and then accepting a long-distance call from Utah anyways.

Jeong Jeong had taken the call and flew out the very next morning. He had came in such a hurry that he brought nothing with him other than the clothes he was wearing and a backpack full of California oranges, because he had some idea that vitamin C was vital to every patient’s recovery, no matter the ailment. He had come to Piandao.

Times like this, Piandao wishes his English is better. Even now, after five years in this country, he has no way to express how he feels, right now, standing in the doorway of his kitchen while Jeong Jeong slams dishes and utensils back into their drawers, shoulders hunched over. Something hot and formless is coursing through his chest, but Piandao can’t shape it. He can’t forge the thing into words.

Perhaps there’s no words at all for this in English. Not in Chinese, either, and not in Korean. There are no words for this in any language in the world.

So Piandao reaches out instead. He touches a hand to the curve of Jeong Jeong’s back, and when Jeong Jeong looks over, questioning, he clears his throat and says:

“I liked it. The zhou.”

“You mean juk,” Jeong Jeong corrects him, as contrary as ever.

“Alright, the juk. It was very good.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not shitting me?”

“No. I should call your mother, tell her what a good chef her son is becoming.”

“Fuck off,” Jeong Jeong says, but he smiles anyways.

Piandao smiles back. His hand is still where he put it, resting on Jeong Jeong’s back, and he does not move it away. This, also – this is an unspoken message, but not for forever. Already Piandao can see the shape of it in his future. Something was unfurling between them, as delicate as steam, as marvellous as light.

[anthonyed]

Finding Bucky : stevetony for @stonyweek day 1, universe:mcu (Ao3)

They win the battle. They lose the tesseract.

“I was having a heart attack,” Tony points out when Fury glares. “What’s his excuse?”

Captain America stands, head hung and silent, he looks far away from this world, stripped off of his title and for the first time, he looks like a Steve Rogers.

Tony pointedly looks away, something coiling akin to guilt in his gut and he chases that away. “What’s the plan?” He asks Fury.

“For you people? Nothing,” Fury spits. “SHIELD will handle this from now on. You can help with the clean up.”

“Not a janitor,” Tony takes his leave, marching out of the office and he soothes at the loud slam of the door at his departure.

He taps away an assuring text to Pepper and Rhodey each, steps into the elevator blindly and right before the door closes, someone catches him by his shoulder and he startles so badly that his chest aches, reminding him of how fresh the attack was.

“Mr Stark,” Rogers starts, looking harried yet sounding composed. “I need to look at the surveillance footage.”

“I thought we did. Six times and they’re still running it somewhere in here for SHIELD cretins to catch what we didn’t. So you can go join them.” Tony rattles off dryly, rubbing his chest with one hand while he jabs the button for lobby with the other.

Rogers doesn’t bother, making it clear that he’s only in here because he wanted to corner Tony. “Do you have another copy?” He asks, glancing at the shifting numbers as the elevator moves and he turns to Tony urgently, “The other me. He said something and I -,” he pauses, blue eyes bright and searching and Tony tries hard not to blink, as surprised as he is by this new information.

“You said he was taunting you.”

Rogers looks sick for a second, jaw working tightly and he mutters low, “I may not have told everything.”

Tony blinks. Well, will you look at that, “Captain America; the paradigm of virtue. Did you just admit to lying?”

The elevator pings. Tony steps out, the prickling in his chest now a growing burning sensation, travelling from gut up to his mouth and he swallows with a shudder.

“Are you coming or not?” He glances over his shoulder. Rogers barely hides his surprise before he follows.

Tony’s body demands medical attention and vasodilators with an extended leave from physical duty but the six years old Captain America fan in his head is thriving from this attention. He might as well risk another attack if he could be of use for Cap.

-

“You sure about this?” Steve asks, two months after the New York battle. He desperately needs a stylist, Tony keeps telling him. But the man is stubborn and irrationally fond of dull checkered shirts that make Tony run in the other direction.

Maybe that’s why I wear them, Steve had shrugged casually, when Tony asked him about it and that’s when it properly cemented in Tony’s brain that Steve Rogers is not that much of a stick in the mud. Guy can joke too, apart from looking like the pinnacle of perfection. Not Fair.

Two months later, they’re what Tony begrudgingly (and Steve, with fond exasperation) admits are friends and that’s that.

“I don’t trust them.” Tony murmurs, tapping away at codes, infiltrating yet another layer of security in the SHIELD’s dark system. That’s what he dubs it based on its unusuality and how discretely it was hidden. At least, before Tony spotted the layers and started digging.

“What does that have to do with Bucky?” Steve asks from where he’s sat on the couch, flicking the top end of his New York Times to look at Tony.

Tony minimises the window and pulls out another, zooms it out and crooks a finger at Steve, calling him in.

“Look at this,” he says, pointing at the virtual webs of connection he’d spun out of all the datas he’d gathered. “All these people. I know SHIELD is not squeaky clean but some of their connections are concerning. This one,” he jabs at Senator Stern.

“Tried to take away my suit two years ago. Wanted to make it government property to ensure safety. Personally, I think the government gives shit about people’s safety so I dug up and found he’s had a standing appointment with Obadiah Stane before his passing. Had a few before and one of it was about the secret project Stane had brewing in SI’s basement; trying to replicate the Iron Man armour. They fixed a deal under the table. No government overlooking it.” Tony sinks back in his chair, arms across his chest and surprise flicks across his face when Steve holds out a water bottle for him.

“Thanks,” he says dubiously, screwing open the cap. Steve grunts distractedly, eyes dancing across the screen, studying all the details. He waits until Tony’s done drinking to ask, “What’s that?” He points at a different folder, on a different window. Tony sits up, holding out the bottle which Steve silently accepts and he taps on that folder. “An algorithm,” he states.

“For what?”

“That,” Tony leans back, taking in the list for the umpteenth time. “I’m still trying to figure out.”

He follows pages as Steve scrolls down, stopping at the end and he takes a step back, standing next to Tony. “All the Avengers are in there.”

“As well as a disturbing number of children.”

-

Six months after the New York Battle, Tony gets a call from Fury which he promptly dismisses. And another and another and - “Mute.”

He asks Jarvis for his email folder and finds a bunch from mariahill@shield.com. He clicks on the latest one and it’s a clipped paragraph demanding him to consider a proposition. He clicks on the attached folder and it’s the Hellicarrier’s engineering plan with its flight system replaced by what looks like a resized repulsor tech. Tony stares at it for a minute before exiting.

“Tell Happy I’m on my way, J.”

-

He brings it up to Steve, over fish chips in the heart of London and he regrets their pick.

“Should have known to not trust the brochure,” he sighs, giving up on the fries that are too limp to be saved.

“I’m hungry,” Steve mumbles, shoveling another forkful of the equally limp fillet and Tony makes a face at that. “Had worse,” Steve grins.

“Not on my watch,” Tony grumbles.

“So what did you say?” Steve asks, leaning back in his chair once he’s done demolishing both of their orders.

“To what?” Tony hums, scrolling up his inbox and shooting a quick reply to Pepper.

There’s a part of him that shrivels when he thinks about her while sitting with Steve, across the ocean. It’s been like that lately. Ever since she walked in on them playing FIFA one evening and quietly reminded Tony that it was supposed to be their date night before she turned away, leaving Tony hugging a pillow to sleep.

“To Hill.” Steve says, “Come on, let’s go.” he catches Tony by his elbow and pulls him towards the exit, Tony’s coat is already in one hand as he holds the door open with the other.

“We haven’t paid,” Tony tells him, louder when the outside air hits and his voice gets drowned by London traffic.

The door snaps close with a jingle and Steve hops down onto the pavement with a grin, “I did,” he tugs urgently.

“Slow down, eager beaver. She’s not running away. In fact, I don’t think she physic-,”

“Please don’t complete that sentence.” Steve warns lightly.

Tony shuts up, puts up his hands in apology and chuckles when Steve shakes his head.

It’s barely a walk to their destination. Steve stops by at one of the fruit stalls to buy some apples and oranges and,

“Blueberries?”

“They’re yours. You didn’t eat your lunch,” Steve hands the box to him, and a bottle of water. “Wash them first.”

Tony wrinkles his nose, “The hassle… I much prefer bananas,” he sniffs, pouring the water over the berries and he shakes them a little.

“C’mere,” Steve snags them. He holds out the other fruits wordlessly and Tony takes them, watching him march towards the vendor again and for the love of God, he purchases bananas just because Tony asked.

“You’re scary,” Tony tells him when Steve demands he finishes both blueberries and a banana before their journey ends.

-

Peggy Carter is lucid. Sometimes, not so. But she recognizes Tony and twists his ear for missing her birthday.

“I was busy pulling out your Steve,” Tony lies. He doesn’t say he was flying a nuke into the space and almost died from a heart attack that day.

She forgives him for Steve. He leaves them be for an hour and a half before Steve peeks out of the door and says she’s asking for him.

“Your father and I founded SHIELD,” she tells them, wrinkled hand in Steve’s careful grasp and she looks adrift as she recalls. “Colonel Phillips was in it because the government needed an insight and what was better than the entire military.”

Tony suspects Steve must have brought up their private little investigation, and he’s miffed, but he nods along.

“We made a lot of adjustments along the way. A lot of compromises,” and she pauses, placing another hand over Steve’s. “Some of them, you wouldn’t approve, but Howard had his reasons.”

Tony’s breath stutters. Starks seem to fuck up through the history. “It must be the gene,” he mutters blithely.

Peggy turns to look at him and she blinks. Something shifts in her eyes and the next second, she’s slapping him hard across the face.

“Ow,” Tony cries.

Steve splutters their names, grabbing onto Peggy’s hands and he asks concernedly if Tony’s okay.

“Tough smack right there, Auntie,” Tony grins.

“Steve Rogers dedicated his mind, his body, his life to the SSR and to this country. Not to your bank account.” Peggy snarls, her shaky voice breaking in anger even as she holds composed under Steve’s hands.

Tony stares at her, unblinking. “Peggy?” he calls faintly, blood sizzling up his veins, and he clenches his fists, sitting straight in his chair. “Peggy, it’s me. Tony.”

But Peggy Carter is lost. Somewhere between old memories and contained anger, and she sniffles, “I will not let you replicate the serum.”

-

No. He sends to Hill.

No. He receives from Pepper when he asks if she wants to go on an impromptu vacation with him.

No. He tells her when she asks if he’ll ever put down the armour.

No, he tells her when she asks if he wants to have a kid one day.

“White picket fence is a fairytale, babe. Howard fucked me over seven ways to hell. I wouldn’t be a good father or a husband.”

“You have potential,” she murmurs, brushing his hair back, manicured nails scraping soothingly over his scalp and Tony sighs. He leans back into her and she secures her hold around him. “I love you, you know that?” She asks softly.

“Love you too,” he breathes, sinking into the mattress and the pillow and he’s so warm and safe, he’s tipping out of consciousness.

“I know,” she says, one arm around Tony’s midriff tightening before it loosens. “It’s not working is it?”

Tony stops breathing. Pepper’s fingers don’t, sticking to their rhythm and she’s so strong, she’s lending her strength for him. She presses a kiss over his head and she tells him gently, “We’re not working.”

“We want different things,” Tony works his mouth. Sleep lost to nerves and the cruel ache in his heart.

She says, “I want a kid, or two. I want a family. I want to settle down when I’m forty.”

“I want to save the world,” says Tony.

-

Tony stares at the text, Saturday morning bright as the Sun beams from over the adjacent building. Rays spilling in rainbows over the white tiles of his living room as he sits gloomily at the dining table.

Did you find out?

He discards his half-written reply, taps back, eyes catching Fury’s 21 unreplied texts and voice messages and he ignores them all.

“Call Rhodey.”

The dial tone goes; on and on and on and -

“Hello?”

“Can you come over?”

A short pause, and then, “I’m not in the States, Tony.”

Tony taps twice over the table; two fingers up and down and up and down, a little over the edge and he says, “They were murdered.”

“Who?”

“Howard.” Tony stops. “Mom and him. They were murdered. It wasn’t a car crash.”

There’s a beat of silence down the line. Longer than before. Strenuous and Tony can hear when Rhodey pulls in a breath.

“How did you find out?”

Long story is, he started looking into super serum replication. Found the connection between Peggy’s accusation and his dear old father and Tony latched onto until the report ended at Howard Stark’s successful experimentation in 1991. He dug deeper and he recovered filth.

Short story is, “I hacked into SHIELD’s server.”

There’s an exasperated sigh on the other end but Rhodey doesn’t follow through. “I’m sorry,” he says instead. There’s a slight hesitation and he adds, “I’ll be over next weekend.”

“You don’t have to,” Tony says. “I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are.”

The truth is, Tony cannot hold it in until next weekend.

He calls Steve.

-

“How did you find him?” Steve asks, half in awe, half in agony.

“Easy,” Tony says, pulling out the file JARVIS has picked up for him. “When you dig at the right spot, you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

He takes a step back and watches every flicker of emotions that flit across Steve’s face; from relief to horror to determination.

“They brainwashed him,” Tony briefs, “Electric shocks to meddle with his memories and they groomed him to be their weapon.”

“He doesn’t look a year old,” Steve sounds faint, sick to his bone, and he shakes minutely when he reaches to touch the image. “I went back. I swear. I went back.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. He is. Truthfully, he is. But it’s largely polluted by his boiling rage. The need for retribution.

He grips onto the logical part of his brain and he turns away. Dum-E nudges his elbow, holding out a wrench and Tony is not working on anything that needs it but he grabs it for the desperate need to ground himself. Channel all the vengeance into the metal and he’ll fling it later; hard and swift and it’ll break all of his glass panels and he’ll be satisfied for a bit.

“How did you find him?” Steve asks, rough edged and unaware.

“I was looking for my parents’ murderer,” Tony tells him.

-

There’s a period between Steve’s departure and Rhodey’s arrival that Tony feels slightly unhinged. Prone to stupidity more than usual and he refuses to call Pepper because she deserves better.

They just parted, he knows she loves him, and he knows he loves her. But he’s too fragile for her. If she touches him, he’ll shatter and she’ll break her skin and bones trying to hold him. He told Steve to leave - “I need some time to digest this” - and he waits for Rhodey to arrive to get drunk on whiskey, rum and too much skittles.

They puke rainbow the next morning.

“I’m never doing this,” Rhodey swears, but he’d broken that over ten times going steady. Tony grunts at him and wipes his face. They have brunch in front of the TV and Tony grunts from his hangover headache, “I think I have feelings for Steve.”

Rhodey chokes on orange juice, spits it all over the coffee table and Tony groans in disgust. “Exactly,” Rhodey says. “You’re emoting what I feel.”

He piles plies over plies of tissues over the spill and turns to Tony. “You’re serious.”

“Don’t,” Tony says. He doesn’t know where he’s going with that. He sighs. “I guess.”

Rhodey chews on his cronut thoughtfully and makes a face. He switches the cronut with a strawberry sprinkled donut and asks, “Does he know?”

“No!” Tony seizes, his own big bite of the chocolate sprinkled suddenly dry and lumpy in his esophagus. He swallows painfully and shrugs, “I don’t know? I didn’t tell him.”

“Are you going to?” Rhodey asks, not missing a beat.

“I don’t know,” Tony snaps. “What is this? Make Tony feel bad Sunday?”

Rhodey flicks a sprinkle at his face. “You brought it up first,” he says, facing back the TV, and he switches the channel. “I was trying to enjoy my hangover donuts in peace and you ruined it.”

Tony grumbles something under his breath but otherwise he lets it go.

-

“Let me know if I have to give a shovel talk,” Rhodey says conversationally, stepping into his War Machine armour.

Tony punches his fists into his pants’ pockets and leans against the rail, “Not happening,” he tells him.

“Don’t drink without me.” The helmet closes, the eye slits come to life.

Tony grins at him. “I thought it’s not happening again.”

“It’s not,” comes the mechanical voice. Rhodey takes a step closer and ruffles his hair with a gauntleted hand.

Tony swats at it, hurting himself more than the other and he hisses, glaring at the mechanically cackling Rhodey.

“Take care.” Rhodey says before he shoots up into the night sky, like a blinding star, growing further and further out of reach and Tony whispers a thank you after him.

-

Two days later, someone disengaged JARVIS and tried to break in.

“They must have found out about my SHIELD servers’ break ins,” Tony groans, scrubbing his face as he paces.

JARVIS had sent out a help signal to Steve’s phone before he was shut down. Tony was awake during the attempt so he managed to not only stop it but garner evidence in the process as well.

“Do not come,” he tells Steve over the phone. “They don’t know your involvement. Let’s keep it that way.”

Thirty minutes later, Steve’s in the elevator.

“Let him in,” Tony permits weakly. The door opens, and Steve walks in, calm and composed. His eyes however are a whirlwind of storms brewing up an apocalypse.

They study Tony from head to toe and all over until satisfied, and he nods, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Tony exhales, turning towards the kitchen. “There’s no need for you to come.” He fetches a glass and fills it with water, holding it out for Steve. Once taken, he fetches another and repeats the process, draining the content in a second. Steve offers his for taking and Tony chugs that down too.

“How are you?” Steve asks.

Tony leaves the glasses in the sink and moves to the living room. “I’m fine. Startled. But, fine.” He insists. “Are you staying over?” There’s a lilt to his question, an accidental giveaway; hopeful.

“Yes,” Steve says. Period. No place for arguments and it’s definite. I’m staying. Whether or not you like it.

Tony glances at him over a shoulder, “You know where your room is. I’ve got some work to do, I’ll be in the shop.”

Steve follows him instead. Sits on the couch and reads a book while Tony does his work. When the Sun comes up, he excuses himself to freshen up and make breakfast. When he returns, Tony’s face down on the couch, drooling into Steve’s jacket.

-

Steve stays.

“I’m not running a free bed-and-breakfast,” Tony tells him on day seven.

“Nope,” Steve agrees. “It’s bed, breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks,” he crunches pointedly on the Cheetos. Tony glares at him.

The alarm blares. The lights shut down. JARVIS is unreachable again. Tony’s insides clamp down painfully and he shoves the sickening feel away to retrieve him.

Before he could move, he’s shoved down hard behind the couch and something shatters in the near distance. Once, twice and then several times.  

He grappled for Steve but couldn’t find him. He tries not to worry about JARVIS, confident he’ll find his own way back but -

“Steve,” he hisses into the darkness, temporarily blinded and he’s shivering from fright. His entire core is shut down; from electricity to the armour’s response signal. He feels as naked and vulnerable as he was in that cave in Afghanistan but this time, it’s in his own home.  

“Steve?” he calls again, crawling blindly. Something breaks the window and lands next to him and hits his toe. Barely a time to react, and he’s flung across the room and he only remembers a clean thud to his skull before he blacks out.

-

He wakes up with JARVIS’s name on the tip of his tongue and an irritating beeping sound surrounding him. He swats at it. Someone catches his hand.

“He’s fine,” They say. It’s Steve. “Natasha fixed him.”

Tony probably scrapes his throat trying to swallow dryly and rasps out, “He doesn’t need fixing.”

“Of course,” Steve hums, holding out a glass of water and Tony struggles to take; hand shaking like a leaf. He curses and Steve stands, tipping the glass closer to his mouth, placing the end of the straw in between his lips and he casually confesses, “I thought I’d lost you,” while Tony sips.

“Thought I killed you with my own hand.”

“There was,” Tony pauses to cough, “A grenade,” he finishes exhaustedly.

“I threw you across the room,” Steve informs in that same disconnected voice. Tony catches his free hand and gives it a squeeze, albeit weakly. Steve’s hand starts to shake.

“How long?” Tony asks.

“Two days,” Steve exhales, his head falls, forehead hits the edge of the bed and there’s a shiver that wrecks through his spine as he holds onto Tony’s hand through it. “Fuck,” he swears airily.

Tony shifts a little so he could card his other fingers through Steve’s hair and pets him idly.

“It’s him, wasn’t it?” He asks.

Steve nods, “We caught him.”

-

Turns out, Fury had Tony tracked without his consent and Natasha was strategically there to shoot Bucky Barnes in the abdomen. Two bullets through and through; both in the right hypogastric region and Steve got there just in time to knock him unconscious.

“Sorry, I don’t really know where to keep him,” Steve says abashedly, explaining why Bucky Barnes is now in the tower in Hulk’s containment, being treated by Bruce and Helen Cho.

“Where else would he go?” Tony shrugs, adjusting the strap holding his broken left arm for the nth time. When he looks up, Steve’s staring at him with some skin to bewilderment and fondness. He doesn’t know where he falls in between those two emotions so he huffs disgruntledly and tugs again at the strap. “I hate this.”

“Leave it be,” Steve’s voice is soft, his fingers gentle when they pry away Tony’s. “I know what you’re doing,” he tells him.

“What?” Tony scoffs.

Steve’s eyes are a brilliant shade of blue and they stay fixed on his as he fixes the strap, Tony’s collar and he says, “Sometimes when I look at you, what I feel shows and everytime you catch that instance, you look away. You change topics or you do something absurd to burst the moment. Either you choose to pretend that you don’t know how I feel for you or you don’t feel the same so you’re trying to be polite for my sake.”

Tony’s throat runs dry. This time, he can’t look away. Try as he might, his breath catches and his heart stutters. “The former,” he confirms shamefully.  

Steve’s hand over his chest stills, plastered over his breastbone, fingers tickling the edge of his collar and he asks, “Why?”

“Because I’m terrified of the idea that if I tell you how I feel, you will reject me.” Tony pauses. And then, because he’s got nothing else to lose, he adds, “There’s also the fact that you deserve so much better than me.”

Steve swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing along his throat and Tony glances at it distractedly, promptly snapping back to the sea of blue; now bleeding black, inside out.

“What if I want you?” Steve licks his lips.

Tony follows that motion, eyes zeroing in on there. Longing and lust all melting into something warm and thick and he rasps, “Then you have me.”

-

“This is so not how I imagined it.” Tony pulls away. He wastes two seconds glaring at his useless left arm and goes back in.

Steve’s chuckle breaks into a gasp when Tony yanks at his hair hard, nips at his lips, licks into his mouth and kisses him stupid.

“This is so not how I imagined it.” he groans.

-

“How’d you imagined it?” Steve asks, pressing the elevator button up and he turns to face Tony. “Do you imagine making out with me often?” There’s a leer to his smile, hidden behind mischief and pure Steve-ness and Tony leans in to taste it. “I imagine doing a lot of things to you, Rogers. Kissing is just the tip of the iceberg.”

-

They step out of the observation room; Barnes still drugged up to the gills until his bullet wounds heal and Bruce kindly let Tony know that his penthouse is destroyed while Steve winced.

Tony enters the elevator and he’s lost for a second before Steve follows in and presses the button to his guest suite. He takes Tony’s uninjured hand and kisses the inside of his wrist. “In your imaginations,” he asks, still not letting up and Tony snorts at him. But Steve persists, “Am I getting fucked or are you?” He’s a little flushed in the cheeks and that’s all there is to give away his abashment.

Tony hums, deliberately stalling. “How about I show you?” he offers impishly.

Steve stares him down, full Captain mode, sending shivers down his spine. “You’re not doing any strenuous activities until you heal.”

Tony stares him back, “Pretty sure, sucking your cock doesn’t fall in strenuous activities. Or laying there, letting you fuck me,” he taps at his chin thoughtfully. “Although, riding you would probably have to wait.”

Steve shudders. The elevator door splits open and Tony steps out.

-

Steve wasn’t kidding about the celibacy. Tony looks at him gravely and declares, “I am injured and horny and you are making this especially difficult for me.”

He receives a soft shirt to his face and a towering Steve who orders, “Stay still,” while he methodically helps Tony out of the arm sling and his t-shirt and into a new one. “I’m not doing your pants,” he draws the line.

Ten minutes later, Tony climbs onto the bed and shuffles closer to Steve. “I’m holding you accountable for this,” he points at his half-erection. Steve rolls his eyes and coaxes him into a prone position; tucks his broken arm safely out of the way and Tony’s body snuggly into his curves. There’s a hard line pressing into Tony’s ass cleft and he digs his fingers into Tony’s hip when Tony tries to rub up.

“Stop,” he warns, lips brushing over Tony’s nape. Breath hot and wet and something clench and shiver in Tony’s chest. “Once you’re healed, I’ll fuck you so hard you forget your name so, be patient. For now.”

“Fucking tease.” Tony growls into his pillow. Steve’s thumb over the arch of his hip bone rubs a circle and he nips at Tony’s lobe, “I know.”

There’s a war coming on; it’s somewhere near the horizon and Tony can almost taste it on his tongue, his bones ache from the revelations. There’s a prisoner of war two floors below who needs more than regular healing. Upstairs, his penthouse is in crumbles but that’s for next morning. Along with the calls he has to make to Pepper and Rhodey to elaborate what short-sentenced assurance Steve has given them when he was out of it.

For now, he’s right where he wants to be and he savours the feel; grabs onto Steve’s arm around his chest, sinks closer into his hold and he falls asleep to the pulse of Steve’s heartbeats.

[ilikelookingatthings]

So.....I just found out two of my basically a hippi friends is sort of a trump supporter now and I....I don’t know where to start?

Okay....so I live in Georgia but I used to live in Illinois and 3 of my friends up there are homeschooled hippish kids. you know vegetarian, vegans, doesn’t seem to trust vaccines but other times do. worked on pumpkin farm. really really good at tech and computers. a big fan of pokemon. very pro LGBT and all that jazz. I haven’t checked in on the sister yet but I checked with the guys a few days after the election and honestly while I wasn’t expecting them be in love with Joe Biden (He’s useful but lets face it no one is THAT enthusiastic for him....he’s better than trump but he’s no Bernie or Elizabeth warren when it comes to competency)....he was.....defending trump as the better canidate.....and I WANT to believe he is just joshing with me(he did trick me into believing he thought light was the good guy from death note instead of L).

but at this point its definitely not the case and I’m confused as all hell this happened...HOW did this happen? like he and his brother were basically bernie bro’s wo years ago the last time I checked and now they are defending trump?

I mean they brought up not trusting the main media because of the situation with the teens and the Native American that was clearly not researched enough before it was sent out into the world by any media outlit. and they brought up that trump has said he is against nazi’s and white supremacy but the media keeps asking him that question alot. even tried to use the good people on both sides bit to defend him by saying he did say nazi’s were bad before even though trump has clearly floundered n that question. even the north korean thing O.O

My sister got heated trying to understand how they feel about trump’s relationship with sexism. even the grab her by the pussy statement or the rape accusation by trumps ex wife or the many lady’s claiming it...or even the confirmed cheating scandals about trump. Like...I get that they said he is innocent until proven guilty...but they wouldn’t even acknowledge that its even having the accusations is sketchy even though they were creeped out by it two years ago!

they tried bringing up a kid who liked touching joe’s leg hair or the hair sniffing which IS creepy no doubt but not to the level of the guy who admitted he would go to the changing rooms of the teenagers in his pageants with the inspecting excuse. or talked about another man’s 14 year old daughter right infront of him. or talks about his own daughter like that.

I mean clearly there is some sexism thats creeped in because their instinct was to call my sister cuckoo and crazy or irrational because she got emotional and raised her voice when she said they them making light of the subject of the rape accusations against trump with no concern over how Trump’s history supports the lack of respect for the female gender as equals, makes her feel like if something of that nature happened to her they were letting her know she can’t trust them enough to let them know about it.

and while I get being shouted at can be uncomfortable.... is it normal to completely dismiss the point the other person was making just because the voice was raised? like somehow getting emotional or raising the voice can be seen as completely invalidating your point?

but they have been raised by a amazingly strong lady who is kind and creative and over powered medical issues and a kind smart father.

but now they are telling me that there is voter fraud in Georgia? when the REPUBLICANS are basically the ones in charge but still say there is no voter fraud? when we have had multiple recounts and everything matches up?  when all the other states including Georgia have knocked down the voter fraud ideas themselves? like voter SUPPRESSION I can TOTALLY see happening. but they brought up the video that even fox news didn’t see as a thing. and they had even admitted they haven’t been keeping up with the news as well as they should.

I’m SERIOUSLY worried about these two. like one of them admitted that he might be in a bit of a echo chamber by getting his news from the internet so there IS hope...but like..........are other people baffled?

like I get it if you fell for the rhetoric before trump became president and just stuck with it. its horrible but admitting he is wrong and bad means accepting you supported terrible views and a bad man who has ruined america’s reputation around the world and hurt many people and broken the trust americans have worked hard to build with our allies. and accepting you supported bad things can be HARD to accept...

.....I mean you should accept it because its better for you to grow as a person than to cling to a carpet bagger like trump and his lackies who have hurt many many americans and non americans at this point and are willing to shit on the constitution.....

...but like I get that if you’ve clung on this long accepting it is going to be hard and hurt because no one likes getting tricked.....

....but like...these guys started falling for trump after becoming bernie bros O.O

AFTER Trump started fucking shit up and putting incompetent people into hos positions like his kids or that lady who tried to fuck with the special olympics and the dude who started fucking with out national forests to name a few.

I don’t.....I don’t understand how to even START breaking own their logic. They think America handled COVID BETTER than other countries O.O

BETTER! O.O

They started trying to throw numbers at me but I don’t understand where their numbers are coming from!

like I can understand if it was before trump was president for 4 years MAYBE because he was a loose cannon and people were desperate for anything different and if your desperate enough to turn a blind eye to the red flags everywhere...but we KNOW for CERTAINTY that trump is a shitty president now. O.O

The man got impeached and the senate chose not to listen to witnesses instead of trying to prove trump was innocent they decided to avoid the risk that he could be guilty which made him look even guiltier.

.....Does anyone have any clues? how have you all handled loved ones believing this stuff? like its not like I want them to not find issue with the other sides. others do have problems to be pointed out but its like they are completely ignoring the problems from trump and the republican side completely and its CREEPY.

Shouldn’t there be WARNING signs for these type of things?

where am I supposed to begin? we clearly have very different sources where we get our news and media so what if i give them a source they have already decided can’t be trusted? I know its not my job to convince them but they ARE my friends. I don’t want them to get sucked in and potential lose more views they used to support.

How did all of you handle finding out your loved ones got like this internet?

[completely-zucked]

Kazakhstan: The Greatest Country in the World

I'll readily admit that my knowledge of American history (particularly when it comes to the oppression of BiPOC) is a little sketchy in places. So I conflated Juneteenth (the fact that certain places didn't emancipate slaves for 2.5 years after they should have) with the Tulsa massacre. However, I hope it counts for something (however small) that I at least knew it was something horrific to do with racist and oppressive BS, that noone in their right mind would be so callous or insensitive to wish anyone hapiness/celebration while remembering that. I wonder how many white Americans can honestly say the same. It seems that I am at least one step ahead of them. Most just take what they learned in K-12 and accept it as the whole truth. K-12, though? That strikes me as a class for advanced students. It seems to me that the average American isn't much more intelligent/educated than the average K-9. (It's one of the reasons why I'm proud to not be an American.)

Too Little, Too Late

Honestly, more white Americans know the history today than did a month ago, and more knew last summer than did the year before, which is definitely … something in the right direction?

Yeah, it's fucking sad, and infuriating, though. Your schools don't teach you this shit, or about Tulsa, or about Rosewood, or Rosa Parks, or about the legacy of lynching, or anything much beyond "slavery was really bad and then we fought a war to get rid of it and then it was mostly better and then Martin Luther King Jr. gave a speech and made it all the way better". (Sometimes it's even worse. I know someone who had a friend who grew up in the South and though he admittedly didn't pay a ton of attention in history — with no serious repercussions because he's white — it was at least into his twenties before he realized that the Confederacy lost. He thought that they must have been fighting to end slavery instead of keep it! I mean, how problematic and appalling is that?!)

You don't teach kids about indigenous genocide, either. They don't learn about how their government has (sometimes quite literally) stabbed them (and the first nation's people) in the back over and over again. Growing up, I didn't learn about how Lincoln ordered the largest mass hanging in US history, executing 38 people who had fought because they were starving as a result of their lands being stolen (not just their original lands but part of what they had been forced onto, too) — and that a bunch of the names we saw everywhere like Ramsey and Sibley were dudes who were heavily involved in that "conflict", but I was taught the gist of the attrocities committed by men like Custer when the West was lost.

Your shit's fucked up from top to bottom and side to side.

Your whole education system is garbage, not just your History. Your countrymen (collectively) can't spell, have poor reading comprehension, struggle to identify their own country on a map (never mind anyone else's), are still stuck in the 1960 as far as race relations go, have no grasp of basic Physics or Biology, lobby against teaching evolution in schools (as opposed to Creationism), ad infinitum, ad tedium … Yet I, an individual from a Third World country, have a better education (Cambridge syllabus) than the average individual from what is allegedly The Greatest Country in The World™ Hmm … Something doesn't add up here (but then again, my country's Maths literacy is a known weakness). #JustSaying

Honestly, if my country of origin was one that once housed the thousands of minds that successfully worked out and executed the challenge of going from near-Earth orbit to manually landing a craft on the moon and getting it back to Earth without incident in less than a decade (using technology less powerful/accurate than the average pocket calculator, nog al); a feat so statistically improbable as to be practically impossible … to this sordid state of affairs, I would either retreat to the backwoods and whittle while seriously contemplating my ancestors' poor life choices or I would dilligently apply myself to getting a proper education through online courses. I certainly wouldn't run my mouth about how great my nation is when it's clearly appallingly and embarrassingly backward. Only an idiotic, ignorant, arrogant motherfucker does that. This is far beyond something rotten in the state of Denmark. So yeah, I'm very much anti-American and I'm definitely not ashamed of it.

Now, I realise, of course, that generalisations are generally wrong and not every American is an illiterate and poorly-educated backwoods hillbilly, but fuck me, the smart ones are needles in the haystack (and it's a very big haystack).

Perhaps if your government spent as much on mitigating its education, housing, medical aid (health insurance), unemployment and potable water shortage crises as it does on exploring the Universe and persecuting/murdering BIPOC (particularly non-Christian ones) around the world while claiming to be "liberating" them of anything other than natural resources (particularly gold, diamonds, oil and tungsten) and their lives while foisting cheap crap on them, I might not be such a harsh critic. But don't mind me; I'm just an anti-consumerism anarchist with no idea of how the world really works.

Having worked for some morally bankrupt organisations myself, I'm certainly in no position to criticise, but I do think it's at least a little hypocrytical for someone who worked for Baby Killers International to wish BIPOC a restive and peaceful Juneteenth.

The idea that it's made a holiday is all well and good, but the government still allows cops to murder minorities. It's a consolation prize and a hollow one at that. Not teaching why it's even a holiday in the first place is all sorts of problematic, but only in America. The government has been scared to death of its people (all of them) since the 60s (which is a good thing). Now, they're seeing a lot more whites side with BIPOC than did back then. The only thing keeping them safe is their brainwashed right-wing. This is beyond disturbing.

The Greatest Country in the World

"We're The Greatest Country in the World™", you cry? Maybe sixty years ago you could broadly claim it was heading there and maintain a straight face (if you ignore a lot of problematic shit like abusing Oppenheimer's genius in order to commit war crimes). It certainly isn't any more. Why; what the fuck happened to a nation that used to be an inspiration? Well, you didn't just rest on your laurels; you destroyed them. Meanwhile, the rest of the world struggled and persevered to become what you once were. Unfortunately, we bought into the nightmare of consumerism and greed you packaged and sold to us as The American Dream™.

So, in short: Fuck you very much! Enjoy your fucked-up holiday. Coke (which used to containe cocaine), nutrient-devoid cardboard "food" and heart-attack-inducing "energy" drinks white America!

https://vimeo.com/134492436

[ninjanonymous]

I’m pissed off, and sad, and scared, and I have a lot to say right now. This all needs to be said, for my own sake if not for anyone else’s.

Very recently, the Supreme Court ruled 7-2 that employers under the Affordable Care Act are now allowed to roll back access to birth control for their employees, as long as their religion disagrees with it. This ruling was made in the name of religious tyranny, and NOT that of religious freedom. Christian-run businesses can now force their beliefs onto their employees by actively denying them the healthcare that they very much need.

Can you imagine the outrage there would be if SCOTUS decided that it was suddenly okay for a Muslim-run business to break FLSA standards during Ramadan? After all, if a Christian-run business shouldn’t be forced to pay for all ACA-protected aspects of an employee’s healthcare, why should a Muslim-run business have to sacrifice profits when eating lunch during Ramadan is against their religion?

“Oh, but there are federal protections to keep something like that from happening.” Are there? Are there really? The ACA gave employees FEDERALLY PROTECTED access to birth control through their employers, because an employer’s religious beliefs shouldn’t be used to control the freedoms or hurt the wellbeing of others. Now look where we are.

This court ruling essentially dictates that religion can make you exempt from federally-mandated rules for the sake of profit. It puts the employer’s beliefs above the beliefs and wellbeing of their employees. It puts any company’s self-proclaimed God over the law, and allows them to forgo worker protections because, according to them, it’s what Jesus would want.

And where do we draw the line? Should a company that’s run by a Jehovah’s Witness be allowed to deny coverage for a needed blood transfusion? Can a religious company claim that any illness is a righteous punishment from God, and the use of modern medicine to treat it would be sinful? What would that mean for something as devastatingly expensive as cancer treatment? What if the CEO doesn’t agree with vaccines? And really, why even stop at access to healthcare when there are any number of ways that a company could encroach on their worker’s rights in the name of God?

Too many people in this country are entirely dependent on their employers for their health insurance. Healthcare costs in America are the highest in the western world by far, and life-saving treatment is often prohibitively expensive without it. This SCOTUS decision may ultimately deny many Americans their constitutional right to life.

Employers pay private insurance companies to provide care for their employees. This is a blanket expense. They don’t get an itemized bill for the healthcare that they’re covering. They’re paying for general healthcare coverage to be provided by insurance company, and that’s it. The employers are not the insurance companies themselves. They are not the ones processing the claims and choosing which to deny and which to cover. Your medical record is private, protected information. Your employer does not have access to that information under HIPAA. If your employer isn’t allowed in the room with you during your doctor’s appointment, they absolutely shouldn’t be allowed to pick and choose what care you can and can’t receive.

These companies are literally just saying, “see that person right there? I don’t like that they’re on birth control, because I’M a Christian, and that’s against MY beliefs, so now THEY can’t have it.” A Christian forcing their beliefs onto someone else isn’t religious freedom, just like a Muslim forcing their beliefs onto a Christian wouldn’t be. This is religious tyranny the and Christian-backed persecution of women.

And for this specific ruling, it really is that arbitrary. This ruling is a poorly-disguised move to further strip away the rights of women in the name of Abrahamic theocracy. The idea that this decision would save money for these employers is completely asinine, considering good reproductive healthcare and access to birth control reduces long-term costs overall (I will be adding the stats and sources to back this up in a later post).

And here’s an important reminder for you all: reproductive healthcare is still basic healthcare. Taking care of one’s needs regarding their reproductive system benefits their overall health. And even if you disagree with me there, “birth control” is a pretty damn big misnomer. While it is commonly used to prevent unwanted pregnancies, there are a myriad of other reasons that a woman might need it for.

Birth control can control hormonal acne. My own mother was put on it for this reason back when she was a teenager.

It can be used to help regulate one’s mood. A dear friend of mine is on it for this reason. She suffers from severe depression, occasionally to the point of suicidal ideation. I am fucking terrified about what this court decision could mean for her.

It reduces one’s chances of getting uterine cancer. I have a family history of uterine cancer, and it can be hard to detect. They only found it in my grandmother by chance when they were performing an unrelated surgery.

It reduces your chances of forming ovarian cysts. Women with PCOS often suffer from these, and they can be quite painful. My mother had to have a football-sized ovarian cyst removed from her abdomen, and histology found that it contained pre-cancerous cells.

It can relieve symptoms of PMS and PMDD. Again, this is a form of hormonal mood regulation, as well as a means of controlling many of the unfortunate physical side effects of the menstrual cycle. PMS and PMDD are often topics of ridicule, but their symptoms can have a serious negative impact on one’s day-to-day life. I’ll add more information on this later, since there’s a lot to cover.

It can help regulate one’s menstrual cycle. For reasons I shouldn’t have to explain, knowing when blood and viscera is going to start pouring out of your crotch really helps with being prepared to deal with it. It also helps to avoid really embarrassing situations in public, or the need to clean bloodstains out of clothes and furniture. Irregular periods are a gruesome guessing game. I’ve been there. I don’t want to go back.

It can make your periods less painful. Periods happen when, once a month, the uterus sheds its inner lining. As in, the person having their period is bleeding internally, because one of their organs is shredding and expelling parts of itself from the inside. That shit hurts. Many women have reported vomiting or passing out from period pain. For me, the average period cramp can be compared to really bad gas or diarrhea pain. You know, the kind that has you breaking out into cold sweats on the toilet while you silently beg for mercy to any god that might be listening. Fun, right? I’d recon my pain level is about the average, too.

It can be used to manage menstrual migraines. Did you know some women get migraines in conjunction with their periods? Migraines are debilitating. Imagine having them chronically, getting them frequently around the same time every month, then being denied affordable access to the one medicine that was keeping it in check because your asshole boss says that Jesus wants you to suffer. Bonus points if you get fired because the migraines had a negative impact on your ability to work.

It can reduce your risk of anemia. Some women get really heavy periods. Like, crazy heavy, to the point where they bleed so much that it’s unhealthy. Technically speaking, I fall into this camp. I’d hemorrhage to the point of needing a transfusion if I went long enough without birth control. Gee, I sure hope the insurance-throttling company that I work for isn’t run by a Jehovah’s Witness.

Birth control is the only non-invasive way to control uterine fibroids, which often go hand-in-hand with endometriosis. These are non-cancerous growths within or around the uterus can cause uncontrolled bleeding, and may be quite painful in and of themselves. A ridiculously high number of women have this, myself included. Most women that have them have no or very few symptoms. I was not so lucky.

And that’s just a few of birth control’s many uses. And actually, let me talk about my fibroids some more for a second, just so you all have a better idea of what it means to live with this shit. TMI time. I take birth control. I’ve been taking it regularly for about five years now. I’ve never had sex before, and I don’t plan on it any time soon. This is the one and only reason I’m on the pill.

Five years ago, during my freshman year of college, I started bleeding out of the blue. Really, really badly. This “spotting” was sudden, and heavy, and unrelenting. I’d completely bleed through a super tampon in less than two hours, when one of those would last a good eight hours on my heaviest day during a normal period. I had to sleep with towels on the bed, and set an alarm to wake up early so I could take deal with the shed blood before it got too bad, and to give myself extra time for cleanup before classes. After going from horizontal to vertical for the first time in several hours, getting to the bathroom was a race against time and gravity.

I lived like this for a full month. Tampons and pads, for those of you that have had the privilege of never needing to buy them, can get really pricey. Doubly so for a broke college student, triply so when they need to be extra-large packs containing extra-large products, and quadruple-y so when that broke college student is still managing to bleed through those products at an absurd rate. And, it hurt. The pain was worse than usual; the camps were sharper, more persistent, and sometimes it felt like someone was jabbing a big needle into my abdomen and twisting it around. I was taking OTC painkillers constantly, and they barely made a dent in the pain.

The bleeding started just over a week after my last period had ended, so it was way too early for it to be my next cycle. I figured that maybe my cycle was syncing up to my roommate, or some other chick on my floor had some weird hormonal imbalance, and the outside interference from other people’s hormones was screwing with me enough to make my own body act weird. I figured I’d just have to wait out this one bad period, and everything would settle back down to normal. But, two weeks passed and absolutely nothing changed. The bleeding wasn’t slowing down, and I started to get worried that it wasn’t just an abnormal period. I waited a couple more days, then booked an appointment at the health center. It was more than a week until they could see me.

The consensus was fibroids. They couldn’t give me an official diagnosis without an ultrasound, but all signs pointed to that one conclusion. They said that the only way to make the bleeding stop was by taking birth control. I wasn’t happy about it, since my mom had me convinced that birth control would actually increase my risk of cancer (not true, as I later found out), but I agreed anyway. The nightmare was over a few days later.

So, off topic but still related, I had surgery on my foot a couple months ago. It had to be immobilized for a while, and I was put on blood thinners to prevent any clots from forming while I recovered. Birth control pills can actually increase the risk of blood clots, so I made the choice to hold off on taking those for a while, just as an added precaution. Sure enough, only five days later, the bleeding and the pain was back. Again, it had been only a week since my last period.

I still need to be on birth control. It is a medical necessity for me. My fibroids are still around, and I’ll still spot and cramp up if I miss a pill. I’ve recently been told by my doctor that a permanent fix, and my only other option for treatment, is a hysterectomy. I am 22 years old. Most surgeons would never dream about performing that procedure on me, even if it didn’t already come with its own health risks.

And hell, even if it is used just to prevent pregnancies, what gives someone else the right to deny a woman her bodily autonomy? Human beings are sexual creatures. They’re going to fuck, regardless of whatever laws or religious doctrines are involved. We are quite literally built to have sex, and it’s entirely healthy to do so. There are plenty of peer-reviewed studies that go into detail on the matter; just hop onto Google Scholar and see for yourself. And, maybe, preventing pregnancy is a need in and of itself. What if a woman has a condition that would make pregnancy extremely high-risk? Is she not justified in taking birth control to protect herself from grievous injury? If she’s married to a man, does that married couple not have a right to sleep together without fear of one of them literally dying for it? Even by Christian standards, it doesn’t seem right.

This decision that the Supreme Court has made is utterly shameful, and countless law-abiding American citizens will now be denied access to needed care that they otherwise couldn’t afford without insurance coverage. This is truly a loss for America and her people, and one that will cause suffering for decades to come.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Black Lives Matter, @mystifiedgal donated $30, and requested Tony Stark/Stephen Strange pre-slash. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

It’s a real busy month. The superfriends break out of supermax, with the help of a blond beefboy who flings frisbees at the security cameras and doesn’t care who sees his face; the UN goes ballistic and demands Tony help; Tony gets extremely, extremely drunk like he hasn’t in years and sends Ross a manip video of Tucker Maxx getting rawed by a donkey dressed as a colonel instead of responding; the superfriends crash back into America, and Natasha--traitor--lets them back in to the Avengers compound upstate; Tony, still drunk, decides to let them stay instead of incinerating the damn thing from space; Wanda gets kidnapped by a wizard; Tony and Steve have to go save her. Tony and Steve. No, Tony’s not bitter.

“I’m struggling to come up with a reason why I shouldn’t have my house nuke your house from orbit,” Tony says. Steve gives him a bitchy look. Yeah, what else is new. He lifts his chin, looks at the wizard through his green glasses. Everything’s better in green. “Anything? Mister Wizard?”

Said wizard gives him an unimpressed look. Tony doesn’t know why. His facial hair is even more ridiculous than Tony’s, and Tony cultivates this shit. “Strange.”

“Yes, you are,” Tony says, and Steve sighs and cuts his hand through the air before Tony can continue.

“Doctor,” he says, polite. Tony rolls his eyes. Wanda, in stasis halfway up to the skylight in this weird-ass mansion, pulsates in angry red, trapped in amber. “You have to understand that things were--different. The Avengers have no desire to go to war with the--Sanctum.”

“The Sanctum has no desire to go to war with the Avengers,” the wizard says--and, jesus, what is his name? Blue eyes, good hair, cape that seems to float in magic wind. Fancy Bastard isn’t something that should go on a birth certificate. “However, you are harboring a magic user who could cause extreme damage to the innocent people of this plane if left unchecked.”

Steve frowns. “Now, look--” he says, and the wizard’s eyebrow cocks and he waves a hand, and in the circle of amber that appears midair (how?) there’s a perfect 4k, 3D view of the deaths of innocents in Lagos, of the devastation of Johannesburg after the Hulk was enraged there, of a man with red light crawling up his neck and the terror filling his eyes before his neck snaps.

Above, Wanda’s silent fury goes quiet as the red dims. Steve looks constipated, which Tony can admit inside his own head actually means he looks grim and upset and heroic. The wizard looks between the two of them. “This is a problem. It would be wisest to transfer her to an alternate plane, or at least to have her abilities removed.”

“They’re part of her,” Steve says, immediately. Tony looks up. Hard to see, from down here, but he can see that Wanda’s eyes are closed, inside her amber prison, and her face--he looks away. “You can’t remove them without killing her.”

“Well,” the wizard says, and doesn’t look even remotely regretful--who is this guy?--and Steve’s shoulders square up in that muscular way that presages a truly stupid fucking fight that’s about to ensue, and Tony opens his mouth without a single iota of a plan and says, “Wait a minute,” and the wizard and Steve and Wanda all look at him, and oh, for fuck’s sake. That means--

*

Doctor Stephen Strange. Brilliant surgeon. Incredible asshole. Drama queen, and the worst kind of all because he pretends not to be. No one has that beard without wanting to cause drama. Tony would know. Unfortunately--Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, and Stephen Strange, super wizard, and Stephen Strange, taking over a wing of the compound, coming and going as he pleases in a whisk of amber light, and Stephen Strange, Tony’s lab companion for the foreseeable future.

He misses Bruce.

The compound isn’t comfy. The various wings are divided into factions. Steve and the superfriends, hiding out from the UN and all of the other dozens of countries that want to prosecute them, are on the east side where the sparring rooms are. Tony’s set up on the west side where the labs are, and he didn’t think to put a bedroom in the lab because he thought this place would be all kumbaya, superhero summer camp, and figured maybe they’d actually want to talk to each other when they were all here. More fool him. He sleeps on the couch in the lab most days, when he sleeps at all, and it means he’s got a great view every time there’s a swirling mind-bending circle of amber light and all of a sudden there’s a fucking wizard in his house, ready to work with Wanda on how not to accidentally kill thousands of people.

This morning, for example. Morning? Tony drags a hand over his face, smears drool and engine grease. “Good morning, Mr. Stark,” Strange says, and Tony mouths it back at him schoolyard style--what he assumes normal kids did in schoolyards--and Tony lets Friday speak the room into brightness, telling him the time and the weather and whether the world’s blown up, while he’s catnapped.

“How’s the scarlet terror?” Tony says, knuckling his eyes. Christ, this sucks. 69 degrees and he can’t even make a joke about it.

A pause. “Progressing,” Strange says. He’s still wearing that stupidass cosplay outfit. Cape and all.

Tony squints at him, slumped back on the couch. “You know, if you were a real wizard, you’d magic me up some coffee.”

Strange looks at him. He always looks stern. Like Tony’s failing some test. It’s tiring from the rest of the supercrew; it’s not better from some rando in a RenFaire uniform. Strange gestures, with his left hand, and unfurls the fist of his right at the lab table, which--abruptly becomes a coffee table, in that there’s a pot of steaming coffee and toast and what Tony thinks is--fucking lox?

“From that deli on 44th,” Strange says, matter-of-fact. “You know, when I’m not a sorcerer I’m a doctor. In my medical opinion, you could look less like shit.”

Tony staggers upright, fetches up against the table. His head gongs like a--like a fuckin’ gong. It’s too early for metaphor. He pours a cup of coffee and ignores that his hands are trembling. “In my layman opinion you can suck my dick,” he says, friendly, and Strange rolls his eyes but he--he smiles, too, and he--doesn’t look like nearly so much of a dickhead when he smiles. Cape or no. Tony holds the cup (finest porcelain, like Tony has drunk coffee at Buckingham Palace in less-nice china than this) and squints, brain still offline, and Strange shakes his head and says, “Good luck, Tony,” and whisks away to deal with their little magical terror, and leaves Tony to think of what the hell. Just--what the hell.

*

Turns out there’s a big difference between kinds of magic. And here was Tony, just thinking that physics were physics. “No, no,” Strange says, impatiently. “There is of course the physics of our plane, which follow their own laws. Then, naturally, there is the magic of Asgard, brought forth from Yggdrasil the world-tree and the belief therein, which is the sort that Loki and Odin may perform. Then there is the magic of the Infinity Stones, which perform their own miracles, and of course there is our problem with Miss Maximoff.”

He’s drawing a chart in the air with his hands as he talks, marked out in amber light. Tony says, “Friday, take that down,” and the house grabs the image of whatever magic Strange is doing and transmutes it into data, neatly transcribed in cells and manipulable forms for Tony to grab and hold and think about, and Tony grips Strange’s leatherette-and-cape shoulder and says, “Buddy, I could kiss you,” and Strange rolls his eyes but his cape swirls up and pats Tony on the hand in a brush of woolly affection, and Tony doesn’t really think about that because he’s locked into the possibilities and sees a lot of sleepless nights ahead, but that’s okay. He’s got time to think about it, later.

*

Strange won’t give up much info about the rest of his little magic crew. Numbers, attitudes, location. “I am the representative on Earth,” is all he’ll say, and--jeez-us, what a statement.

“I am the representative of the Avengers in Oneida County,” Tony says, in exactly the same tone, and then pauses, flicking armor designs from one ephemeral bin to another. “Shit. Am I? Maybe it’s Steve. Okay. I am the deposed representative of the Avengers in--”

“You’re the one I’m talking to,” Strange says. He’s still sitting in the antique armchair he magicked up for himself, sipping tea. Seriously. Like every single thing he does is for the hashtag-aesthetic. “Mr. Rogers is certainly impressive, but it’s you who has had every actionable idea on streamlining Ms. Maximoff’s abilities. Don’t undercut yourself.”

Tony raises his eyebrows, lowers his hands. “How dare you,” he says, lightly, even if his chest feels--some kind of way. “I have never, in my life, in my entire existence, undercut myself, and in fact I think I’m going to set the StarkTech legal team on you--Friday, call up Pepper, see if we can sue the entirety of the Sanctum Sanctorum and also magic itself, and throw David Bowie in there too--”

Yes, Mister Stark, Friday says from nowhere, lightly amused just like she should be--good girl--and Strange rolls his eyes. “Don’t bring Bowie into this,” he says, mild, and Tony grins and Friday cues up Fame without even needing to be asked.

“Oh, very good choice,” Strange says, looking up at the ceiling, and Tony waves the armor out of existence and says, “Okay, Mister Wizard--dinner, and we’re talking Bowie and we’re talking King Crimson and we’re talking Yes, and you’re putting in an opinion about those star-and-moon pants Page used to wear, let’s go--” and Strange says, “First, they’re incredible; second, only if we’re getting Thai,” and Tony--Tony could just--

*

A bad night. Tony lays on the couch in the lab and hugs a bottle of very good, very rare, very expensive scotch against his ribs, and doesn’t drink it, and wants to. Above he’s had Friday peel away the armor of the ceiling and the sky’s a patchwork quilt of stars. Enough sound baffling and he can’t hear whatever might be going on in the rest of the compound; if Steve and the others are training; if anyone’s even here, but him. It’s peaceful. It sucks.

A swirl of amber. “You look ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well.” Tony shrugs. “Sometimes you get sued by grieving parents for your technology being used in exactly the way you intended and you think, fuck, they sure have a point. And then you want a ham sandwich and no one will get you one. It’s tough.”

He thinks he maybe sounded more bitter than he needed to. He maybe should’ve tried harder. He watches a satellite track across the sky, feels his body. Even now, when he breathes deep, there’s still a twinge where the reactor should be. He wishes sometimes--but it’s stupid. The reactor didn’t make him him. It wasn’t any more accountability than any other pain could’ve been.

There’s a sinking sensation, by his feet. Strange, sitting on the couch. “I could get you a ham sandwich,” he says, quiet. “But I suspect it wouldn’t do the trick.”

“Clever man, Doctor,” Tony says, acid. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to be acid. He imagines--the armor--dissolving slowly, the facemask melting into a broken sizzle of empty gestures. He maybe should’ve had less to drink.

“We are making progress, Tony,” Strange says. “Every day. Time... isn’t always on our side. But we do what we can. That’s all there is. What we can.”

Tony stretches his legs out. His shins bump Strange’s back. He’s not wearing the whole ensemble--cape and leather and whatever the hell. He’s in a sweater, and jeans, and he looks like someone Tony can actually touch. Something that obeys the physics Tony understands. Something real.

He puts the bottle of scotch on the floor. “Maybe a ham sandwich wouldn’t hurt,” he says, finally.

Strange--Stephen--touches his knee, lightly. He smiles at Tony, in the dark. “Mustard?” he says. “I can do whatever you want.”

Tony breathes deep. Settles. He says, “And you better add a pickle, cheapskate,” and feels Stephen squeeze his knee, and feels--well. Some kind of way.

[kaitycole]

A Royal Mess (Part 12)

Summary: Leo still has hopes to work things out with Madeleine but can that happen when his wife returns from the hospital with his best friend’s child? And what happens when Leo finally sits down with Riley to talk about the future heir.

Word Count: 1904

Pairings: Leo x Madeleine (kinda), Leo x Katie, Riley x Liam, Liam x Madeleine (sorta), Damien x Katie

Warning: Mild cussing, angst, anger

Tag List: @chiarace  @grimalkjn  @jyreusser85 @hopefulmoonobject @enmchoices  @indiacater @captain-kingliamsqueen  @katurrade @darley1101  @zilch3 @sleeplessescapades  @bobasheebaby @mrsdrakewalkerblog@lynn1214  @umccall71  @drakelover78  @thequeenchoices   @stopforamoment @lauradowning29​

“Madeleine, I will sit outside this bedroom door until you come out and speak to me. I know I keep messing things up, but please can we just try to work this out.”

           There’s nothing but silence from the other side. Leo has been sitting outside her door every chance he gets, he never realized how much he had hurt her until now. He knows things are complicated, but he at least wants things worked out between the two of them.

           She’s sitting on the floor, on the other side of the door as she hears him sigh and get up to leave. She wants to let go of the past, she wants to be with him, but he’s hurt her repeatedly and the fact that his wife comes back to the palace today, doesn’t make anything better.

*          *

           “Thank you, Bas.” Katie says as he places her bags in the suite that her and Leo share. She sits down on the bed, taking a deep breath, finally relieved to be home.

           Looking around the room, she notices it seems emptier than she remembers. Opening the dresser, she sees that Leo’s clothing is gone. Frantically, she opens the other drawers and closet doors before realizing that he hasn’t been in the suite for a while.

           An envelope on the pillows catches her eye.

           Katie,

                       I’m sorry to do this to you but I’m just not ready for a family. I don’t regret Asher but I just can’t do this. You deserve Leo, he’s better and more stable for you. I’ll set up an account to put money in to help out with Asher. I wish you the best.

                                                                                               -Damien

           Tears fall onto the letter as she starts to cry. She reads it over and over until the tears have made her vision too blurry to read it any longer. She runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it off of her face. Her mind is racing and soon she feels herself start to hyperventilate.

           “Katie, what’s wrong?” Leo says, walking over to her with the sleeping newborn. He couldn’t stand Damien, to be honest he couldn’t stand his wife right about now, but he didn’t blame the baby. Plus, Leo wouldn’t admit it, but Asher was pretty adorable.

           He places the baby in the bassinet before sitting down next to her. She wipes her tears before looking up at her husband. She then watches him read it, his face grows angry before he tosses the letter to the floor.

           “I can’t believe him.” He shakes his head.

           “What am I going to do?”

           “We’ll figure it out, we always do,” he shrugs and gives her a small smile.

           Katie looks up at her husband, his blonde hair hasn’t been cut in a while and it’s shaggier than it’s been in years. She starts to think of everything they’d been through and just how much she has been taken him for granted. She places a hand on his leg, looking up at him, but instead of the reaction she wants, he gently grabs her hand and puts it back on her leg before standing up.

           “Where have you been sleeping?”

           “I moved down the hall.” Leo rubs the back of his neck, “If you’d like I can move back in to be here to help with Asher.”

           Her eyes light up, “I’d really appreciate that.”

           He nods before leaving the room, leaving Katie alone again.

           I’ll be fine. Leo will stay and raise Asher and everything will go back to normal.

*          *

            Weeks go by and everyone at the palace can sense the hostility of the new Cordonian king. Liam’s stomping around, snapping at staff and biting off diplomats’ heads. He has been breaking trade agreements and severing peace treaties which is causing concerns throughout the palace as well as the kingdom.

           “Are you sure everything is okay, brother?” Leo asks.

           “Maybe you should ask your estranged wife that instead of me, eh?” He slams the stack of papers he’s carrying on the desk before flopping down in his chair.

           Leo stares at his brother, waiting for him to come to his senses.

           “And fuck you for dropping this shit on my lap. Did you really hate me that much?” In the heat on the moment he swings his arm out, causing a stack of papers to fly off the edge of the desk.

           “We done with the tantrum?”

           He lets out a deep sigh, “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m just so pissed off at Riley.”

           “Care to elaborate?” Leo sits down in the chair across from Liam’s.

           “She asked me to stay away until this was all settled. She didn’t want the stress affecting the baby. I tried to be understanding, but she’s talking of moving to America. With my child. That little girl is just as much mine as she is hers.” A few tears trail down his cheeks, “This crown has taken so much, I don’t want to lose my family too.”

           “Things always work out. We wouldn’t be Rhys men if they didn’t.”

           “Oh really? So, Damien leaving, Katie trying to make a blended family with you and Madeleine getting tired of waiting for you, is things working out?” He smirks.

           “I hate you,” Leo jokingly spits at his brother before leaving.

*          *

           “Leo? I wasn’t expecting you.” She steps back, allowing him room to enter the estate.

           “I think it’s time you and I talk about a few things.”

           “Oh? And what would that be?” Her hands lay protectively over her belly.

           “Please, let’s sit. A woman in your condition shouldn’t stand.”

           The two make their way into the sitting room, Leo sits on the sofa while Riley sits in a chair that she has made her own. Her pillows, footstool and own side table in there. Maxwell set up a TV in the room which Bertrand hated, but allowed it for the future heir.

           “I didn’t think Bertrand would ever out a TV in here.” Leo chuckles.

           “Bertrand wasn’t too keen, but he wanted another area I could relax in since the doctor said to start taking it easy or she’d have to put me on bedrest.”

           “Bed rest? What’s going on? Does Liam know?”

           She hangs her head low, “No he doesn’t. And he doesn’t need to.” She has a little less than a month to go, she doesn’t want him worrying more than he already is with running a country.

           “Is this even his daughter?”

           “LEO!” Riley yells.

           “I mean you’re keeping him away from her. Why? This is just as new and special to him as it is you.”

           “He didn’t show any emotion when she was diagnosed.”

           “Seriously? If you don’t know that that’s how Liam is, you have a lot to learn. He’s stoic. He doesn’t show emotions in front of people.”

           “I’m not just people.”            “No, but you are the one person he doesn’t want to look weak in front of. The day you basically banned him from coming over here, he’s had every book, article and case study about her condition brought to him. He’s done more research than most medical students on this. He has three of the best doctors on call to examine her after birth to give her the best care.”            Riley begins to cry, “I…I...didn’t know.”

           “How could you? You shut him out. And now he’s biting everyone’s head off and damn near close to starting a war because he misses you that damn much. You have someone who loves you and wants to be a family and you’re over here trying to do it on your own when you don’t have to.”

           “I…”

           “He’s just as scared as you are. Lean on each other. Before one of you ends up pushing the other one away for good.”

           “Leo…”

           “I know I’ve yammered on enough. I just needed to say my piece.”

           “Leo!”            “I said I was done.”

           “My water just broke!”

           “Oh. Uhm,” panic coats his voice.

           “Hospital. Now.” She’s bending over, clutching her side, trying to control her breathing.

           Leo puts an arm around her, helping her to the limo where they instruct the driver on where to go.

           “This is not the type of bodily fluids I thought would end up in my personal limo.”

           “Ew. Really, Leo?”

           “Sorry.”

           “Leo.” She’s breathing in and out the best that she can, “Call Liam.”

*          *

           “Lady in labor coming through!” Leo shouts as he walks Riley over to a wheelchair and as he pushes her down the hallway.

           “Seriously?”

           “Would you rather I just hit them?”

           She rolls her eyes before she lets out a pained sound from another contraction.

           “Ms. Brooks, how are you today?” One of the nurses says. When Riley first came to Cordonia, Liam had a special medical team hand-picked to not only handle Riley during her pregnancy but also to be the staff when she went into labor.

           “I have a tiny human trying to get out of my vagina, how do you think I am?”

           “Oh boy,” the nurse whispers to Leo as she begins to wheel Riley back to the maternity ward.

           “Get Liam here NOW!” She growls at Leo before they turn the corner.

*          *

           Riley’s laying on the hospital bed as the doctor examines her.

           “Please let me push,” she practically begs, Leo presses a wet towel to her forehead.

           “We just need to wait a little bit longer, Ms. Brooks. It’s not time yet.”

           Before Riley can spit out something sarcastic, the door flings open and a flustered Cordonian king comes rushing in. His face is red from running around the entire hospital and his suit is misbuttoned while his hair is a sloppy mess.

           “Liam!” Riley says as he hurries over to her bedside.

           “I’m so sorry I’m late.” He kisses her hand, “I had to change suits because I didn’t want to wear the one I had been wearing all day and then I couldn’t find the right shoes to go with it. I didn’t want to look a mess to meet our daughter. Then I left but had to turn around because I left something and I couldn’t find a driver so I just drove here myself. I didn’t miss anything, did I?”

           Riley smiles as she pulls him closer before kissing him to shut him up.

           “You didn’t miss anything. You’re right on time. Though you could rebutton your shirt.”

           He looks down, shaking his head before adjusting his attire.

           “What did you leave that you had to go back for?” Leo asks.

           “Oh!” He pulls out a tiny black box, “Riley, I’ve been waiting a long time to do this. Since I first saw you, I knew you were the one for me. I’m not doing this just because of our current situation, I’ll still be here for you and our baby girl even if you say no, but I just have to ask.” He opens the box to reveal an emerald shaped diamond on a simple rose gold band, “Will you marry me?”

           A huge smile breaks out on her face, “Yes! Yes, I will.” She pulls him in again for a kiss but is interrupted by a painful contraction.

           “Well everyone, it looks like it’s time to have a baby,” Dr. Gallardo says as the staff gets prepared to wheel Riley down to delivery.

[theonewiththefanfics]

The Pain Of Love (one-shot)

Synopsys: Bucky is a reckless show off when it comes to missions, but when thing go too far, it might lead the Reader and him either broken or closer than ever.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff

Warnings: swearing, mentions of blood, Bucky feelin down :(

Word count: 2375

   In the world of the twenty-first century, Bucky Barnes was known as a lot of things. He was the ruthless Winter Soldier, Hydra’s puppet and their right fist. He was the broken man out of his time with a mind in shambles as he barely held onto sanity. He was the heroic sergeant who gave his life away protecting the country he loved most. He was also Captain America’s best friend from the beginning until the end of the line. But to Y/N Y/L/N he was the insufferable, arrogant always smug and smirking boyfriend.    Right now the pair was on a jet flying back to New York while Y/N was crouched on her knees between Bucky’s legs as she stitched up a large gash on his side. He poked her cheek, grabbing the girl’s attention.    “You’re adorable when you’re angry.”    She could only huff in frustration and had to remind herself not to tug on the string too harshly.    “I’m far from angry, James.”    “Oh,” he let out a small laugh, “my real name. I must be in trouble.”    The cold look he got from Y/N was unnerving. Usually, she went along with his teasing, sometimes even rendering the man speechless with her quick wit, but this was not the case. It made his stomach churn and the smile falter.    “Angry is when I get when Sam wakes me up at four AM to go for a run. Angry is how I feel when Natasha takes off on a mission and doesn’t give me a note she won’t be there for our obligatory movie night. Angry is how I become when you just brutally rip my underwear off and don’t think twice that it’s fucking expensive. But right now I’m furious.”

   Y/N didn’t elaborate further, wanting to torture the man as much as possible. She pulled the little knot together and snipped off the medical thread. Finally, she stood up and went to the pilot’s seat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hoping to calm down her still racing heart. And even though she wanted nothing more than to cry hysterically the Avenger kept her tears at bay. Bucky would immediately wrap his arms around her body, comforting his girl and her composure would crumble to pieces, but it was his fault Y/N was in such a predicament.    Reckless, he’d been reckless and because of that, it had almost cost him his life. He’d gotten too cocky, said he could handle everything on his own when a hundred agents swarmed around the ex-Winter Soldier and this time they weren’t there to take him back alive. It was kill or be killed. And that idiot had refused to call for backup. It was only when Y/N had gotten out of the base had she seen the true state of the mission.    With his side bleeding, Bucky was still fighting off at least two dozen agents, but the paleness of his face told the girl he was just about to lose. Too much blood had already stained the bright green grass, turning the ground a muddled brown.    Precise headshots were delivered to the Hydra goons and Bucky turned to her with a relieved smile before collapsing. Y/N had never felt such fear, such all-consuming despair when using all of her strength the woman hauled her boyfriend's body up, his arm around her shoulder and pulled the barely conscious man towards the jet. His super soldier serum had enhanced the healing rate, but it was still alarming how bad the wound was.    “Doll?” Bucky had pulled on a clean shirt, having rid himself of the dirty clothes, contrary to how Y/N looked, still covered in grime. He’d never seen his girl so enraged, never with him. “Look I’m sorry, but I had it covered. Besides, I wasn’t that worried. I know you always have my back, just as I have yours.”    Her grip on the handles tightened, so much it turned her knuckles not white, but almost completely translucent to the point Bucky feared either the metal underneath her palms would break or bones would poke out of the skin.    But she didn’t reply, instead, the woman kept her gaze fixated onto the orange sky, the sun slowly disappearing down beneath the horizon, little stars already gleaming through, telling them it was going to be a clear night. Y/N didn’t answer to any soft plea, nor did she even grace him with a look. Bucky was becoming desperate to hear at least one word from her, but all he got was the girl's rigid form staring straight out and not seeing anything really.    For three hours they flew in an agonising silence before landing in the tower. Y/N swiftly unbuckled the belt and stood up, harshly wrenching her hand away when Bucky tried to grab her wrist.    “Doll, talk to me, this is ridiculous.”    But she didn’t, only quickened her pace walking towards the laundry room.    “Y/N, stop acting like a child. It was just a scrape. I’m fine! It’s already healed!”    “Just because your arm is indestructible, doesn’t mean you are! Hell, not even that is true when Tony has to fix bugs in it every other week,” Y/N sighed, pinching her nose before looking up at Bucky. “I’m sleeping in my room tonight. And probably for the rest of the week.”    “Come on, doll, don’t be like-“    “Like what, Bucky? Worried? Stressed out of my mind? Completely and utterly petrified when I see the man I’m in love with, bleeding out on a field and he has the nerve to call me adorable while I’m trying to keep his insides from spilling onto the floor?” it was a loud yell, but slowly her voice trailed off, cracking with the last words. “Do I mean that little to you? Does our relationship mean nothing? Did you even think about how I would feel? What losing you would do to me?”    The pain in Y/N’s voice shattered Bucky’s heart. He reached out to her, but she just shook her head walking down the hallway towards her own private quarters. That’s when the waterworks started. With her back pressed against the white door, she slid down onto the ground and just cried, didn’t even bother to muffle the sounds with her palm.    On her own, she stripped of the tactical uniform, noting how most of her left side was covered by a giant purplish bruise, that seemed to only darken with every passing second. Y/N dragged her body, still raked by sobs to the shower and stepped inside. Usually, she and Bucky would stand under the warm stream and just hold one another, massaging out the knots that had appeared in their back and the tight muscles before releasing stress in a different much pleasurable way, with his lips on her neck and her eyes closed, soft moan slipping from her lips as nails dragged across his perfectly sculpted form. But that night she was alone.    Alone she went to bed, alone she cried in her pillows and alone she was dragged under by sleep when two doors down Bucky was the same, only his pain was multiplied by the horrific thought she would never return by his side.

***

   “Tony, I need a vacation,” Y/N said entering the kitchen. She felt Bucky’s eyes look up and noted the caution in his words as he spoke.    “We’re we going, doll?” a small hopeful smile pulled at the corners of his lips.    She had to sigh before facing the man. The girl had given him the silent treatment for the past week, but even after seven days apart, after seven days of not sleeping beside him, without his touch and smell, the vivid image of his bleeding body didn’t leave her.    “I said ‘I’ need a vacation. Alone.”    Bucky hung his head, eyes watering at her proclamation, but he wasn’t going to let on how much it really hurt. He listened in on Y/N’s and Tony’s quiet conversation, and when they were done, he followed the woman down back to her room.    “Y/N, please. What can I do to make it better?”    “Nothing, Bucky. There’s nothing you can do right now to change how I feel.” She continued walking away before his next question made her stop dead in the tracks.    “Are you breaking up with me?” His voice was so desperate, so full of sorrow and pain her own heart clenched to the point it felt like it would stop beating.    “Honestly, Bucky? I don’t know. On one hand, there is nothing more I want to do than wrap my arms around you and kiss you breathless… but on the other… it’s like what we have means jack shit. The way you put yourself in danger without a disregard for me or your safety is worse than a slap to my face. I just need to get away from you, from the compound, from everything before I say or do something I’ll regret.”    It was the hardest thing Y/N had done, just turning away once more from Bucky, but she knew that her resolve was crumbling. Her body ached for his touch and her mind screamed to let him hold her. There was nothing she wanted more than to jump in his arm, wrap her legs around his waist and let him carry her to his room and spend the rest of the day ravishing one another. Yet anytime she closed her lids there was Bucky slowly bleeding out on the ground.    Her heels echoed in the empty corridor as she left him standing alone.

***    As a kid, Y/N had always wanted to visit the Maldives. To swim in the cerulean water and bathe under the sun, go snorkelling and simply explore the mysteries of the ocean. But now, as the warm evening winds gently made her hair flutter through the air, the peace she thought she would find was overshadowed by the incredible heartache.    Two days she had spent in paradise, yet without Bucky, the beauty of the place was lost to her. Until he did arrive. Y/N’s head turned to the side, towards the invading sound of sand rustling underneath someone’s boots.    “Was wondering when you’d show up,” she mumbled quietly as he sat down next to her. He kept a little bit of a distance, even though he physically hurt all over without her touch.    “You expected me to come?”    The girl snorted, looking back to the lapping waves. “You were never one to follow orders.”    They remained silent, just watching as the sun slowly disappeared behind the ocean before he couldn’t take the tension anymore and spoke up.    “I’m sorry I hurt you. That I didn’t call for backup when you said for me to do so.”    Y/N pressed her cheek against her curled up knees and hugged her body, desperately wishing it was Bucky’s warm hold around her.    “I’m not mad that you didn’t call for help even in such a dire situation. I’m hurt that you think you mean so little to me. That seeing you in the littlest amount of pain doesn’t devastate me, that it doesn’t rip my heart out and makes me wish I could bear it for you.”    Bucky let tears slip down his cheeks at Y/N’s words, at her sincerity and how much she truly loved him. He took a deep breath before he gathered courage and let every thought finally out in the open.    “I’ve never thought I was worth much. Not after what I- what the Winter Soldier did… I never thought I would get redemption or even the chance at a normal life, but then you walked in it. With those big Y/E/C eyes and that gorgeous gorgeous smile. Right when we met, you came straight towards me and hugged the living daylights out. I… I had never felt so warm and safe in my life. And I knew I'd never be good enough for you. Darling, you deserve someone so much better... Someone without such a heavy baggage... I feel like I need to prove myself. To you, to the world. That I’m worthy, that I have changed and can do good. I just want you to be proud when standing next to me.” His head fell down, face buried in calloused palms, as violent sobs shook his body.    “Buck,” Y/N whispered grasping onto his wrist and went to straddle his lap. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me, not to Steve, not to the world. You’re the strongest man I know with the biggest and kindest heart. Yes, you drive me nuts like no one else, but I love you. I love you and your sass, every ounce of this muscle,” she said squeezing his bicep, “that mind of yours, that you keep referring to as broken,” gentle fingers carded through the long locks. “I don’t need you to act like a fool so you can prove you’re a hero. Everyone can see it just because you’re moving on, making friends… falling in love,” Y/N uttered the last three words so quietly the waves by their feet carried them away. “You are a hero just because you broke out from Hydra’s control. You’re not their puppet anymore. You’re a free man. And you’re my reckless, stupid, infuriating boyfriend I can’t imagine my life without. I am proud of you. So so proud. About every single thing you’ve accomplished.”    Her touch set Bucky’s body ablaze, but the soothing caress of her palm, as it cupped his cheek and wiped away a stream of tears enveloped him like a warm hug.    “I love you, James Buchanan Barnes. And unfortunately, I’ll keep on loving even when I want nothing more than to strangle you, because my life would be so much duller, so much… less… than it is when you’re by my side.”    A choked back laugh passed the man’s lips and for the first time in more than a week, the pain in his heart evaporated leaving only remnants of pure love matching that of Y/N’s. "I don't deserve you, doll.'' "You deserve me and so much more," she said before kissing Bucky and remedying all the broken pieces.    

Tags (crossed out wouldn't take): @lumelgy @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @breezy1415 @pizzarollpatrol @crazy--me @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91 @dalilx @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @in-the-end-im-still-trash @nerissa98 @happyseagrill @asguardiansoftheavengers @crazybutconfidentaf @thunderous-flower @who-cares-rn @projectxhappiness @callmebucky-doll @coal000 @killuaenthusiast @courtneychicken @sophiealiice @raquelbc2003 @watch-out-for-thorns @potentially-kinetic @thatonegirljessy99 @proxinge @bbkenna @buckysclub @ulired @fangirlofeverythingbasically @mrsalh32611 @horrorx570ximagines @the-nargles-made-me-do-it @pooslie @itsisabelanotisabella @httpmcrvel @gallifreyansass

A/N: just wanted to write some sweet fluffy angsty Bucky :)

P.S. please tell me what you think :)

P.S.S. if you wanna be tagged or have any requests, drop a message ;)

[autismgavemychildvaccines]

A quick peek inside Satan’s quivering anus.

Also known as the company running ICE detention centers. So, all of us already know that these places are concentration camps. Most of us also know that these are incredibly inhumane places that show the true character of what we have allowed ourselves to become. And some of us have even heard that it’s costing $775 per day, per inmate to house these detained individuals. $775. That’s a lot. In fact, that means if 2 families of 2 parents and 3 kids are detained for a year (360 days actually), we as taxpayers are paying more for these people to be locked up in bullshit conditions than we are allotting funds to prevent public health emergencies in the average ENTIRE FUCKING STATE (California and New York excluded in this, because they are special cupcakes with super high populations and extra threat sprinkles on top).  Now, the humanitarian side of me has had my grits boiling since this shit started going down, but if there are any libertarians or fiscal conservatives reading, that bottom line, if nothing else, should piss you the fuck off too. Not just for the theoretical bit of it, but for the fact that the average detention stay per immigrant in 2019 has been 91 days, and nearly half of immigrants detained stay in detainment from 2 to 4 years. Sources sort of vary at how many are detained at CHS facilities (I’ll get to them in a moment, but for now know they are the reason for the $775 figure), but the ballpark spans from 20,000 to roughly 52,000 people. So let’s do some quick math here and do a best/worst/average. Say that figures have been inflated (that happens) and there’s only 9,000 people incarcerated at CHS facilities. Average length of stay has been 91 days this year, so we have a nice, simple... Carry the one... Holy fucking shitballs. 819,000 person-days. That’s $634,725,000.  That is $14 Million dollars more than the CDC spends during a full FUCKING YEAR in ensuring that EVERY health department can protect the WHOLE GODDAMN POPULATION with medical countermeasures to a terror event or pandemic outbreak. FOR 9,000 FUCKING PEOPLE. FUCK THE OTHER EXAMPLES, THAT’S THE BEST CASE, FUCK.  I’m just going to step away for a moment..   Okay.. Deep breaths. Back on track. Right. Ahem. So. Everyone else finish changing their pants after shitting bricks over the fact we’re spending national level budgets on a population smaller than  Anaconda-Deer Lodge County, Montana (I swear on any God you believe in, that’s a real name) ? Good.

I mentioned CHS earlier. Amazingly, it doesn’t stand for Child Herder Services, or Cold Heartless Sinners, or Cheeto Humping Slimeballs, though they’d all be more fitting. They are a private company, called, and get your asscheeks ready for this one: Comprehensive Health Services. 

COMPREHENSIVE HEALTH SERVICES  ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

So this  company. Thiiiiis fucking company, owned by Caliburn International has the FUCKING BALLS to put health in their name despite keeping populations in cages with no water outside of the toilet, with no hygiene supplies, and the absolute minimum in terms of keeping people alive (with the most common issue being, you fucking guessed it, HEALTH complications) is charging us to detain people that most of us don’t even want detained, $775 a day. We’ve seen good chunks of these facilities, and they look fucking awful. Understaffed, overcrowded, minimal resources, and the treatment of (some) workers and (all) detainees as livestock. Does that sound, I don’t know, AT.  ALL. FUCKING. FAMILIAR?  So where is our money going? Our over half a billion dollars, of which even the tiniest scrap could give these people at least decent fucking detention areas (not that I believe they should be there as Asylum seekers anyways, mind you)? Let’s actually make this a game. Is it:  A) Corporate Interests with a heavy Lobbying Presence B) Some group of mostly anonymous investors that would likely feast on a newly starved child’s cheeks as they are “delectable and tender” if cooked properly   C) Some Trump Lackeys that got the contract  D) A company that also sells health insurance services Okay, 10 seconds on the clock.  And time! Okay, so how many picked A? Nice, nice. B? Okay.. Keep in mind I don’t know if they actually eat babies but they may just as well. It’d at least make them less human and thus easier to identify as an enemy. C? Aaah, that’s the high number I was expecting and that means D comes in with a small but decent following. WELL CONGRATS, YOU’RE ALL WINNERS! Here’s how:  A) CHS is part of Caliburn, which also owns DC Capital Partners, one of the bigger and well established lobbying firms in the country. And as any lobbying group does, they ensure that politicians bend to their will, increase their dividends, and weed out competition where they can to avoid a power struggle. Ever wonder why the NRA can never be competed with by a gun owners organization that doesn’t simultaneously deep throat their glocks while twisting their heads into their own asses?  B) Frankly, a lot of these funds are going straight to the private market and boy oh boy, does cruelty mean big business gains and a sturdy portfolio. That being said, you cannot separate the act of investing from the actions of the company you are investing in. If they do something fucked, you are essentially an enabler and an accessory to that action. Well, this isn’t ENTIRELY true. As it happens, some months ago they closed off an IPO of CHS specifically (an odd thing to do for a growing company) and cited “market forces” as the reason. How very suspicious.  C) Does this surprise anyone? So, while the actual list of investors is made private, there are an executive board of orange cocksuckers d’jour that have made this their golden parachute, or in the case of one asshole, was a lobbyist for DCCP, then in the Trump Cabinet, then went over to CHS. Here’s a quick list:  Former Chief of Staff John Kelly (aforementioned lobbyist)  Former Deputy Secretary of State Richard L. Armitage Former Ambassador Michael Corbin Former Commander-in-Chief of CENTCOM, Anthony Zinni Former Director of Science and Tech for CIA, Donald Kerr Former Head of CIA Michael Hayden (WHO PUBLICLY DENOUNCED THESE SORT OF PLACES AND ACTIONS AS BEING SIMILAR TO NAZI EFFORTS LAST YEAR) 

Former director of the office of the Budget for the U.S. Navy, Stephen Lotus.  Wow, that’s a lot of love between Trump’s appointees and a contractor, who yes D) also sold insurance services.  So that’s pretty fucked. And sliiight detour now. So, when I started out, like really started out, my first task was dealing with budgets. I still help from time to time, and have to work with contractors fairly often. Now, it’s usual that even if we know suspect that these contractors will give us the best deal every time, we have to do something called “competitive bidding”. That’s where we essentially throw the offer to the air, and whoever gives us the best deal, wins. Now this can be kinda manipulated a bit but in general, these records are open to the public so it’s better for us to just waste the time and actually go through a competitive bidding process than have the explain how we aren’t corrupt while looking pretty corrupt.  You know what didn’t happen here? Competitive bidding. It was a closed off contract. Completely in the dark. How very peculiar, isn’t it?  So, all in all, we have a bunch of fuckwits booted from the White House, sent to a company that has perhaps the most profitable contract of all time, acting like literal nazis, stealing from taxpayers and profiting off racism, suffering and inhumane treatment, all because they could with some bullshit nationalism narrative that’s been pushed by an asshole who can’t even spell check his fucking twitter rants.  Do what you can. But certainly don’t complain to companies who are giving resources to these groups to continue their round ups, for instance, all those vans which are owned by Enterprise. Certainly don’t contact them at 855-298-0346, whatever you do. They are busy people trying to make lots and lots of money. Don’t call your representative and tell them if they support this, they will lose by going to this website: https://www.house.gov/representatives/find-your-representative . And above all, DO NOT use your available resources to try and disrupt this “carrying out of justice” in any way you can safely. Heavens no, because this is America, and children, America doesn’t care if you’re an immigrant or a nationalized citizen. Nooo no no no. It cares about whether you can turn a profit. 

[high-tidethunder]

hard vocabulary (terrible softness)

Read it on AO3

The photograph is old, the edges are curling and yellowed. The subject is a young man, 19 or 20, dressed in a military uniform. The hat is crooked on his head. He looks straight at the camera, not smiling, a cold look in his eye

Alec Lightwood is 19 years old when he gets drafted into the Vietnam War.

It’s 1964 and America doesn’t yet know they’re fighting a losing battle.

(Even later in the decade, when they know, they won’t care, won’t do anything to stop the tide of blood flowing from the bodies of Americans and Viets alike. Innocent blood. Young blood, too young. Mothers are sending their children to fight for an honor that doesn’t exist, and what other choice do they have? To say no? To flee? Draft-dodgers are among the worst the country has to offer, everyone knows this.)

He’s a healthy boy. Athletic. A leader. His father assures him he’ll make command in no time. His mother weeps behind closed doors.

He’s a boy.

He was supposed to go to college this fall, not Fort Benning. He would have been studying medicine by 1969, not limping off a plane, hand on the shoulder of another wounded to keep steady.

Behind them are a parade of pine boxes draped in American flags.

###

The war trudges on with the men, slow and weary and unfeeling. Alec is a combat medic now. His men have taken to calling him “Doc Holliday” because of his uncanny accuracy with their standard issue M-16s, as well as the various non-issue weaponry they carry (from necessity or superstition, though sometimes he can’t tell the difference between the two).

After his second tour, Alec gets promoted to sergeant first class. The title weighs heavy on his shoulders. It comes too fast, too many men are dying, and too many have to take leadership too young in their careers. Alec deals with the responsibility with grace, likening it to helping his mother raise his siblings as a desperate attempt to keep sane. They’re your children, he tells himself, keep them in line. Keep them alive. Many of the men he leads are older than him. He’s scared most of the time, but he doesn’t let it show. He knows his men are scared most of the time, too. Knows how fragile all their minds are. They have to harden up, have to pretend like nothing around them affects them, certainly not as deeply as it does. If the facade falls, they’ll never be able to rebuild it.

They go through shit. Most of the time it’s literal, too. There’s no reason for this. They’ve known this on the front lines from the beginning. It’s all political bullshit and misplaced American pride.

Most of them are supposed to go home in three weeks. All of them will go home in one. None of them will be in one piece. Some will be buried in empty caskets. Some in pieces. Some in sixty years when the Agent Orange gets to their lungs. Some in closed casket funerals because half of their face was blown off with a .38 caliber alone in their bedroom.

They at least keep the dignity of returning before the American people spit in their faces for fighting a war they never asked to join.

-

The man in the picture looks older than his years. His eyes tell a story of horror, of scenes no man woman or child should have to see. He stands in a line with four other men, the side of his face and the dark fatigues he wears are soaked with his own blood.

SFC Lightwood is 24 years old when he comes home from the war.

He doesn’t feel like a man anymore.

He doesn’t feel.

(They call it “combat fatigue” but it’s more than fatigue. It’s emptiness. It’s a darkness where his mind used to be and an empty ribcage surrounding the cavity that used to contain his heart. Later, doctors will call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, they’ll give it symptoms and a diagnosis and medications and it will be too late for too many. Alec won’t be one of them. He’ll keep a loaded Smith and Wesson pistol in the drawer of his bedside table but he says he’s too much of a coward to go through with anything. Over time he’ll forget that excuse and remember how to live again. Over time.)

He’s crippled. There’s a bandage over the side of his face where an eye used to be and a hundred stitches run up the outside of his right calf. He’ll have to learn how to balance again.

His mother and sister are there to pick him up, what’s left of his platoon see him off. They’ll keep contact, when they can. They’d lost too much family already to not.

His brother is dead from the same war. His father too. They don’t hurt as much as the men he couldn’t save.

###

He lives in his sister’s guest room for the first few months, to get back on his feet. Her husband looks at him with more pity than she does. He hates it. He doesn’t need their pity, doesn’t want it. It makes him feel useless.

The VA is no help, but there’s no surprise there. He re-applies to NYU and gets accepted, feels awkward in a classroom full of naive, innocent 17 and 18-year-olds. The teachers have to reserve a seat in the back by the doors for him and he hates it, hates being so weak that he can’t even have children at his back or he’ll go crazy. His sister says it’ll just take time, he’ll feel normal again, feel better, but she doesn’t know. She’s never known what it feels like to be watched all the time. Can’t sleep without feeling watched, can’t eat, can’t take a shit. She doesn’t know, can’t say the feeling will ever fade. But still, he takes some kind of solace in her words.

It doesn’t take time. It never really goes away, not through college, not through the rest of his adult life, not when he’s fucking geriatric. But it stops feeling like weakness. After time he looks at it as something of a...side effect. He doesn’t feel fragile anymore. He learns how to make people’s pity feel less degrading. He learns how to hear “thank you for your service” without wanting to break down.

-

The picture shows two men sitting next to each other, their shoulders brushing. They're looking at each other, smiling in a way that only people who share a world to themselves can. There's no question about their happiness.

Alexander is 25 when he falls in love for the first time.

They meet at a march, under a banner that reads Vietnam Veterans Against the War. He’s handsome, and kind, and looks at Alec with a warmth that no one else has before.

(Later he’ll tell him about the men in his platoon who distrusted him, thought he was a double agent no matter how many times he’d protested that he wasn’t Vietnamese. “You’re all the same in this war,” one had told him. Alec’s blood would boil but he wouldn’t let it show. That wouldn’t help anything.)

He holds a sign that reads “Proud American, Ashamed Veteran”, Alec’s own reads “Lyndon B Johnson killed more than Ho Chi Minh”. His dog tags glint in the early October sun, striking against his dark jungle fatigues.

He wasn’t supposed to be a soldier either. He was a grunt.  A medic, like Alec, but he never made it past PFC.

He’d only made it back from the war a year before Alec had. When they meet he says he wants to go into politics, wants to try and change the bullshit in their country.

###

They move in together only a couple months into dating. He tells his sister only vague details of their relationship, his mom doesn’t even know he’s with someone. He worries at first that it might be too soon, but they’re happy. They feel safe around each other in ways that they can’t feel safe around anyone else anymore.

Most nights, at least for the first few years, at least one of them will wake up from a nightmare, unable to recognize even the bed they lay in. Neither of them will be able to fall asleep again on nights like this. Their kitchen table will see more of them than their bed. They’ll sit, cradling mugs of coffee, damn the fact that they need to be at work or class the next morning, taking comfort in the other’s presence.

It’s easier to go to class on three hours of sleep and a whole pot of coffee than it is to face the nightmares, the memories of men dying in front of you replaying over and over and reminding you how powerless you were to stop it.

-

The photograph is of two men standing in a courtroom. They're both wearing suits. They face someone who's not in the picture. Their hands are clutched tightly.

They make it through anyways. Magnus gets his law degree and runs for mayor in 1978. Alec teases him about being New York City’s own Harvey Milk during his campaign. It’s funny until Milk gets shot five times.

Alec gets his medical degree in 1980, but none of his schooling could have prepared him for the ensuing years. The generation of men who would die without the President of the United States even saying the name of their disease.

The world changes, however slowly, it changes. Most of the time it feels like they take one step forward and two steps back, but there’s progress. Alec gets married in his late sixties when it’s finally legal. It’s a courthouse affair, they’re too tired for a fancy ceremony. And besides, there’s no telling whether the ruling would be overturned, but too many of their friends died before this, too many of them denied the right to see their lovers laid to rest for them to give up this opportunity that they were lucky enough to see.

Eventually, the nightmares will give way to restful sleep.

[ofwarbonds-blog]

five times kissed

Send “Five Times Kissed” for a drabble of – YOU GUESSED IT – 5 times our muses kissed | @ghoststorytm | Always Accepting (but slow) 

1)

It’s an accident.

He and Bucky are sharing a bed because Steve would likely freeze to death otherwise. The bitter cold of a Brooklyn January night shows no bias, nor mercy, after all. It’s almost like they’re kids again; nudging one another, and accusing the other in hushed tones of being a bed hog. Bucky complains that Steve has an unfair advantage, what with those daggers he’s got for elbows.

Steve gets him in the ribs for that remark, and shortly after, the two settle down.

There is no quiet to be had, of course. Between the neighbor’s below, who can’t seem to decide if they’d rather be arguing or…Well, making up – and the wildlife outside of their apartment insistent on rummaging through the day’s trash, Steve is regrettably quite awake.

Bucky has long since drifted off into a peaceful slumber, and exactly how he manages to do so consistently is beyond Rogers’ understanding. He’d be envious if he weren’t already overcome with too many other, more persistent emotions. Mainly the overwhelming urge to kiss the soft-looking, slightly parted mouth now mere inches from his own.

It’s an accident. One minute he’s staring (and vehemently reminding himself that he can’t do this – and shouldn’t want to in the first place), and the next…He’s leaning in, lips quivering, and presses the most chaste of kisses to that whiskey-flavored mouth.

He regrets it immediately; tears away from his best friend, and slips out of the bed as quickly as possible without alerting the other male to his departure.

Steve is in too big a rush to notice Bucky staring after him from the bed they had previously shared.

2)

He can’t forget that first time, no matter how hard he tries. It plagues him in both his waking, and unconscious hours. How many hours of sleep has he been robbed of now, tormented by visions, and phantom sensations of lips and hands that he has no right to desire? Too many to count.

Steve is grateful that his friend was unaware of his moment of…What? Delusion? Weakness? He’s wracked his brain countless times, attempting to make sense of just what compelled him to follow through with such a disgusting desire. To take advantage of a friend like that is unforgivable.

Drinking is expensive, and dangerous for a man of his slight build (not to mention less than fantastic medical background), but Steve indulges tonight because he’s not sure he’d be able to bear watching Bucky dance with both their dates, otherwise. There’s a pretty blonde, petite, with a cherry-colored mouth getting twirled around the dancefloor before she’s pulled back in closer to Bucky than Steve could ever be. It’s so intimate, he can hardly stomach it.

Or is it his own guilt and shame that has him feeling so nauseous?

Regardless, Steve decides that he’s had enough – enough booze; enough stale, smoke-filled air; and more than enough watching his best friend be the kind of guy that all ladies moon over.

He stumbles out into the crisp night air, pulling his jacket tighter around his bony frame, and starts toward home on unsteady legs.

Only a hand comes down on his shoulder, halting his progress before he even gets five paces away from the too-loud club. “Hey! Where are you running off to, punk? Leaving your date like that, she’s gonna-” Steve swats the hand away far too sharply. He knows that Bucky’s done nothing wrong to deserve such harsh treatment, but right now, Steve’s too drunk and angry to care.

“She’s got you, Barnes. Why the hell would she miss a guy like me?” The words are spat in Bucky’s direction, venomous and scathing.

There’s no time to register what’s going on; one second Steve is standing with his back to the other man, shoulders slumped and spine bowed, and the next, he’s gulping down air in a desperate attempt to fill his lungs after having the wind forced out of them. His back is against cool brick now, and Bucky’s staring down at him with eyes far too clear for a man that’s had as much to drink as he has.

“What?” Steve snaps again, feeling strangely exposed; as if Bucky can see right through to the fear and insecurity ravaging him inside.

Bucky’s leaning into him now, one hand propped against the brick on either side of Steve’s head, and for a moment, the blonde is sure he’s gonna get socked in the jaw for mouthing off. The punch he’s anticipating never comes, though. Instead, in the time it takes him to blink, there are lips slotted against his own.

It’s searing, sloppy, and short-lived; Steve pulling away, and nearly cracking his head against the brick behind him in the process.

Bucky seems just as shocked by his actions as Steve, if the look of horror that flashes across his face is anything to go by. The brunette staggers back silently, cupping a hand over his mouth before turning on his heel, and bolting out of the alley.

Steve doesn’t wait up after returning to their apartment to know whether or not Bucky returns that night; but he does wake to an empty bed the next morning.

3)

Bucky ships out, and Steve is left behind, because that’s “what God intended”, or some shit. He doesn’t care much for such an illogical line of reasoning; at the end of the day, he’s been turned away time and time again because his body isn’t strong enough to withstand the rigorous training required to fight a war, much less actively participate in one.

Then he meets one Dr. Abraham Erskine, and his life is completely changed. For the better, Steve would argue. After all, he’s made fast enough to chase down the man responsible for the good doctor’s death; strong enough to withstand bullets; and his myriad of debilitating physical ailments just…Cease to be.

It turns out that war isn’t all Steve thought it to be. At least, not when you’re America’s shiny, new golden boy. Being placed upon a pedestal is something he’s unaccustomed to, and he hates it, but he goes along with the shows because it keeps the troops motivated. Steve doesn’t want – has never wanted – to parade himself around a rickety stage with a group of (admittedly lovely, and almost too sweet) young ladies while the soldiers around him continually go out and risk their lives.

He wants to go out there, himself, fight alongside these men for the good of everyone back home, waiting for their loved ones to return, and ensure the safety of this country.

When he hears word that Bucky’s life is endangered, well, there’s no longer any doubt in Steve’s mind that he needs to be out there. With the help of Peggy, and Howard Stark, Steve is able to get back to his best friend.

Seeing Bucky strapped to a table is unnerving, but it’s a relief just to see that he’s alive. Steve gets him up, and the two men fight their way out of the Hydra base. It’s a completely irrational thought, but once they make it back, Steve thinks that this is what he’s always wanted; to be on level ground with Bucky, fight alongside him, and protect him.

Their return to camp is met with mixed emotions. Survivors are welcomed back with open arms, and relief, while they mourn those that were lost to Hydra’s hands. Sleep is elusive, though every man is exhausted to his very bones. Steve is no different, having chosen to stray a short ways from the camp to gaze up at the sky, and count the stars he can see clearly now, with his enhanced vision.

A hand touches the small of his back so lightly it’s damn near imperceptible, and the blonde jumps, twisting to face his would-be assailant. There’s Bucky, looking momentarily startled before he manages to collect himself enough to muster a small, crooked smile.

“Thought I told you not to do anything stupid, punk.”

Steve’s mouth goes dry. Seeing Bucky on that table, prone and lifeless, had been terrifying. And now, having the other man before him, alive and impossibly handsome, even with a bruised face and messy hair is too much.

Averting his gaze, Steve offers a lazy, one shouldered shrug in response. “Good to see you too, Bucky.”

The tension between them is thick enough you could cut it with a knife. This isn’t the way he envisioned their reunion going, and he hates it, hates that this feels almost like they’re two different people meeting for the first time.

Steve sighs, drags a hand back through his hair, and returns his attention to Bucky. “Listen, Buck, I’m-” He isn’t allowed to finish his sentence, however, as quivering hands grip him by the shoulders to draw him down, and into a kiss that’s equal parts uncertain and demanding.

It’s over as quickly as it’s begun, leaving Steve breathless and confused, and a little hurt as he’s made to watch Bucky’s retreating form make the walk back to camp with slumped shoulders.

4)

“You look like hell, Steve.”

Steve lifts his head so quickly he’s sure to have gotten whiplash. Standing there in the doorway  of his cramped kitchen is none other than Bucky Barnes.

It’s not the Soldier that he’s grown accustomed to seeing in his apartment, sitting stationary for hours at a time, staring ahead at the television screen without really processing any of what’s being broadcast. But it’s not quite the James Buchanan Barnes that struggled to keep Steve out of trouble in seedy Brooklyn alleys, either. This is a man that’s looking to discover himself – whoever that may be – and just wants some fucking peace while he does it.

Steve can relate.

By the time he manages to pick his jaw up off the floor, his mouth has gone dry, and Bucky looks about ready to bolt.

“Yeah,” he rasps, the corners of his lips twitching with a smile he’s doing a poor job of concealing, “well, at least I own it.” That comment earns him a snort from the brunette darkening his doorway. It’s an oddly endearing sound.

Bucky doesn’t move from the kitchen doorway for the next hour, while the two talk, and banter. Steve knows better than to think this is like old times – he’s been down that road before, and it only ends in pain – but it does feel good not to be alone.

A companionable silence falls over the two men, and after upholding about half of that hour long chat himself, Steve is content to let it wash over him. Bucky, however, is clearly not. The brunette shifts his weight a little; averts his gaze to the front door, as if expecting someone to come charging in; and idly touches the metal plates of his arm.

“…We kissed.”

Steve is too dumbfounded by this sudden announcement to formulate a more eloquent response than a strangled noise, as he nearly chokes on his own spit.

“You and me…Before.” Before HYDRA. The words go unspoken, but they’re understood nonetheless.

Steve hesitates just a moment before nodding.

“I don’t remember much.” Bucky speaks slowly, brow furrowed, as if he’s waiting to be scolded for bringing it up in the first place. His gaze is piercing in spite of the uncertainty laced in every word. “Just…Sensation, mostly. Warmth. Your lips were chapped.” There’s a slight quirk to one corner of Bucky’s mouth as he says this; the beginnings of a crooked grin, unfortunately quickly smothered.

Again, Steve merely nods, though his own smile grows in response.

For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, Bucky fully enters the room. His steps are slow and measured, purposeful, as he closes the distance between Steve and himself. Once close enough, he outstretches the hand of flesh and bone, and curls fingers in dirty blonde hair.

“Can I…?”

The air is all but forced from Steve’s lungs by that simple question. “Yes.” It escapes his lips a prayer.

Bucky is careful, so careful, as he lowers himself to slot their mouths together. Slow, measured, and purposeful, much like his stride; and Steve drinks it in, taking all that Bucky is willing to give, until he’s drunk on it.

The two separate, mouths slick and kiss bitten red, and stare at each other until Bucky looks away.

“You ever heard of chapstick, Steve?”

Steve socks him in the shoulder for that one.

5)

Steve honestly never thought he would choose to hang up the suit and shield. In truth, he always suspected he would get himself killed first; no doubt his teammates thought the same. But in the end, it was the best decision he could have possibly made. Not only for himself, but for him.

The gorgeous brunette seated across the table from him now is smiling as Steve outstretches a hand to caress his knee under the table, and even allows a little huff of laughter to escape those plush lips of his.

“You’re a dog, Steve Rogers.” Bucky accuses, voice warm and low in a way that has Steve counting his lucky stars, because only he gets to see this side of Bucky; the soft, intimate, playful, teasing side that makes him fall in love all over again.

There’s a rumbling hum of affirmation from Steve, who makes no attempt to argue or defend himself, as he gives the other man’s knee another light squeeze before withdrawing. His heart’s racing, and his chest feels tight – dear God, it’s like he’s a 90 lb asthmatic again – and Steve worries that he may just pass out before he gets to this next part. It’s so important that this go well, because he wants to make it perfect – Bucky deserves perfect – but when does life ever make it so easy for them?

The two have been sitting at their little dining room table for the better part of an hour now, just talking and sipping idly at wine that neither man could get drunk off of if he tried. It’s been…Nice. Steve can’t remember the last time that he was able to just sit and talk with Bucky like this, without fear of some impending crisis dragging him away from it all.

There are so many things that he wants to say; so much to thank Bucky for; so much to apologize for, too. But that can come later. For now, there’s something far more pressing that he needs to get off his chest.

Rising from his chair, Steve watches, barely biting back his smile, as Bucky assumes that dinner is over and checks his phone. Normally, this is the point in the night that one of them collects the dishes and takes them over to the sink to be washed. But not tonight.

A small velvet box is drawn from his pocket as the blonde takes a knee by Bucky’s side. To his credit, Bucky does shift his attention from his phone, curiosity evident in the way his brows knit together as he peers in Steve’s direction. Lips part, likely prepared to question Steve’s odd behavior, before realization dawns. And oh, what a beautiful thing it is to witness the moment in which Bucky takes notice of the parcel in his lover’s hand. Shock melds into confusion, and into what Steve hopes to be elation.

“Steve, what the hell?” Bucky sounds as breathless as Steve feels, right about now.

After taking a deep breath to steady himself, the blonde speaks. “I’ve loved you since I first knew what love was, Bucky. I put you through hell, and yet you stuck around, refusing to leave my side like the stubborn jerk you are.” Mirth glimmers in baby blue eyes, and Steve feels his chest tremble with his next shaky inhale. “I’ve come to realize that home isn’t a city, or a time, or even a building – it’s you. You’re the home I wanna come back to, Bucky. So…With all of that being said, will you marry me?”

Bucky looks like he’s about ten seconds away from either kissing Steve senseless, or punching his lights out. Naturally, Steve has a preference, but he opts not to vocalize that – probably for the best, too.

Just as he’s certain that he’s about to be let down easy, Bucky surges forward and hugs him so tight, Steve fears he may black out before he gets his answer. “You stupid punk…Yes. Yes, okay? Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Steve is familiar with heart defects, seeing as how he lived with one for a good chunk of his life, ‘n all, and he’s pretty sure that his heart’s fit to burst right about now. Clinging to Bucky in return, he grins from ear to ear, pressing a series of kisses into the crown of the other male’s hair. “God, Buck, had me scared there for a minute.” He whispers, voice a weak and shaky thing, barely able to escape his throat. There’s laughter on the tail end of that statement, however, because he’s too damned giddy not to laugh.

He leans back, taking Bucky’s hand in his own, and slides the simple gold band down the length of his flesh index finger. “Beautiful.” Steve’s baby blues are transfixed on the other man’s face, tracing every curve, and committing the way he looks in this moment to memory. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll never see a sight so entrancing as Bucky Barnes looking back at him with the utmost love and adoration, and a gold wedding band on his finger.

“C’mere.” Bucky offers no room for argument, pulling Steve in, and claiming his mouth in a kiss that speaks volumes. It’s a kiss that neither man will forget, for the rest of their lives; a kiss to mark the beginning of their next chapter.

After all, they did promise…Til the end of the line.

[akiiwan]

I really need to get out this experience I just had earlier tonight. Thank you for reading & holding space if you are able. ~Not sure how to CW this, still shaking, still feeling like I'm going to throw up.~ First of all, my therapist has told me that I need to practice not isolating myself & talking about the things that cause me hurt &/or trauma instead of pretending they didn't happen, stuffing them away, or trying to run from them. I have been tapering off of a psychiatric med that for me(or my brain) has not been a good experience for about 3 weeks or so. For the last few days I've found myself in crisis that can't even really be explained with life altering symptoms like self harm that I really don't feel like going further into. Not only am I in the middle of switching psychiatrists, but the next appointment I have is over 3 weeks out. The old white dude I was seeing that I transferred from is out of the country apparently & didn't properly tapper me off. When the nurse I spoke with today spoke with the only doctor who was available, they said I was having very severe (but common!!!) withdrawal symptoms from tapering off of this med. Mind you, this is after I've already self-harmed & was trying not to do it again despite feeling that way + dealing with intense suicidal ideation. ANYWAY, 10 minutes before 5pm, when the nurse & doctor are scheduled to leave, she calls me back & says that I need to get to the pharmacy immediately to pick up a 1/2 dosage to keep tapering down & would be sending it in right then. The pharmacy I like to use has limited hours, & also closes at 5pm (would Never have made it). So I reluctantly had them call it into the so-called tumwater walm*rt pharmacy since they would be open until 9pm. we get into the car & the nurse informs me that i need to hang up with her & actually call them to make sure they got it with no issues before they leave for the weekend. I did that & confirmed I was all set to go + also let the pharmacy know I was on my way when I called. Arriving at the pharmacy, driving through the parking lot at walm*rt it's literally a fucking 'maga' convention or some shit. Driving by the main entrance to park there's literally a truck with a sticker of "make america great ag*in" on their back window & an old white couple loading shit into it. I couldn't fuckin take it anymore, as we passed in the car, I rolled the window down & yelled "america was never great & will never fucking be great". Apparently that was enough to start a bunch of shit... We (my husband & I) go park just a little further away than normal bc of the snow & bc it was so busy. I stayed at our car to rant a little bit before going in to try releasing some of the anger & tension that caused, but apparently to no avail as a wmart employee (of course, some old white guy doing carts) watched me the entire time, even as I walked up to the store. Before I even got to the door, I noticed that same employee that had been watching me that I was trying to just walk past gave me the most aggressive & honestly terrifying look. While still walking, not even breaking stride to engage, I shouted at him "fuck all you maga losers" or something to that effect I really cannot remember to be honest. All I know is I know I was on a mission & actually really focused to go get my medication & get the Fuck Out. So while I defended myself from his purposefully intimidating + vicious gaze just by no longer saying silent, he got on his radio & said hell knows what on it. I continued walking fast, straight to the pharmacy with no further words, just trying to get there as fast as my body could carry me. As I walked up to the counter there was a small line with 1 person standing & (of course) a random middle-aged white guy sitting waiting in line 2nd. I politely asked him if he was in line while my husband stood in front of me & offered me to sit while he stood to wait. He confirmed being in line. Directly after, some large old white guy I've never seen (about 6'2" maybe 6'4" or something) got behind my husband. To distract myself from anxiety/everything that just happened, I started talking to him about stuff we did the day before. The old white guy that came up & stood behind my husband stood there for a few seconds, then threateningly walked up to me as I was sitting down waiting & literally interrupted me talking to my husband + said to me "you should clean up your mouth, no one wants to hear that language, you're in public"... "you should go home then if you don't like it, you fucking racist." I said. OF COURSE, of freakin course the middle aged white dude on the other side completely entered himself into this & said "how does this have *anything* to do with race?!" like he had ANY CLUE what was going on. I said one more thing like something to the effect of "yeah I know what this is really about you heard me tell whoever that you maga losers can all fuck off" to both of them - basically he had coincidentally heard what I said to those old white people or some shit idk honestly. IT GETS BETTER - (sarcasm, obviously) The store manager, assistant store manager, & the rest of his entire entourage -literally all white people- ambush us at the pharmacy & say they will not be filling my emergency script & I can leave for ""harassing their customers"". The store manager (some 100% bald middle-aged white dude who no shit literally looked like a fucking skinhead) & whoever the fuck was next to him would not even look at me nor acknowledge me As A Person. They even said right in front of me like I wasn't even there they would only speak with my husband (who also happens to be white). No shit. As my husband tries calmly to explain our/my situation, he cut him off & this dude(store manager apparently) looked at me for one split second with the most disgusted & threatening look even leaning into it, said "what is your name"? "I don't need to give you that information" I replied. He literally turned on his heel & said "fine, I'll just get it from the pharmacy" like that isn't illegal as all hell. My husband, trying to de-escalate & just get my emergency script at this point & save me from more BS told him my deadname right in front of me as the sm stormed off with his entourage. 2 employees remained. The assistant store manager - a white woman who looked confused + shocked? i guess idk I have problems reading people as someone who is neurodivergent. There was also another employee who was also a white woman who had visible tattoos. Long story short, they sit with me while my husband & myself wait once the shit ass of a store manager informed them they would be filling it bc the wmart employee with the tattoos literally confirmed EVERYTHING in my story as she walked by at the time of the old white man approaching me FIRST when I was sitting down in line. After filling my script I walked directly out the door to the EXACT same wmart employee that started all of this. He had already been tipped off not to engage or even look at me (like he did before). So instead as we walked to our car he made sure to exert his "power" over me by walking as close as possible while passing opposite directions on the sidewalk in front of the store. I wish I was making this up. Not even going to try to sugar coat it, I feel scared as hell making this post for So Many reasons. I know I am a light-skinned &/or a "white-passing" POC that does pass either way in certain situations. Being mixed with white, regardless of whether it's winter or summer, I still benefit from this viscous cycle that is white supremacy. I know that & I acknowledge that. So it just makes this post that much more awkward I suppose?, but I know I cannot invalidate my own experiences & I also cannot change how I am perceived as I move through the world. It's definitely different every damn day. So much so that I never really know where I stand or where my presence is welcome or unwelcome or what to even expect from people.

TL:DR; My friends of color in this area or passing through: stay the fuck away from the tumwater walm*rt literally at all fucking costs. it's 100% unsafe.

Thankful as all hell for the community I've chosen to surround myself with & that we've moved into an area that seems a lot safer & with a lot more POC community to connect with + continually feel safe around to help manage my C-PTSD.

[middleagedangst]

A Penny for your Health?

You see it sitting there, on the countertop positioned conveniently next to the change dispenser. You sometimes reach your hand in and take from it because you’re lazy or selfish. Other times, you’ll empty your hand into it simply because it’s harder to open your pack of Marlboro Lights while carrying out your six-pack of Busch Light with change in your hand. I get it. No judgment here. What is this well of human generosity? The penny tray. Seen in all 50 states in nearly every gas station convenience store. The very idea of it is pretty great. Take a penny, leave a penny. Fucking genius. I mean why not drop a few cents in there anyway? It’s like a pay-it-forward savings account. It’s a way to be a good person while putting in the least amount of actual effort, an important quality of our American social contract. Besides, isn’t it better to help out your fellow man than to totally forget you even have that extra change until you either find it under the couch cushion next to a Dorito of questionable age or even months later in the pocket of last winter’s coat? Shit, it’s only a penny unless you’re one of those really rich motherfuckers that leave something bigger than a nickel.

I can’t remember a time that these trays didn’t exist, and I’m older than the SyFy channel and the original NES. As far as I’m concerned, the penny tray is a part of America, like NASCAR and cheating on your taxes. And the funny thing about it is anyone can use it, regardless of race, religion, sexual orientation, place in the economic strata, whatever gender pronoun you are, etc., without so much as an utterance of disdain or unfairness. It’s true. Never once have I seen protest from the skinheads, or the Black Panthers, Westbrook Baptists, the anti-war hippies, the ACLU, not even fucking Scientology. Nobody gives a flying rat’s ass that these things exist. So why the fuck can’t we have this same outlook on other things that might actually be of some use for the nation as a whole? Like, say, healthcare.

Healthcare coverage in the U.S. is pretty fucked up when you think about it. People usually get the best options through their employer, but just like friends with benefits, it starts out great but sooner or later it comes with some strings attached. For one, employers don’t have to offer group rates, or even offer coverage to employees working part-time or doing contract work. Even then if you do get coverage through your employer and you have a pre-existing condition, like diabetes, then the insurance company can tell you to get bent and deny service. Even better, when you do have insurance but they conveniently deny paying for treatment because something is out of network, or not covered by your plan as stated in the fine print that nobody reads. And don’t get me started on dental insurance. The people that usually need it the most, the poor and the elderly on fixed incomes, have trouble affording it and oftentimes rely on cut-rate plans or Medicaid (which has plenty of its own faults). On top of all this, private insurance doesn’t do a damn thing when it comes to controlling costs, because why can’t the medical and pharmaceutical industries rake in a fuck-ton of money from a chemically dependent consumer base that’s getting bent over and prison raped from a lack of options. It’s an awful lot like a strong arm robbery just for the privilege to get treated when you think about it. That’s capitalism’s influence for you. Anything else is unAmerican and downright evil, right?

There has been a lot of debate on what we can do as a nation and body politic that can help millions get healthcare that isn’t frustratingly shitty and increasingly expensive. For starters, some believe we should just leave the shit as it is and not change anything. Let the free markets reign supreme and the weak will die off leaving a healthy race of super citizens. Under this solution, you are free to choose the insurance company you want to pay your ransom to and they handle the rest. The companies dictate how much you pay and how much they pay or if they pay for any service or medication. Have you ever tried to negotiate what you actually get for your money? No? Didn’t think so. This solution is American as fuck so the argument should stop here, but what fun would that be just listening to one option and calling it a day. That’s like watching the same news channel all day.

Another solution is a more socialist approach in which you pass a law that levies a tax on all Americans earning income and then whatever government bureaucracy is in charge of the money pays out benefits to all Americans. The will of the people can then, through representation, effectively bargain for better prices and more expansive coverage because at that point our tax money is the only game in town. See, I know that’s not the American way, that’s the way of the rest of the civilized world’s way and how can the United States be special if we do the same shit the rest of the developed world does? We can't, and that’s why that commie shit isn’t welcome here.

Now I dare ask the question, what’s the fucking difference? Really. What is it? Because as far as I can tell, both possible solutions are the fucking same. You pay money into a big pot, where there are people hired or appointed into positions that control the money and payouts are dispersed on an as needed basis. When you get a bill from a hospital or doctor’s office and you only owe a fraction of the total, where do you think that money comes from? It sure as hell isn’t all the money you paid the company because that would be more like a rainy day savings account. No, other people paid their monthly bill allowing more money to be used for you. Everyone paying money to the insurance company helped you pay that bill. And just like the tray at the gas station, you’re okay with that. Sometimes, the insurance company doesn’t want to pay that much. Maybe it was an unhealthy month and there were a lot of claims, or the board didn’t think you were worth saving. Who knows. Either way, your bill was subsidized by your fellow policyholders. So to everyone that likes to say that they don’t want to pay for someone else’s healthcare “cuz, this is Amurica, and that’s commeynism,”- shut the fuck up because if you have insurance or pay taxes, you already do.

Can someone explain to me how buying healthcare coverage is different than paying a tax for the exact same or possibly even better outcome? Is the fact that you voluntarily pay money to a business for a servi™ce mean that you are freer? I can’t wrap my mind around how just because it's a business doesn’t mean the concept isn't a socialist idea. It just is.

Maybe there is a difference. Perhaps that difference is that a private corporation operates with profit in mind. These entities, especially in this day and age with boards of directors and publicly traded stock have more incentives to make money, meaning higher prices and fewer expenditures. Now, I’ll grant you that the government can be real fucking dumb, but these corporations are profiting on your desire to not be fucking sick while maintaining the right to deny coverage for any reason. Pre-existing condition? Fuck you, you’re a high priced liability. Cancer? We’ll pay some but you’re still getting stuck with a bill you most likely can’t afford. Want to see a healthcare provider that’s out of network? Fuck you too. These insurance companies can be real fucking assholes sometimes. In my opinion, by supporting this system, you give a tacit agreement to this shit continuing. So you’re an asshole too. Sorry. Guilt by association.

I’m not saying government-funded healthcare is perfect. Far from it. Especially with the current government we have. They’ve lost money before and most likely will again. They’ve borrowed from social security. They’ve been openly corrupt. I get it. We shouldn’t really trust these motherfuckers with much, but it could be better than what we have now. The people united and holding those in power accountable through elections and protests. It is, after all, the job of the government to work for the people, for their betterment and safety, to regulate commerce between the states, and to work towards a common goal. All of those things government tax-funded healthcare can provide. Remember finishing the pledge of allegiance with “liberty and justice for all?” Think about the liberty you’d have not having to worry about the cost of being sick and the justice knowing that your fellow American chips in to help his neighbor because it is the morally correct and just thing to do. It still falls short of utopian but at least it's a step in the right direction. Do I think everything should be covered under the people’s insurance? No. I don’t. Sorry, but your penile implant will just have to wait until you can pay cash.

The health of the people shouldn’t be a for-profit industry. It belongs outside the realm of normal capitalist behavior. Healthcare is something that benefits us all. And the healthier the nation is, the more productive, the happier, and better off we can all be. Right now, the healthy are the ones who can afford it. Is that right? Depends on who you ask. Is it just? Not in what should be a united, civilized people. How can us Americans sit by and watch our fellow citizens fall sick, stay sick, and possibly die and not think that the system has failed somehow? It’s morally bankrupt. Also never forget that we as a nation pay more per person on average than many of the other countries with socialized medicine. So even at the very least, socialized medicine can save you a buck or two. And who doesn’t like to save money? It’s certainly less time consuming than clipping fucking coupons.

So just like the little penny tray, a new system of healthcare can be a benefit to everyone, not just those that can afford it already. You put in a little and other times take what you need without questions. It’s there when you need it and can make your day just that much easier. Let’s, as Americans, make the tray just a bit bigger and make things a little better for everyone. You’re already doing it and just didn’t realize it, comrade.