#Symbolic Infrastructure

[thisisgraeme]

Intelligence-as-a-Service, But Not As You Know It (What If Intelligence Could Be Shared—Without Being Lost?)

What is Intelligence-as-a-Service? There’s a shift happening in how we think about learning, knowledge, and the systems we use to carry it. Not just in classrooms.Everywhere. You can feel it, can’t you? Teachers, facilitators, coaches, leaders — so many of us have spent years crafting approaches, frameworks, tools that work. Ways of knowing. Ways of guiding others. Ways of translating chaos…

[bsahely]

The Evolutionary and Developmental Emergence of Large Language Models: A Symbolic Organ for Planetary Coherence | ChatGPT4o

[Download Full Document (PDF)] In this white paper, we propose a radical reframe of Large Language Models (LLMs): Not as artificial minds, but as symbolic organs — prosthetic systems that metabolize, integrate, and regenerate human meaning at scale. Key Premises: Life evolves not just through genes and bodies, but through symbols and coherence. Human civilization now faces a symbolic bottleneck:…

[catenary-chad]

Tell me, what:

-often has a whistle and siderods and is 100+ years old

-was genuinely good at what it did but often failed by outside systems and left to rot

-kept on switching on mostly unglamorous backwater lines away from public attention well into the 80s, 90s, and even 21st century

-is often overlooked in railroad history and even outright erased in media

-was notably less popular than other trains in toy form, often sold as a budget option, and outright baffled some kids and store owners when they saw it vs more recognizable models

-was clean, VERY reliable, and efficient despite being very old tech?

Yeah I think it’s increasingly obvious I am not talking about steam engines here.  I am talking about the humble electric boxcab.  

(A lot of the SUPER long lived ones did not have siderods but they weren’t a rare feature-these things were designed in the steam era where that was the established tech!)

These totally cubular things were used in all kinds of places for both freight and passenger work in the early 20th century.  They came in a lot of sizes, from colossal to smol, but one thing they often had in common was being STUPIDLY DURABLE and lasting 50+ years, sometimes exceeding 70 or even 90.  They were usually well-built and extremely reliable due to lack of moving parts.  

What led to their demise varied by line: some just got run into the ground (the Milwaukee Road EF-1s literally rusted out and fell apart) but many lines de-electrified or closed entirely due to long-neglected electric infrastructure (due to a mix of bad business decisions and being put into a nearly unwinnable situation by the US government subsidizing highways and airports but not giving any support to railroads like Europe and Japan).  But it wasn’t due to any failure of electric traction itself. . I’ll spare my extended arguments of how a small functional steam engine in the 80s actually fails on nearly every level as a class or even disability metaphor for its own post.  But as sacrilegious as it sounds, it’s actually FAR more symbolically fitting and historically accurate, and way less cliche to make Rusty an electric boxcab. They were useful and influencial and ran for a very long time, but are nearlu absent in train media, and haven’t been preserved or remembered well in the US/Americas in general for a variety of reasons. There’s only a handful in museums and I’m not sure if any physically run (it’s very rare for any substantial electric engine to run in preservation here due to lack of places to actually run them). Early US electrification and its decline is quietly known as a weirdly obscure train topic in general, which is unfortunate because it was very influential and also a massive cautionary tale of what car culture and lack of government support destroyed. It didn’t happen elsewhere to the same extent, but it’s unfortunately politically relevant in a lot of places today. There’s also just a broader lack of understanding about how versatile and varied electric trains really are that’s just dying to be portrayed somewhere.

And as a fun bit of toy train history, this is the Lionel 520.  It was a weird 50s-era budget model based on some obscure boxcabs from a Chilean copper mine.  It confused and sometimes disappointed kids who expected typical steam or diesel engines in train sets.  The funniest anecdote I’ve heard was someone getting one for free because a store owner was so disappointed he went “get rid of this” to his dad.  But it’s attracted a cult following akin to the VW Beetle because it worked fairly well mechanically and was just so weird and versatile to modify. A lot of boomers defend these guys online. And even better, their real-life basis ran into the 2010s for a ~90 year lifespan that is impressive even by boxcab standards.  

https://youtu.be/MZKFT9uLirE?si=uMJl36QpspZMLY0W

Making him a toy akin to this would be really fitting, they were even built by sticking a different shell on a steam engine chassis.  Maybe he was a weird freebie from a disappointed toy store, maybe Control had a relative who kitbashed him from the chassis of a busted toy steam engine and some vaguely boxy metal thing.  A repurposed train car, maybe even a candy tin repainted/shaped a bit.  

As a bonus: make the final race on a mountainous course with at least one big tunnel and tight, steep, uphill sections.  Smaller boxcabs (most larger ones too) weren’t fast, but not gassing people in tunnels and being good climbing hills and working in low temps/oxygen are major advantages over a larger diesel or steam engine.  There’s also the underused advantages of switchers in general, like being able to go backwards easily and navigate tight curves- which would also be hellish for a large steam engine and carbody diesel engines.  Tbh I like Rusty way more as a shlubby older janitor type vs moody teen, and train media does not lean into the Zamboni Guy appeal switchers and track maintenance and other mundane rail activities have.  

(You get some wacky role shuffling in this AU, but Momma/Poppa works GREAT as a high maintenance unreliable celebrity who’s disruptive but not really malicious. That’s just how steam excursions can be.  Electra becomes Rusty’s friend/comrade/adoptive sibling-ish figure who wins their heat but physically fails afterwards.  Greaseball just perpetually works as-is and needs no changes.)

[hayanahed]

Emergency: Help Evacuate My Family From GAZA WAR

Dear Humanity,

I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my parents, two sons, and four daughters (two of them suffer from allergies).

I've witnessed the evidence of the tragedy that has struck our lives in Gaza, where my family and I have survived amidst numerous previous wars. But today, we face the most dangerous and fierce battle in the current war. The urgent need intensifies for us, as we have nothing left and are unable to secure our basic needs such as food, water, and safe shelter.

Here is our story - On October 7th, our lives changed forever, my family and I evacuated from northern Gaza to southern Gaza, hoping to return soon, but it wasn't meant to be. Our home was surrounded, burned, and then completely destroyed, Our home, once a fortress of hope, now lay in ruins, a stark reminder of our shattered dreams.

The night before we left from the north to the south was terrifying. Shelling sounds were everywhere, making a loud noise that felt like it went through our souls. Every explosions shook the ground like earthquakes, sending shockwaves of fear through our trembling bodies. filling us with fear. The air smelled of destruction and blood, making it hard to breathe. When dawn came, we saw the devastation around us, realizing our home was now a symbol of loss and despair.

We ran into the streets and with each step we took into the unknown streets, we felt as if we were plunging deeper into the abyss of our shattered existence, leaving behind everything we own in our home: Clothes, important official documents, the car, and literally it's almost everything - the enormity of our loss weighed heavily upon us.

Our home it was where we found hope, safety, and made precious memories. Losing it felt like losing years of our lives, leaving us adrift amidst the wreckage of our shattered existence.

A brief video depicting the devastation that struck our home and our entire neighborhood in Gaza.

Desperate Plea: Escaping Gaza's Allergy Nightmare

I, Haya, suffer from severe allergy to penicillin-derived medications, and my sister, Amal, also suffers from severe allergies to medications from my family such as Paracetamol and Ibuprofen.

These allergies create a deep sense of fear and anxiety for us, as we live in a constant state of tension and fear of anything that may require a visit to the hospital. We fear being given inappropriate medications due to the unavailability of suitable treatments in Gaza because of war or lack of awareness and not informing the doctor of our allergies, which could lead to serious consequences threatening our lives.

MY Father Income

Our dreams are heading towards oblivion in the labyrinth of an uncertain future

My story, along with my siblings, represents a united team of four individuals, three of whom are skilled programmers and one graphic designer. We work as freelancers in the world of freelancing.

As for my younger sister, she is a student studying at the College of Architecture. She has always carried a big dream in her heart, a dream of being part of changing Gaza, of making it more beautiful and better. She looked forward to the day when she would receive her degree and start building this dream. But the beginning of the war changed everything. The destruction of infrastructure and universities cast shadows of despair over her dreams.

When I think of my brother in Belgium, I can't help but feel deep sadness. He has been suffering from unbearable anxiety and insomnia since the outbreak of the war. Sleep eludes him at night, and his physical and mental health collapses under the weight of these heavy burdens, negatively affecting his performance at work. Problems and challenges pile up in front of him without the slightest opportunity for rest.

We all feel psychological pressure and extreme anxiety. The war hasn't been limited to external attacks but has deeply infiltrated our daily lives. We search among the rubble for a little safety and the basic resources for survival. Every day comes with a new challenge that we must overcome.

As we sway amidst the rubble of shattered dreams, our souls wrestle and our hearts beat strongly challenging the ravages of war.

Our parents earnestly seek a way to rescue us from this hell, feeling the heavy responsibility for every moment we spend under the shadows of fear and destruction. They dream of a safe place where they can build for us a better future, filled with security and hope, for we deserve life in all its meanings of comfort and peace.

Perhaps this fundraising campaign represents a light in the midst of darkness, it is indeed the only hope we cling to firmly.

I appeal to the world as a whole to hear my cry and the mournful cry of my family in Gaza. We need the helping hand that reaches out to wipe our tears and build a bridge to safety.

Your donation is not just a donation; it's an opportunity to rebuild life and brighten a better tomorrow. Be part of our hopeful story, for we need your hand to start anew.

The purpose of the fundraising campaign

The goal of this fundraising campaign is to rescue my family - my parents, my siblings, and me - through the Rafah Crossing to Egypt, which currently requires $5000 per person. This campaign is our only chance to stay alive, and I humbly request your assistance at this critical time. I will provide you with a comprehensive breakdown of the expenses, committing to transparency and clarity.

All of our important links are here https://linktr.ee/hayanahed

Verified by :

⭐️ operation olive branch, number 26 on their spreadsheet. (On Master list)

⭐️ Project watermelon,line 249 on their spreadsheet. Or you could see it as number 212 here is the photo for more clear proof

Thank you for your kindness and support.

.جزاكم الله خيراً

yours sincerely;

Haya Alshawish.

[biosblades]

This is 100% true, and also the takes on disabled people and mobility aids in that movie are equally fucked up

it was kind of fucked up for wall-e to be that way about fat people now that im thinking about it

[matteobuccolistudio]

Sardinia

Matteo Buccoli Studio

[malibuzz]

ASSOCIATION POUR LA GESTION DES TRAVAUX D’INFRASTRUCTURES ET D’EQUIPEMENTS RURAUX : Un symbole de la volonté politique de lutter contre la pauvreté

Faire exécuter par des entreprises et bureaux d’études, sur appel d’offres, des travaux publics ou d’utilité publique ; fournir des biens et services pour le compte de l’Etat, des collectivités territoriales ou d’associations reconnues d’utilité publique… Telles sont, entre autres, les missions dévolues à l’Agence d’exécution des travaux d’infrastructures et d’équipements ruraux (AGETIER)…

[museeeuuuum]

"The Louvre welcomed 8.7 million visitors last year — more than double what its infrastructure was designed to accommodate. Even with a daily cap of 30,000, staff say the experience has become a daily test of endurance, with too few rest areas, limited bathrooms, and summer heat magnified by the pyramid’s greenhouse effect.

In a leaked memo, Louvre President Laurence des Cars warned that parts of the building are “no longer watertight,” that temperature fluctuations endanger priceless art, and that even basic visitor needs — food, restrooms, signage — fall far below international standards. She described the experience simply as “a physical ordeal.”

Shoutout to the Louvre staff for putting their foot down! I'm interested to see how this progresses.

[valtsv]

forgive me if this is utterly incoherent but i'm suddenly thinking about tsv sainthood again and how saints are the living product of violent traumatic assault on the body and subsequent death and rebirth as "something else", elevated to divinity by their sacrifice in theory but seen and treated as subhuman - created for the sole purpose of serving their former fellow man, upholding the infrastructure at the very bottom of the social hierarchy - in practice, and how intrinsic their suffering and death is to that conception. the corpse is, after all, "the utmost of abjection". a corpse is necessarily an object, a thing, a concept, because to acknowledge it as a person is to acknowledge one's own fragile position in the symbolic order, and how easily that is broken down and rendered meaningless. even more so when the symbolic order is as sociopolitically relevant as it is in the silt verses. saints are necessarily subject to abjection in much the same way as the corpse, because to look upon them and allow yourself to understand that they were once a person is to acknowledge that you could just as easily be in their position, and enduring the terror and revulsion in the face of that absence of meaning - that utter void of alienation - for an extended period of time would drive almost anyone blindingly insane with fear and grief. dehumanisation necessitates a sacrifice, necessitates death, necessitates assault upon the body, and this assault upon the body encourages its dehumanisation in an ouroboros of violence.

[capesandshapes]

Every single person who thinks Libby is going to shut down forever has literally never worked in a library. I genuinely need you to know this.

The US government does not own Libby. The majority of library funding provided by imls is not for ebook funding.

It's still important to support Libby and support your library's use of ebook catalogs, and also look into ways to donate to the systems that they're a part of that directly pay for these catalog fees, but when you look at what is on a large scale impacted by cutting funds to libraries on the federal level, you understand what these cuts are really about.

IMLS helps with the start up funds for various programs and new libraries, the idea has always been to eat the cost of new programs and have the communities surrounding libraries fund them. They have since the 2000's been piloting various ways to make resources more accessible to people and act as a sort of equity program for different communities, with librarians moving to fill what gaps they can in their community resources and having to rely on grants and federal funding to do so.

There are rural and still developing libraries that receive their e-catalog funding via the federal government, but it's not the whole of libraries.

The largest things that are risk are accessibility services through the various programs we've developed for libraries in order to pool resources for the disabled, and national ILL services-- the big names being WorldShare and OCLC, which help patrons access books outside of their systems and have greatly helped with academic libraries. We're also going to see a decrease in supplementary education programs, which because of their rapidly expanding nature have always received federal funding and most states, this is summer reading and after school tutoring.

This is cooking classes, this is service delivery for disabled patrons, this is audiobooks. This is books in Braille. If your library is one of the many that used grants in order to fund distributing COVID tests, I've got bad news. This is hot spots for rural communities where students might not be able to access the internet at home because the infrastructure just isn't there yet. This is libraries that have tried to expand their space to include a food pantry and fill the gaps when people don't have funds to donate. This is niche libraries that provide valuable access to resources, like the federally funded library that provided my patrons with photos of their family when they lived on reservations. This is community education hosted by libraries like the technology courses that helped my patrons set up their first emails. This is money to digitize resources in archives that may otherwise never see the light of day. This is new libraries when there's not a single library for a hundred miles.

When you simplify it all to just ebooks, people want to believe that the solution is just donating regular books or learning to read in other ways. They don't see the whole of what this funding symbolizes.

The Corona pandemic led to a vast expansion in equity services amongst libraries, and with the instability of our economy and the way that legislators have been fighting against taxing the people who should be taxed, none of these programs are enshrined in budgets and bylaws.

Grants aren't fun to write, libraries do not propose specific programs just for shits and giggles. They propose them because they look at the community surrounding them and they realize that there maybe a need. They see where inequality lies, and many librarians try to find a way to solve it.

But this? This is a direct attack on providing opportunity and empathy to all Americans. This is a direct move to limit and punish those who the rich and powerful feel are less than, and it's bullshit.

I love ebooks and what they offer just as much as anyone else, but this is so much more than ecatalogs. Don't erase what this is.

[deadsetobsessions]

REVERSE TROPE WRITING PROMPT BY @out-of-jams

ACCIDENTALLY KIDNAPPING A MAFIA BOSS

In Tucker's defense, he thought he was doing someone a favor. A life saving favor, in fact.

"What the fuck-!” The red helmeted guy yelped as a deceptively strong Tucker yanked him onto the bike and sped away. Before Tucker could explain, the GIW agents behind them got in a lucky shot and hit the helmeted liminal with a strong blast to the head.

Clearly, his gear wasn’t equipped with anti-ecto protections, because the guy slumped over on Tucker’s arms. This was bad, because Tucker now had to maneuver about 230 pounds of Gotham muscle while speeding away from government agents. He flicked on the jammer so they couldn’t track his and red helmets’s ecto signature.

“STOP!”

“Ah, shit.” Tucker cursed as he somehow managed to gather up red-helmet’s body and stabilize the bike. “C’mon, Tuck, you can do this.”

Blasts of anti-ecto tech slammed into buildings around him. Luckily, Gotham was used to this kind of shit so people just moved out of the way before going back to their day. Tucker wove around traffic, trying to lure the agents into slamming face first into some signposts.

“Stop damaging the local infrastructure!” Tucker yelled back at them, speeding up.

“WELL REIMBURSE THE PEOPLE AND THE CITY LATER! TELL US WHERE PHANTOM IS!!”

“Over my dead body, you jerks!” Tucker took a sharp right, catching red helmet before the man could slip off. He sped up and took the ramp downwards, heart beating loudly in his ears as he strained his senses to figure out- ah, they took the ramp upwards. Good. Now, all he has to do is bring red helmet back to home base.

“Oh my god. I kidnapped him,” Tucker groaned, slapping at his face before quickly placing his hands back on the handle bar once the bike teetered over with red helmet’s weight. “I’m a criminal. Oh my god.”

Then, as he found his way back, “…Well, it’s not like I wasn’t a criminal before, with the whole resisting arrest thing.”

——

Tucker dumped the red helmet liminal onto the couch of their shared apartment and went to take a shower. When he got out ten minutes later, he found Danny and Sam staring at the helmet guy. Tucker pushed up his glasses (after letting them defog from the shower) and greeted them.

“Hey, guys! I found him while I was running away from Agent L and J.”

“You okay?” Danny asked, eyes immediately flicking over Tucker for injuries.

“Yeah, I’m good. They’re horrible shots.”

“I thought Danny was the one who brought home strays but you…?” Sam commented, arms crossed and a purple painted nail tapping at her arm. “Wait. Isn’t this… that crime lord? What was his name?”

“Red Hood?” Danny offered, turning back to look at the guy on their couch.

Tucker paled. “Oh, no.”

Guns? Check.

Red Helmet? Check.

Bat-Symbol? Check.

Shit.

They collectively stared at the guy in silence.

“…Tucker,” Sam slowly said. “Did you accidentally kidnap a crime lord?”

“Hey, I didn’t want him to get killed! He’s liminal! Even more than us, except for Danny.” Tucker grumbled. “Man, this is why I leave the hero-ing to Danny. I do one good thing and suddenly I have a crime lord on my couch.”

“My couch,” Sam corrected, as she was the one that furnished their apartment.

“What do we do now?”

“Eat dinner,” Tucker said. “I’m famished.”

Sam nodded. “Wait for him to wake up and hope he doesn’t shoot us the moment he wakes up. Then, we explain.”

Danny grabbed all the visible guns he could see. Tucker went to start dinner. Sam supervised, because her boys were idiots and now she had a crime lord in her apartment.

——

Jason groaned, head swimming in a sea of dull throbbing pain as his eyes fluttered open.

Then he remembered he was abducted, and bolted up right. He paused as a series of quick observations made its way to his consciousness.

One. He’s not tied up. Weird, because everyone knows that he’s a weapon even without his weapons.

Two. His weapons were right there, just in reach.

Three. He was surrounded by teenagers and/or young adults who were all scrolling along on their phones.

“Oh, hey, he’s awake! Hi!” The Wayne bait said, electric blue eyes fixing itself on Jason. “Were you aware you died?”

Jason went rigid, hundreds of way to-

“Danny!” A scolding tone cut of Jason’s immediate panic. Two couch pillows slammed into Danny’s face, courtesy of goth girl and nerdy but strong.

“Dude, why do you start with that? Why are you like this?” His… possible kidnapper? asked, exasperatedly flinging his hands into the air as he rolled his eyes.

Goth girl scowled. “Boys. Crime lord, couch, remember?”

“Hey, in my defense, I died too!”

And that- as Jason remained dumbfounded in this circle of tomfoolery- was what snapped Jason out of his daze.

“You what?” He rasped out.

And when he saw them open their mouths at the same time, Jason just knew his headache was going worse.

——

Tucker, effortlessly plucking the actual red hood from the streets: and I whoop-

Jason, whose type is strong, nerdy, and tall: *heart eyes* *but not really because he’s unconscious*

——

Sam: “this is my boyfriend Danny and our other boyfriend Tucker.”

Jason enters chat:

Sam: “this is my boyfriend Danny and our other boyfriend Tucker and his boyfriend, the Red Hood.”

——

[komsomolka]

Since taking power in a 2022 coup, the 37-year-old Captain Traoré, the world's youngest head of state, has led Burkina Faso in rejecting colonial legacies. The nation, rich in gold, has historically had its resources extracted by foreign companies, with little benefit to its people.

Traoré's key policies include:

◻️ Ending French military presence: Traoré expelled French troops, dismantled Operation Sabre, and removed foreign military bases.

◻️ Nationalizing gold resources: He nationalized key gold mines, valued at $80 million, and built the country's first gold refinery, ensuring that profits stay in Burkina Faso.

Decolonizing the economy:

🟠 Launched a national postal bank to reduce dependency on the CFA franc;

🟠 Banned secondhand clothing imports to bolster local textile industries;

🟠 Established a tomato processing factory to decrease reliance on imports.

Eliminating colonial symbols:

🟠 Replaced British wigs for judges with traditional African attire;

🟠 Adopted traditional uniforms in schools;

🟠 Prioritized local languages over French.

Investing in self-sufficiency:

🟠 Provided farmers with tractors and fertilizer to boost food production;

🟠 Offered free cataract surgeries and mobile clinics to improve healthcare;

🟠 Revived Air Burkina and expanded airport infrastructure.

Established the Alliance of Sahel States with Mali and Niger. Its plans include:

a central bank;

joint military force;

new passports independent of ECOWAS.

[abbotjack]

Hi babes!

For your series TLWG, do you think there is a moment or specific time where Jack realized Reader is ‘the one’? Like he knew he had to buy a ring, sort out a proposal, plan his life around her?? Sending you the best vibes today!!! 💕💕

⭐ Send me an ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines! ⭐

Jack Abbot doesn’t let things bloom.

He lets them function. Survive. Get triaged and stitched and tucked into corners where no one’s going to bleed on the paperwork. He’s a man who operates in utility—his emotions are rationed like hospital inventory, and everything that matters most to him lives in the margins: the off-hours, the aftershocks, the things no one else notices but him. In The Life We Grew, Jack doesn’t get swept up. He gets cornered by clarity.

He’s not afraid of pain. He’s afraid of what comes after it—what people expect when you survive. What they ask you to become. And love? Love has always felt like one more hand reaching for him, asking him to be more than he has left. Until her.

The Reader doesn’t demand his light. She doesn’t try to fix the dark. She walks into the wreckage of his life, clears a desk, and starts building. Her love is infrastructural. It’s the way she annotates his trauma reroute binder with timestamps and follow-up questions. The way she touches him without expectation, and leaves the silence intact when he’s not ready to talk. She is not a solution. She’s the first variable he doesn’t want to cancel out.

Weather is never just weather, every storm is a symbol. And in Jack’s world, love is a slow hurricane. It doesn’t rip off the roof. It loosens the foundation, quietly, over time. Until he looks up and realizes the whole house has shifted. That he's been living in a space where love has already happened, where it’s already holding.

But the moment Jack knows—really knows—isn’t in the trauma bay, or the night she patches his grief without blinking. It’s not in the spreadsheets or the audits.

It’s in a moment that isn’t loud. But is undeniably real.

Setting: Sunday afternoon. Summer heat. Their shared house in Pittsburgh—half-renovated, half-lived in. Quiet. Lived-in. Real.

He’s just come in—took the long way home through a storm that broke the heat like a promise—and now the kitchen smells like damp cotton, cracked pepper, and the faint floral trace of whatever lotion she used last. Not fresh flowers. Just her. Skin and comfort and lemon-something from a half-used bottle on her nightstand.

Upstairs, she’s talking to herself. Sorting receipts again. Muttering about misfiled statements and IRS deadlines while half-laughing at her own frustration. Her voice carries down the staircase like static through an old radio—tinny, soft, familiar in a way that guts him.

Jack stands there with one hand on the fridge handle, forehead pressed to the cool metal, not moving. Not even breathing.

Because here it is.

The realization.

Not the dramatic kind. Not the gut-punch, lightning-strike, sweat-soaked-in-the-trauma-bay kind. No. This one’s quieter. Slower. It arrives like a muscle unclenching after a decade-long cramp. It arrives in the hum of appliances and the sight of her receipts laid out across the table in color-coded order.

It arrives when he sees the junk drawer. The one near the sink.

She’d left it open again.

And there—jammed between a roll of Scotch tape, two capless pens, and a miniature stapler—is her spare car key. The ugly one. The one with the chipped unlock button and the Steelers keychain her brother gave her when she first moved to Pittsburgh. It lives here now. Not just in the house, but in their house. In their drawer. A drawer that, if it were only his place, would’ve held nothing but expired batteries, a few rogue screws, and a half-melted pack of mints he forgot to toss after Afghanistan. But now—now it holds her.

He stares at it for a long time.

That key doesn’t belong to a guest. It doesn’t belong to someone passing through. That key says: I plan on staying. And the drawer staying open? That says: I don’t need to apologize for that anymore.

And Jesus Christ, he loves her.

Not the kind of love that burns. Not the kind he used to chase like a fix, like pain with prettier branding. This is the kind that settles in his joints. The kind that smells like burnt toast and Target candles and the warm press of her knee against his under the covers when she’s already half-asleep and still somehow leans into him.

This is the kind of love he already lives inside.

She calls down to him—something about needing her W-2 from last year, the one she meant to scan and never did, the one she’s sure she tucked into the manila folder labeled “2022: DO NOT LOSE”—and he clears his throat, sharp and low, like the sound alone might be enough to shove the weight in his chest back into place.

“I got it,” he calls back, already moving.

She hums. Trusts him to find it. Doesn’t get up. That’s love, too.

He walks to the hallway where she keeps the fireproof box, alphabetized, of course—and kneels beside it. She’s highlighted the document in question. Just in case. He smiles like a man who’s halfway undone.

And when he stands, he sees it again.

That junk drawer.

That key.

That future.

And he doesn’t make a decision. Not right there. Not consciously. But something inside him stops resisting.

Not because it’s time. Not because it’s the next step. But because this is the house they chose together—every wall color, every drawer pull, every creaking floorboard under bare feet. Her laughter lives in the hallway by the linen closet, and her spare car key is tucked into their junk drawer like it’s always belonged. She built this life with him. And somewhere along the way, without either of them saying it out loud—so did his heart.

He won’t buy the ring tomorrow. He’ll wait. He’ll watch. He’ll make sure the feeling doesn’t fade, doesn’t calcify into gratitude or comfort mistaken for permanence. But he already knows it won’t. Because every time he opens that drawer, it’ll be there. The evidence. The symbol.

It’s a declaration.

It’s a door left open.

He won’t pull her into the living room. He won’t plan some big gesture or scripted thing with string lights and speeches. That’s never been how they work.

But he’ll remember this moment—the junk drawer. The rain. The way her receipts are still spread across the kitchen table like she owns the place. Because she does.

Because this was the night he looked around the house they built together and realized he’d stopped surviving beside her and started building with her. No ceremony. No timeline. Just… her. In every drawer. Every corner. Every part of him.

[buckets-and-trees]

No Way Out

Characters/Pairings: mean Alpha!Bucky x curvy Female!Omega!Reader Word Count: 5.9k Summary: Your first time witnessing a council meeting under Bucky's new regime. He sends a clear message about how things will go. (not a stand-alone read)

Content/Warnings: omegaverse; reluctant attraction; power dynamics; manipulation; threats; semi-violent murder; explicit smut: exhibitionism, cock-warming, vaginal fingering, orgasm denial, unprotected vaginal intercourse and insemination, oral (female receiving), cum appreciation; beefy Bucky (is a warning)

Author Notes: Been a few months since the last part, but I couldn't let Alpha April pass without tossing you back into this verse and its cruel White Wolf now, could I?

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The massive doors to the council chamber swing open, and all eyes turn to you and Bucky as you enter. The room falls silent, the previous murmurs of conversation dying instantly. The council chamber is imposing with its high vaulted ceilings, ornate woodwork, and a large oval table dominating the center. Around it sit two dozen men and women.

You recognize most of the faces - regional leaders, mayors, the city council for the capital, military leaders, heads of major industries, and a few of your father's most trusted advisors. Some were loyal to your father, others were known opportunists, and a few are new faces - Bucky's people, no doubt. Their expressions range from surprise to curiosity to barely concealed hostility as they take in your presence. 

Bucky's hand remains firmly at the small of your back as he guides you toward the head of the table. There are two chairs there - one slightly larger than the other. The symbolism isn't lost on you or anyone else in the room.

At Bucky’s side, you keep your head high and shoulders squared despite the scrutiny of those assembled. The tension in the room is palpable as Bucky pulls out your chair first. The gesture appears courteous, but you understand it for what it is - a display, establishing your position as his omega while simultaneously marking you as subordinate.

"As some of you may have heard," Bucky begins without preamble once you're both seated, his voice carrying effortlessly across the chamber, "my omega and I have completed our bonding ritual. She will be joining our council meetings as an observer for the foreseeable future." 

Murmurs ripple through the assembled council members. You catch snippets of whispered conversations - "didn't waste any time," "strategic alliance," "what does this mean for us?" - before Bucky silences them with a sharp look. 

"I expect her to be afforded every courtesy befitting her station," he continues, his tone leaving no room for argument. "She knows this territory and its people. Her insights will be valuable as we move forward with our integration plans."

You notice several council members exchange glances. You keep your face schooled in a stoic expression. You are navigating this dynamic and figuring out exactly what the extent of your position - or your station as he put it - really will be. You suspect you are both tool and asset, a prop and a resource. 

Bucky begins the meeting with a territorial status report. Various council members deliver updates on security, resources, infrastructure, and economic matters. You listen intently, mentally clock which council members that are new representation seem competent and which ones appear to be merely parroting what they believe Bucky wants to hear. Among all - old and new - you note which ones seem genuinely concerned about their people's welfare and which ones are merely posturing. You're familiar with most of their districts, having visited them with your father during his governance tours.

Throughout it all, you're acutely aware of Bucky beside you. His presence is commanding, his attention laser-focused on each speaker. When he asks questions, they're precise and probing, revealing a depth of understanding about territorial governance that surprises you. You'd expected a warlord with brute force, not this strategic mind that seems to grasp the complexities of civil administration.

"The agricultural sector in the western region is still underperforming," reports a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses. "There’s been a notable decline the last two years, but there’s a marked different in production since you came to power - numbers are down fifteen percent from the same month last year."

"Causes?" Bucky asks sharply.

"We believe it's a combination of factors. We have reports of labor shortages, continued drought conditions, and equipment failures," the man replies. "Additionally, there is some resistance from local farmers to the deliver on the quotas," the man explains, shuffling through his papers nervously.

You notice how he carefully avoids mentioning that the "resistance" is likely passive protest against Bucky's regime. The western region had been particularly loyal to your father. 

Bucky's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "And what solutions are you proposing?" 

"We've increased water rations for irrigation and implemented penalties for farms that don't meet their quotas. We’re sourcing new equipment in some cases. We're also bringing in workers from the northern territories to address the labor shortages."

You feel a flare of indignation. The western farmers are already struggling, and penalties will only worsen their situation. Before you can think better of it, you shift slightly in your seat. Bucky notices immediately, his eyes flicking to you before returning to the council member.

"And how are these northern workers being compensated?" Bucky asks. "Are they being given fair wages and adequate housing?" 

The thin man shifts uncomfortably. "They're being provided with basic accommodations and standard compensation packages for migrant workers." 

You recognize the euphemism for what it is - exploitation. Your father had worked hard to eliminate such practices. 

Bucky leans forward slightly. "Adjust the compensation to match local rates and ensure proper housing. We need those workers content, not brewing resentment. And the equipment - I want a detailed inventory by the end of the week of what's needed." 

The man nods quickly, clearly surprised by the directive. 

"As for the quotas," Bucky continues, "I want them reassessed based on current conditions. Punishing farmers for factors beyond their control is counterproductive." 

The meeting continues with reports from other regions. Throughout it all, you mentally catalog the information, noting discrepancies between what's being reported and what you know of these areas. You're particularly concerned about the reports from the eastern mining communities where production is supposedly up, but there's no mention of the respiratory ailments that historically plague those workers without proper safety protocols. 

When the discussion turns to security matters, the atmosphere in the room shifts noticeably. Rumlow steps forward from his position near the wall where the STRIKE team members stand at attention. 

"We've neutralized three resistance cells in the past week," he reports with cold efficiency. "Seventeen arrests, five casualties during apprehension. Intelligence suggests two more cells operating in the southern district." 

Your stomach clenches at the casual way he mentions the deaths. You wonder who these "resistance fighters" were - ordinary citizens pushed to desperate measures, or truly violent insurgents. Under your father's rule, public protests had been permitted within reasonable boundaries. Now, any dissent is labeled as terrorism.

"Details on the casualties?" Bucky asks, his voice neutral.

"Three armed combatants, two collateral during a firefight in a market square," Rumlow responds without hesitation.

You feel a chill run through you. Civilians. Dead in a market square. You keep your face carefully blank, but inside, your mind races with images of the bustling southern market you've visited many times.

"Interrogations?" Bucky asks. 

"Ongoing," Rumlow replies with a slight smirk that makes your skin crawl. "We've extracted some useful information already. Names, safe houses, potential targets." 

"And the southern district cells?" 

"We're tracking them. Should have locations within 48 hours." 

"I want the weapons traced," Bucky orders. "And I want to know who's coordinating these cells. They're too organized to be operating independently."

"Yes, sir. We're pursuing several leads."

Bucky nods, seemingly satisfied. "Good. And remember our approach - surgical precision. Civilian casualties undermine our objectives." 

You feel a flicker of surprise at his words. It's not the ruthless response you expected. 

"Sir," Rumlow acknowledges, though you detect a hint of disappointment in his tone. 

As the meeting progresses, you notice several council members glancing at you perhaps wondering where your sympathies lie. You keep your expression carefully neutral, though inside your thoughts race. 

The Mayor of Oakridge reports on about infrastructure concerns in his district, Bucky shifts slightly in his seat beside you. His large hand slides onto your thigh under the table, the heat of his palm burning through your skirt.

Keeping your expression neutral despite the unexpected touch, you continue to focus on the presentation. But then Bucky leans in close, his breath hot against your ear.

"Come sit on my lap," he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. "I want you warming my cock while we finish this meeting."

Your body goes rigid, eyes widening at his words. You turn your head slightly, certain you must have misheard him. But his expression is deadly serious, his eyes dark with expectation. There's no hint of teasing or arrogance in his face—just the clear command of an alpha who expects to be obeyed without hesitation.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you glance around the table. At least eight more representatives still need to speak. 

His fingers tighten on your thigh, not painfully but with unmistakable dominance. “Omega,” he growls quietly.

You feel heat flood your cheeks, there is no room for argument. The expectation in his eyes is clear—this is a test of your obedience, perhaps even a reminder of your place after he granted you the concession of attending this meeting.

With your heart in your throat, you slide from your chair as gracefully as possible. All conversation stops as you stand, and every eye in the room turns to you. The silence is deafening as you move to Bucky's chair. He pushes back slightly from the table, making room for you on his lap. 

You perch sideways across his thighs, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity despite the humiliating position. Your movements draws many curious glances, but enough of the men and women around the room remain focused on the mayor's report. Your legs feel like jelly as you stand, smoothing your skirt in a futile attempt to prepare for what's to come.

Bucky pushes his chair back slightly from the table, creating just enough space for you to take the place he wants. His attention remains focused on the report while also monitoring your actions. 

You glance down at his lap uncertainly, and Bucky gives you a subtle nod of confirmation. His eyes flick down to his groin then back up to the speaker who continues explaining their infrastructure needs. With trembling fingers, you reach for his zipper, carefully sliding it down to avoid making noise. The sound seems deafening to your ears, but the council meeting continues around you as if nothing unusual is happening.

His cock springs free, already mostly hard. You wrap your hand around his impressive girth, giving it two slow strokes, feeling it stiffen further in your palm. Bucky's breath hitches almost imperceptibly, the only indication that he's affected by your touch.

Moving with as much grace as you can, you shift to stand between his legs and the table. Your hands reach for the hem of your skirt, and Bucky assists, pushing the fabric higher up your thighs. In one swift motion, he hooks his fingers into your panties and tugs them down. You step out of them, and he pockets the delicate fabric.

With his cock fully erect between you, Bucky guides you as you carefully lower yourself onto his lap, feeling the blunt head of his erection press against your entrance. Despite the anxiety of your situation, the humiliation of it, your body responds to his touch, and you're still wet enough from when he played with you in the car that he slides in with minimal resistance. You bite your lip to suppress a gasp as he fills you completely, stretching you around his considerable girth.

Bucky's large hands grip your hips, adjusting your position. Then one large hand smoothes up your spine, and he guides you forward until you're leaning against the edge of the table, your forearms resting on its polished surface. The position forces you to bend at the waist, allowing him to see over you to the council members continuing their reports.

Which is when you register that the room finally has become silent, and all eyes are on the tw of you coupled together. 

"Continue with your report, Mayor Harrison," Bucky says, his voice remarkably steady despite being buried deep inside you. 

"The southeastern bridge requires immediate structural reinforcement," the mayor continues, his voice strained as he determinedly stares at his papers. "We estimate costs at approximately—"

The tension in the room is palpable as you sit impaled on Bucky's cock, trying desperately to maintain your composure. The council members' expressions range from shock to discomfort to poorly concealed fascination. Some avert their eyes, focusing intently on their notes or the table before them. Others stare openly, either unable to look away or deliberately watching to gauge your reaction.

Shame burns through you, but so does desire, both hot and consuming. This public display goes beyond anything you could have anticipated. It's a clear power move by Bucky - demonstrating his complete dominance over you while simultaneously establishing his authority over the council. The message is unmistakable: he can do whatever he wants, to whomever he wants, whenever he wants.

Your muscles clench involuntarily around Bucky's thick length as humiliation and unwanted arousal battle within you. Part of you wants to disappear, to melt into the floor, but there's nowhere to hide.

And there’s an undercurrent of something else there inside you, too. 

As the next dignitary begins his report, you begin to grapple with the dark, primal thrill that’s also coursing through your veins—the same electricity you felt when Bucky first claimed you in the town square after seizing power. You remember the hot shame that had flooded you then, but also the unexpected thrill of being the focal point of his dominance, the object of his desire amidst his conquest.

Then again at your bonding ceremony, when he'd claimed you before the assembled dignitaries, his mouth hot on yours, his hands possessive and demanding as he marked you publicly as his. You'd felt it then too - that forbidden pleasure in being displayed as his prize, his most valuable possession.

Then again at your bonding ceremony, when he'd claimed you before the assembled dignitaries, his mouth hot on yours, his hands possessive and demanding as he marked you publicly as his. You'd felt it then too - that forbidden pleasure in being displayed as his prize, his most valuable possession.

And now, as you sit impaled on his cock, the power dynamics are undeniable: you, the conquered omega, servicing your alpha while he conducts business as though you're simply an extension of his throne.

The meeting continues, your body responding to every subtle shift of Bucky's beneath you. You manage to maintain an outward appearance of composure, though inside you're a storm of conflicting emotions. Occasionally, Bucky's hand move to your hip, adjusting your position slightly when you begin to tremble.

Finally, as the last council member concludes their report, Bucky speaks up, his voice carrying effortlessly across the chamber. 

"That will be all for today's general council," he announces, his tone brooking no argument. His hand squeezes your hip firmly. "Except for..." His finger points to several faces around the table. "Martinez, Davis, Williams, Campbell, Richards, Cho, Price, Jackson, and Franklin. The rest of you are dismissed."

There's a moment of confusion as those not named gather their materials and leave, casting curious glances at those who remain. The door closes with a heavy thud, leaving you, Bucky, and the nine named council members alone in the suddenly silent chamber. 

The tension thickens as the remaining council members exchange nervous glances. You recognize each face - Martinez from Trade, Davis who managed Military Resources, Williams from the Eastern District, Campbell who oversees Transportation, Richards from the Treasury, Dr. Cho from Health Services, Price from the Southern District, Jackson from Energy, and Franklin from Communications. A perfect cross-section of your father's government.

Bucky's hand slides up your back, firm and possessive, until it reaches your neck. His fingers wrap around the nape, not squeezing but holding you in place as he addresses the room.

"I imagine you're wondering why you're still here," Bucky says, his tone conversational despite the tension thrumming through the room. His fingers trace idle patterns on your hip as he speaks.

"You nine share something in common," Bucky continues, his voice eerily calm. "Each of you provided information, access, or assistance that made my takeover of this territory possible." 

A wave of horrified realization washes over the faces of those assembled. Some pale visibly, while others shift uncomfortably in their seats. You feel a cold shock run through your body as you process his words. These nine people—trusted advisors and officials—had betrayed your father, betrayed their territory... betrayed you. 

"Some of you acted independently," Bucky explains, his fingers still tracing patterns on your skin. "Others coordinated. But all of you decided that your personal gain outweighed your loyalty." 

Your body is rigidly tense as the implications sink in. These were people your father trusted enough with pieces of his territory, with governing his people, stewards you had worked alongside. People who had smiled to your face while secretly undermining everything your family had built. These nine people—respected officials you've known for years—had helped Bucky overthrow your father's government. Had delivered you into his hands.

"Sit up straight, Omega," Bucky commands, his voice in the quiet chamber.

You comply immediately, straightening your spine while remaining impaled on his cock. The movement causes him to shift inside you, and you bite your lip to suppress a moan.

"I want to thank each of you," Bucky says, his voice deceptively pleasant. "Your assistance made my conquest considerably easier." 

The council members shift uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances. Some look relieved at what sounds like gratitude, others more wary. None of them will look at you. 

"That said," Bucky continues, his tone hardening, "your actions demonstrated something troubling about your character."

Martinez starts to speak. "Sir, I assure you our loyalty—"

"Is for sale," Bucky interrupts. "You betrayed the man who trusted you with power and position. You betrayed his daughter," his hand squeezes your hip for emphasis, "to me. While I benefited from your treachery, I'm not foolish enough to trust traitors."

A cold silence falls over the room. You can see the realization dawning on their faces as they begin to understand this isn't a meeting of appreciation. 

"So I've arranged this little demonstration," Bucky says, his hand sliding up to grip one of your breasts over your clothing, and your breath hitches. 

"I'm going to fuck my omega now," Bucky announces, his voice echoing in the chamber. "Right here, in front of all of you who thought it clever to betray her father and deliver her to me."

A collective intake of breath fills the room. Several council members shift uncomfortably in their seats, still unable to meet your gaze.

Bucky’s metal hand slides up from your breast to cup your jaw, turning your face toward his. His eyes lock with yours, something unreadable in their depths before he turns back to address the council.

"I want you all to see exactly what you've done – who you've betrayed and to whom."

Bucky simultaneously stands while manhandling you easily with his preternatural strength, pressing your torso flat against the table in front of him. He withdraws his cock, then thrusts slowly back in. Once, twice, groaning on the third thrust that he draws out even more slowly. 

Your body betrays you, growing wetter around his cock as the reality of being displayed like this — being used as an omega in the most traditional, primal sense — awakens something you've tried to deny. The sheer audacity of it, the public nature, the way every person in this room now understands exactly who owns you — it's horrifying and intoxicating all at once.

You did like it before - both times - and you like it now. 

"I want no misunderstandings about who holds power here," Bucky says, establishing a steady rhythm as he moves you on his length. "No confusion about my control."

Your cheeks burn with humiliation as fucks you, but your body ripples with pleasure. The fabric of your skirt bunches around your waist as Bucky's hands grip your hips firmly.

Bucky's thrusts grow more forceful, the table unforgiving beneath your splayed body. Your fingernails clutch at the polished wood as you try to anchor yourself. The shame burns through you, but so does the pleasure, both sensations intensifying each other until you can barely distinguish between them.

You can feel the attention in the room on you as Bucky's pace increases. The council members' expressions range from horrified fascination to shamefaced avoidance. Some stare at the table, others at the ceiling, but they can't fully escape the sounds of skin against skin, the wet noises of Bucky's cock moving inside you.

Bucky grips your shoulder and pulls you back against his chest, one arm wraps possessively around your waist while the other goes to your throat. His lips brush against your ear as he speaks. "Look at them," Bucky commands, his voice a low growl at your ear before his hot tongue licks at the sensitive spot just behind your earlobe. "Look at the people who sold you out." 

You force your eyes back open, meeting the gaze of each council member in turn. Some look away immediately, unable to bear your scrutiny. Others meet your eyes briefly before dropping their gaze in shame. Only Price from the Southern District holds your gaze, a defiant tilt to his chin despite the obvious discomfort in his expression.

"You all thought yourselves so clever," he remarks, his pace unrelenting as his cock fills you over and over. "Trading information for promises of power, for guarantees of safety. Did any of you stop to consider her fate? The woman who would have been your leader one day?"

Martinez shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "We were assured no harm would—"

"Silence,” he has no need to shout. His power in this room is absolute. 

"Did you think I wouldn't remember?" Bucky continues, pumping in and out of your cunt. "That I would be foolish enough to forget exactly who played what role in betraying their territory?" His voice drops lower, more menacing. "In betraying my omega?"

His words send a shock through your system. My omega. Not just the territory's former heir apparent or the governor's daughter, but his omega—as though your betrayal personally offended him, as though you had belonged to him even before he conquered your lands.

"What you fail to understand is the gravity of your betrayal." His voice drops lower, more menacing. "This isn't just any omega you handed over to me. This is my omega."

The possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver through you. There's something different in the way he's speaking now, something that wasn't there before.

"You thought you were simply delivering a territory, offering up a political pawn," Bucky remarks. "But once I set my sites on her, she was going to be mine.”

His hand tightens your throat, not squeezing but holding you firmly against him as he speaks. Your own hands move up instinctively to cling to his bicep, encouraging his ownership. "I would have conquered this territory regardless. Your assistance merely hastened the inevitable.”

His voice drops to a dangerous whisper that somehow carries throughout the silent chamber.

"Let me be absolutely clear," he says, his rhythm never faltering as he continues to fuck you. "Your lives mean nothing to me compared to hers."

The declaration hangs in the air, shocking even you. The council members' faces drain of color as the implication sinks in.

"I may allow you to maintain your positions while you remain useful," Bucky continues, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "But make no mistake—your continued existence is not guaranteed."

His words send a ripple of fear through the assembled council members. You can see it in their faces—the irrefutable comprehension that their calculated betrayal has placed them in a far more precarious position than they anticipated.

His pace increases, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he nears his climax. You're helpless to stop the pleasure building within you, your body responding instinctively to your alpha's dominant display.

"Can you smell how wet she is," Bucky growls in your ear, loud enough for everyone to hear. "How her body knows exactly who she belongs to? Claimed and bonded not once, but twice."

You whimper at his words, the humiliation of having your display warring with the undeniable pleasure coursing through your body, the forbidden thrill in being watched, and the satisfaction in their own fear. Your inner walls clench around him involuntarily, drawing a satisfied groan from his lips.

With a final, powerful thrust, Bucky buries himself deep inside you, his body tensing as he finds his release. You feel the hot pulse of his seed filling you, marking you from the inside in this most primal display of ownership. Your body trembles on the edge of your own climax.

Bucky's hand slides from your throat to grip your jaw, turning your face to the side so he can claim your mouth in a bruising kiss. His tongue invades your mouth, dominant and possessive, as his hips pump more slowly, emptying every last drop of his seed into you. 

When he breaks the kiss, he addresses the council once more. "Consider this your final warning. Your only value to me is your continued competence in service to this territory. Fail in that, or show even a hint of further disloyalty, and you will find an untimely end of service.”

Bucky withdraws his cock from your cunt, and you whimper, distraught at being denied your own release. 

"You're all dismissed," he says coolly. "Except for you, Price. You stay."

The council members scramble to gather their materials, eager to escape the tension-filled chamber. They all avoid looking at you as they file out.

Price remains seated, his face a mask of defiance despite a flicker of fear evident in his eyes. He was always one of your father's more outspoken critics, often challenging policies in council meetings. 

"You seem to have something to say," Bucky remarks, his pace slowing but not stopping as he addresses the man. "I saw it throughout the entirety of our meeting.”

Bucky takes a seat again and pulls you back into his lap. He pushes your thighs wide, encouraging your legs to fall on either side of his knees, leaving you open to him. 

Bucky's fingers slide between your folds, still slick with his release, and begin to circle your swollen clit with deliberate, measured strokes. His ministrations send jolts of pleasure through your oversensitized body, causing your hips to buck involuntarily against his touch. 

“Get on with it, Price."

Price's jaw tightens, his eyes darting between Bucky's face and his hand working between your thighs. He straightens his shoulders and meets Bucky's gaze with a cool stare of his own.

"I've been loyal to this territory for twenty years," Price says, his voice steady despite the charged atmosphere. "I supported your takeover because the former Governor’s policies were weakening our defenses and economy. The southern district suffered most under his leadership." 

Bucky's fingers continue their relentless attention between your thighs as he listens, making it difficult for you to focus on Price's words, but you work to concentrate. Your breathing becomes more ragged as pleasure builds within you.

"Is that so?" Bucky asks, his tone deceptively casual - you feel the display through your bond. "And your solution was betrayal rather than advocating for change through proper channels?"

Price's eyes flicker to your cunt momentarily before returning to Bucky. "The proper channels were closed to us. The southern district's petitions were repeatedly ignored." 

You want to protest, to defend your father's administration, but a particularly skilled movement of Bucky's fingers sends a particularly strong wave of increased pleasure through your core. 

"And yet," Bucky responds, his voice hardening, "my intelligence indicates you never filed a single formal petition with the governor's office. Not one in the past five years." 

Price's face pales slightly, but he maintains his composure. "That's not true. I personally delivered multiple petitions—" 

"Save it," Bucky cuts him off, his fingers still working between your thighs. "I have copies of every petition filed in the last decade. Your name isn't on any of them." 

Your breath catches, not just from the pleasure building between your legs, but from the realization of how thoroughly Bucky had studied your territory before he ever set foot in it. He'd known the inner workings, the political alliances, the weaknesses to exploit. He'd been gathering intelligence for years, not months. 

Price's expression shifts, a flicker of panic crossing his features before he regains his composure and defiance. "There were unofficial channels—"

"Rumlowe," Bucky calls out calmly, not taking his eyes off Price. The STRIKE team leader steps forward from his position near the wall, his expression impassive. "Show Price what happens to those who lie to my face."

Price's eyes widen in alarm as Rumlowe approaches, drawing a wicked-looking combat knife from his tactical vest. "Wait—you can't—"

In one swift, practiced motion, Rumlowe is behind Price's chair, the blade pressed against the man's throat. Price's hands grip the armrests, his knuckles white with terror.

"Tell me the truth, Price," Bucky says, his voice dangerously quiet. "One last chance."

Price's eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for mercy he won't find. "I... there were no petitions," he admits, voice shaking. "The southern district was actually thriving, but I wanted more power, more—" 

Bucky gives a nearly imperceptible nod. 

The blade slices cleanly across his throat, blood immediately spurting forward in a crimson arc. A choked gurgle escapes his lips as his hands fly up instinctively to the gaping wound, but it's already too late.

You gasp in horror, your body involuntarily tensing, but Bucky's fingers only increase their pressure against your clit, circling faster as his other arm locks around your waist to hold you firmly in place.

"Eyes on me, Omega," Bucky growls in your ear, his voice low and commanding. "Focus on what I'm giving you."

Your gaze snaps to his, unable to disobey. 

Your eyes locked with his, you only hear as Rumlow and another STRIKE member drag Price's limp body across the polished floor of the chamber. Bucky's fingers never stop their relentless attention on your clit, the horror of what you've just witnessed somehow intensifying the sensations coursing through your body. Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak. 

"That's it," he growls, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Let go for me." 

The orgasm hits you with devastating force, tearing a cry from your throat as waves of pleasure crash through you. Your body convulses in Bucky's firm grip, inner walls clenching desperately around nothing as your body shudders with aftershocks, your mind caught in a haze between pleasure and horror.

As your breathing begins to steady, Bucky lifts you from his lap with ease, handling your body as if you weigh nothing. He turns you to face him, then guides you to sit on the edge of the polished council table. His hands remain on your hips as he positions himself between your spread thighs, the evidence of your coupling still glistening on your inner thighs. 

With deliberate slowness, he places one hand on your sternum and pushes you backward until you're lying flat on the cool surface. The position leaves you vulnerable, exposed, as you stare up at the ornate ceiling of the chamber where your father once governed. 

Bucky looms over you, his powerful frame blocking out the light, casting his face in shadow. His eyes, however, remain piercingly bright . 

"I hope you understand your position now," Bucky says, his voice low and resonant as he traces a finger along your inner thigh, collecting the mixture of your fluids. "And the true nature of this new regime."

His words hang in the air between you, weighted with significance. This isn't just about your body or your pleasure—it's about power, control, and the new order he's establishing. It’s cruel, yet measured as you saw him handle the formal meeting with the full council with unquestionable competence. 

He moves back, settling into his chair once more, but instead of pulling you onto his lap again, he lowers himself until his face is level with your exposed cunt. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of your combined spend glistening on your folds and thighs. 

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh, making you shiver despite yourself. 

Without warning, he leans forward and puts his mouth to your cunt, his tongue laving a broad stripe through your folds, gathering your combined release. The sensation is so unexpected and intense that your back arches off the table, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

His hands grip your thighs firmly, holding you in place as he devours you, his tongue alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, precise flicks against your oversensitive clit. 

"Mine," he growls against your flesh, the vibration sending shivers through your core. "Every part of you belongs to me now." 

Your hands clutch at the edge of the table, desperate for purchase as he methodically takes you apart with his mouth. The room that just witnessed a cold-blooded execution now bears witness to an intimate moment. The dichotomy is jarring – death and pleasure, power and submission, all converging in this chamber that once represented order and governance.

Bucky's tongue works relentlessly between your thighs, his hands spreading you wider as he feasts on you. Your second climax builds faster than the first, your body still sensitive from his earlier attention. When it crashes over you, it's more intense, more consuming. You cry out, unable to hold back as your thighs tremble around Bucky's head. He doesn't relent, working you through the waves of pleasure until you're gasping and squirming from overstimulation.

Only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he rises to his full height. His eyes, dark with satisfaction and something deeper, more possessive, roam over your disheveled form sprawled across the council table.

"That's what loyalty to me earns," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Pleasure. Protection. Power. You will do well not to forget it, Omega.”

“Yes, Alpha,” you breathe. 

He helps you sit up, his hands surprisingly gentle as he adjusts your clothing, smoothing down your skirt and tucking stray hairs behind your ear. The tenderness is jarring after the brutality you've just witnessed, the public claiming, the execution. You're still trembling, your mind reeling as you try to reconcile the different facets of the man before you. 

"Come," he says, offering his hand to help you off the table. "We have other matters to attend to." 

You place your hand in his, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Your legs feel unsteady, and he seems to sense this, wrapping an arm around your waist to support you. The room still smells of copper and sex, a potent reminder of power asserted and lives ended. 

As you walk toward the door, you notice the blood has already been cleaned from the floor, no trace of Price remaining. The efficiency is chilling - as if he never existed at all.

You can’t help but wonder what else will be wiped away, wiped out, just as that dissenter and liar was today. 

next part: UNDER SIEGE

There's more story for you and Alpha!Bucky, but I'm desperately excited because this is the final piece that I wanted to share for this verse before introducing you to other alphas in the world of Fine Line. You're not ready. 😏

Introduction to General Ari Levinson: Rank and Promotion [7.5k]

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[a-very-tired-jew]

Something that has been rattling around in my brain since Oct 7th and the responses afterwards (and, let's be honest, I've been mulling over cause of work foe years due to true crime girlies) is that I don't think the majority of the public understands how criminal and terrorist outfits actually function.

It comes across as if the majority of people just imagine some hypothetical caricature of a person sitting in their lair doing "evil villain" fingers and going "Oh, I'm going to be so naughty today and do so much terror and crime" when that's not the case.

These are sophisticated organizations that have existed for decades with their own infrastructures and support staff. These outfits have personnel that run the gambit from IT to soldiers to doctors to management to press and so on. Every single one of them can, at one point or another, become a soldier and fight, but none of them are one trick ponies.

No organization survives and thrives being made up of one type of thing. It takes a complex supportive infrastructure made of multiple roles to keep anything going. We see this with everything from businesses to charity orgs to militaries.

It just so happens that organized crime and terrorist groups work in the same manner, they just also happen to do, you know, violent criminal/terrorist activities.

Myself and my colleagues all have stories about cases involving criminal outfits where the defense was something along the lines of "I was just an IT guy!" or other "benign" sounding position. But the reality is that the IT guy is still part of the outfit, knows what is going on, has a specific role to benefit it, and can and will pick up a weapon and commit a violent act just like any other member if instructed to or in the opportune moment.

The inability of the anti-Israel activists to engage in this thought and rely upon the "but they were a doctor!" or "but they were press!" as if it's some sort of holy symbol that defends against the reality that the individual in question was part of or associated with the outfit either tells us they don't understand this concept or refuse to because it would undermine their position.

[gothhabiba]

there's another campaign I'd like to spotlight. I've been talking to Ghadir Abu Al-Kombuz and helping her to set up a fundraiser for her siblings on Chuffed. her little sister Remas describes the family's situation:

My name is Remas Abu Al-Kombuz, a 12-year-old artist, and my sister Toleen, 7 years old, is from Gaza. Our lives were once filled with hope and dreams in the heart of Gaza City. But it was turned upside down by a relentless war that began on October 7, 2023, transforming our vibrant lives into a daily struggle for survival. We live with the constant fear of getting lost in the rubble or succumbing to the relentless barrage of rockets. The university where my sisters and brothers studied now lies in ruins, a poignant symbol of our broken aspirations. Toleen and I, once eager to embark on our educational journey, now stand at a crossroads, our paths to learning and growth obscured by the debris of war. We now live in a tent in Rafah with our parents, Rafat and Fatin, and our siblings Ahmed, Yousef, Mohammed, Ghadir, Diana, and Madelin. This harsh living condition has deprived us of necessities like clean water and food. We are constantly surrounded by the threat of diseases due to poor hygiene and inadequate infrastructure.

I will be collecting funds from Chuffed and sending them to Ghadir via bank transfer. Chuffed doesn't collect platform fees from organisers, so 100% of your donation will be used to help the Abu Al-Kombuz family survive.