#and i still managed to find my way home without resorting to cannibalism!

[burricane]

Hey Yellowjackets, Northern Ontario isn’t some barren wasteland with no human life. You’re actually not even ten kilometres at most away from a 7/11 and a meth lab. I assure you, no one would be eaten in ritualistic cannibalism if they got lost

[notjanine]

2020 in books!

the only kind of new year’s resolution i made as a naive baby last january was to try to read 40 books for the year. (i read 37 in 2019, for context.) well, with all of my commuting time eliminated and an increased need for immersive escapism, i ended up surpassing that goal three times over lmao (thanks library ebooks!)

idk how to summarize my year in books in a way that makes sense but

(f) = fiction, (nf) = nonfiction, (p) = poetry.

books that rewired my fucking brain:

braiding sweetgrass by robin wall kimmerer (nf)- GOD?!?!?! good. dr. k is right. ostensibly a book about plants, but actually a book about shut up and go outside. consumerism and capitalism are doing their damnedest to fuck you up, but you can just choose to value different things. take care of yourself by taking care of your environment. etc etc.

wasp by richard jones (nf)- lissen. when i got this book, my wasp-phobia was so severe that i had to put it away face down on a high shelf because there are wasps on the cover and i couldn’t bear to RISK even GLIMPSING them. now i am like... a wasp evangelist. (also due to the bugs 101 course on coursera it’s so good.)

wag by zazie todd (nf)- i have a dog, but i am NOT a Dog Person (i.e. i love my dog, but please keep yours away from me, thanks.) this book helped me understand my little guy better, plus it gives actionable tasks and activities to do with and for your pup! plus, y’know, learning about things you’re scared of helps to lessen that fear. i’d recommend this to anyone who has, wants, or regularly interacts with a dog.

a closed and common orbit by becky chambers (f)- is this series complete fluff? absolutely. am i fundamentally different after reading this one? maybe.

the best we could do by thi bui (nf)- this is so far outside of my personal experience but somehow still made me come to peace with my relationship with my mom?? and it’s barely even about that?? idk. this is probably objectively the best book i’ve read this year.

books that were just fun as hell:

mexican gothic by silvia moreno-garcia (f)- this book made me YELL out loud

death on the nile by agatha christie (f)- i grew up on agatha christie shows, but never actually read her before this year! she really was That Bitch. read this before the movie comes out

cosmoknights by hannah templer (f)- i read this in one sitting through the worst headache i’ve had in years. it is a goddamn DELIGHT. this book has everything: spaceships. mech suits. fighting the patriarchy. a perfect otp. fun art in bright colors with clean lines. onomatopoetic WAPs from before the song gave that hilarious context. 800 lesbians. this is an antidepressant in graphic novel form.

stiff by mary roach (nf)- ms. roach is like the 4th most represented author on my bookshelf because she 1. stays writing about shit i’m interested in and 2. manages to talk about gross and ridiculous things without resorting to sensationalism. it takes skill to write a hilarious book about corpses.

black sun by rebecca roanhorse (f)- excellent sexual tension between a horny siren pirate and a hot doomed... monk, kinda? set in the pre-columbian gulf of mexico with magic and shit.

cuisine chinoise by zao dao (? n/f)- this graphic novel about chinese food history/mythology is BEAUTIFUL.

the color of magic by terry pratchett (f)- you’d think a hardcore douglas adams stan would have gotten to this sooner, but no, i had to date a nerdy white boy to get here. it’s fun though! i’m not gonna read them all, but this one was good. bonus: contains one (1) great himbo.

gideon the ninth by tamsyn muir (f)- like 500 pages of action and mystery and jokes and space necromancy. harrow the ninth gets a special mention bc it has a meme reference that took me out so hard i had to close the book, lie down, and groan for an entire minute before continuing.

other minds by peter godfrey-smith (nf)- i love octopuses. on one tma bonus ep, jonny sims says that if a creature can choose to do evil, then it’s a Person. octopuses are People. but anyway frfr this has an explanation of the evolution of consciousness that is cool af. (this one is much better than the other recent popsci octo book which i will not name out of politeness.)

the perfect predator by steffanie strathdee and thomas patterson (nf)- i read this bc my microbiology prof recommended it and it’s cool as heck! it’s got adventure, drama, mystery, Science-with-a-capital-S. i’m biased bc i’m a bit of a microbes nerd, but i had a blast with this. (but only bc we know going in that everything works out okay; if i hadn’t known that, i would have been TOO stressed!)

books that were a little less fun but still very readable:

my sister, the serial killer by oyinkan braithwaite (f)- i couldn’t find this as funny as other people bc i, too, have a beautiful sister who’s an insufferable narcissist, so it hits a little too close to home, but. it is a wild ride.

piranesi by susanna clarke (f)- idek what to say! i went into this one blind just bc it had a cool cover and title, so i guess i’d recommend that for other people too.

the sixth world series by rebecca roanhorse (f)- monster hunting! a post-apocalyptic take that doesn’t feel tired.

the shades of magic trilogy by v.e. schwab (f)- easy escapism. some ideas feel a little first draft-y, but idk, it’s also a pretty simple premise (which isn’t a bad thing). it’s a decent urban fantasy set in ~georgian?-era london. very actiony. suffers from a bit of i’m-not-like-other-girls disease, but i didn’t even notice until book two or three, so.

the only good indians by stephen graham jones (f)- starts off a little ??? (and reeks of being Written By A Man) but picks up. the pacing’s great and there’s just a super fucking cool monster.

robopocalypse by daniel h. wilson (f)- this reads like a tv miniseries so much that i can’t believe it isn’t one yet.

confessions of the fox by jordy rosenberg (f)- not my usual cup of tea, fiction-wise, but still compelling. a fresh take on the white-male-english-professor-self-insert? but not insufferable. gets weird!

spinning silver by naomi novik (f)- rumplestilstkin, but make it interesting! a great, richly-told fairy tale, but like, large scale. good to read on a cold day while you’re wrapped up in a blanket with some hot tea.

interior chinatown by charles yu (f)- compulsively readable. a couple things bugged me, but not enough to make me dislike it. a fun companion piece to how to live safely in a science fictional universe. i like this guy’s style.

cannibalism by bill schutt (nf)- COOL. mostly covers the animal kingdom (fun), spends too much time on the donner party (less fun), ends with a SPICY take on prions that i cannot get out of my head!!!

buzz, sting, bite by anne sverdrup-thygeson (nf)- BUGS! broad but not overwhelming, neither dumbed down nor overly scientific, short enough to finish in a day or two. recommend this to literally everyone.

books that made me want to read everything else in the author’s ouevre:

the time invariance of snow by e. lily yu (f)- this FUCKS but it’s too short!!!

an unkindness of ghosts by rivers solomon (f)- okay this book is SO good and so well-written and interesting and blah blah blah all the good things, but... the whole time, i was just like?? why???? why is this what you’re choosing to write about??? (i did also read the deep and blood is another word for hunger after this one, and i did like them both, especially the latter, but i think they can do better! like i think they could write a perfect book and i am gonna be *eyes emoji* until then.)

the space between worlds by micaiah johnson (f)- a fine debut novel, but i want to see her do something a little more... idk, refined? i think she overreaches here, like it’s a little... idk looper? this is how you lose the time war? there’s a better comparison, but i can’t think of it, but you get the idea. and then halfway through it shifts gears to mad max. there’s something weird about one of the central relationships, like it’s not complex enough to take as long to resolve as it does. idk idk. there are just a lot of little nitpicky things. it’s not bad! but i think she can do better and i look forward to finding out.

postcolonial love poem by natalie diaz (p)- thinky! like i tried to read this before bed, but it’s not the sort of thing to parse out while you’re falling asleep, it requires more attention than that.

books that Learned Me Somethin:

smoke gets in your eyes by caitlin doughty (nf)- i am a self-professed death obsessed weirdo, fascinated by death and mourning, but i didn’t know all that much about what happens to a body between the dying and the funeral! this book isn’t big, but it covers a lot and doughty’s writing style is engaging and honest. it’s very memorable.

queer by meg-john barker and julia scheele (nf)- i’m gonna be totally honest and say Queer Theory is above my intellectual pay grade, but this book takes you by the hand and explains the basics.

vitamania by catherine price (nf)- LMAO my fellow americans, never take a supplement. this book is great and well-researched, but normal folks don’t need to read it, just listen to season two of the dream podcast, which definitely cribbed from this.

vegetable kingdom by bryant terry (nf)- this is a fine cookbook, my favorite of his that i’ve read so far. gets a special mention bc i had a religious experience just reading one of his kohlrabi recipes. absolutely gutted that i didn’t have an opportunity to try it this year, since the pandemic put the kibosh on all family bbqs.

the best american food writing 2020 edited by j. kenji lopez-alt (nf)- this really is just a great collection.

are prisons obsolete? by angela y. davis (nf)- yes.

i moved to los angeles to work in animation by natalie nourigat (nf)- before reading this, i had basically zero knowledge of how the animation industry works. now i know like three things.

the secret lives of bats by merlin tuttle (nf)- BATS! okay this book is more about the adventures of being a bat scientist than it actually is about bats, but there are bats in there. insectivorous bats basically shit glitter, you should know this.

books from valuable perspectives:

hood feminism by mikki kendall (nf)- a breakdown of who’s getting left out of feminist spaces, why that’s happening, and why it shouldn’t be happening.

all you can ever know by nicole chung (nf)- a (transracial) adoptee’s take on adoption and learning more about her birth family. the personal storytelling of this one really stuck with me.

motherhood so white by nefertiti austin (nf)- a single-mom-by-choice’s take on the foster system/adoption process. walks you through some things i always wondered about and some things i wouldn’t even have thought about.

this place by kateri akiwenzie-damm et al (? n/f)- i, like a lot of non- native americans, only know that history in broad strokes. getting this many highly specific stories in one dense and beautiful book felt like a lucky find. and taking that perspective into the future in the context of that history is v good.

empty by susan burton (nf)- eating disorder stories are important to me bc i care about food so much. this one is so relatable- not in its specificity, but rather its generality. it’s easy to empathize with her perspective because it’s like, Oh, i don’t have that exact problem, but i struggle with different problems in a very similar way. (feels like the opposite of roxane gay’s hunger, in a way.)

obit by victoria chang (p)- this exploration of grief is... woof.

short story collections are hard to evaluate bc you’ll never read one where every single story hits but i generally enjoyed these:

a thousand beginnings and endings edited by ellen oh and elsie chapman (f)

how long til black future month? by n.k. jemisin (f)

her body and other parties by carmen maria machado (f)

books i revisited:

the broken earth trilogy by n.k. jemisin (f)- i read the series backwards this time and like... i can’t really find any faults in these books, man. they’re just the best.

everyone’s a aliebn when ur a aliebn too by jomny sun (f... but is it really?)- half of this book’s sales are from me buying it for other people bc it’s the only way i know how to say i love you. i reread it every time just to make sure it still feels right and it always does.

other honorable mentions:

white is for witching by helen oyeyemi (f)- not to pit two bad bitches against each other, but this book does what akwaeke emezi’s freshwater was trying to do. it’s a little weird, a little haunted, a little of a lot of things. read this only in the dead of winter. (and with stephen rennicks’ score for the little stranger playing in the background.)

homie by danez smith (p)- there’s a lot going on here, but this just made me crack a smile a couple times in a way that no other book of poetry has ever done.

the murder of roger ackroyd and murder in mesopotamia by agatha christie (f)- That Bitch!

blues by nikki giovanni (p)- she sure has some Things To Say

the three-body problem by cixin liu (f)- interesting concepts, but... idk something’s missing? felt weirdly soulless to me. i’m probably not gonna read the sequels. but it did make some points!

the sisters of the winter wood by rena rossner (f)- i’m a slut for shapeshifting, okay. but this is a good fairy tale, it works!

parable of the sower by octavia butler (f)- i read this in march, when the pandemic was just kicking off and boy that was not the right time. def my least favorite of hers so far, but an octavia butler i don’t love is still better than a hell of a lot of other books. no idea when or if i’ll get to a good enough headspace for the sequel.

faves:

saturnino herrán by adriana zapett tapia (nf)- i got to learn new things about my mans and see some of his paintings i’ve never even seen online! GOSH.

on food and cooking by harold mcgee (nf)- yeah yeah, i’ve already mentioned this book half a dozen times on here this year, but i don’t care. this book lives off the shelf in my home bc i reference it like every other fucking day. this book is a part of me now.

[january-summers]

So I came into the fandom from The Untamed/CQL (the live action drama), so I don’t know if this is accurate to any version of MDZS universe, but apparently Wei Ying maybe ate corpses in order to not starve to death in the burial mounds? And then steeped himself in resentful energy to exact retribution on the douchebag sect, before kind sorta losing his shit and massacring a shit ton of people?

Now I’m not saying it’s The reason, but just so you know: cannibalism isn’t only frowned on because it is ethically bad, but because it leads to shit getting funky in the brain, so you know... maybe don’t mix cannibalism and demonic cultivation if you don’t want to go crazy and murder rampage?

So just to clarify real quick: when I say I came into the fandom from CQL I mean The Untamed was my first exposure the MDZS fandom in any capacity, and I have seen the Untamed twice all the way through, since then I've made it about halfway through the available donghua, and I'm in chapter 60 of the manhua. I HAVE NOT however, read the novel. (except for one chapter I'll mention in just a sec.)

When I say “apparently he maybe did the thing” I mean I had no idea if there was any supporting novel based text evidence, (thankfully I've been told the answer is no, the boy has suffered enough) BUT: I actually heard the “Wei Ying resorted to cannibalism to survive the mounds” thing a couple times in fics, but it was usually tacked on to an 'angst list' like a throw away fact so I was never sure if it was fanon or canon, but considering what I know of the Incense Burner chapter (the only chapter I've read from the novel because some asshole told me it was a cute married couple WangXian fluff piece (it was not, YKINMK)) the author is not above horrific character treatment so it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility.

If false: awesome, one less horror for Wei Ying to have to deal with in his already terrible life.

If true: consider the angst:

V This angst V

-

Wei Ying punches the ground as the crows circle above him just out of reach, taunting him. He's so tired and worn and sore, but he can't rest. The 'inhabitants' of the Burial Mounds are making his trek difficult, the mere energy of the place is fighting him every step of the way. He's getting better at controlling the resentful energy every time he tries, but it still fights him.

Inedia is almost impossible without his core, using resentful energy to do it is... not going well for him. He's hungry and thirsty, but nothing grows in the Burial Mounds that isn't already poison or rotting. The few tiny pools he's managed to find are... best not to think about unless he's forcing the questionable liquid down. The only readily available source of 'safe' food is the crows, and he can't fucking catch them! They're harder to catch than the pheasants he used to hunt... or maybe they're not, maybe he's just that much weaker now... without his...

There's a corpse on the ground, a few pieces of flesh still clinging to the body, the crows had fled him before they could finish. His stomach aches at the sight even as his mind recoils. He's been here too long, the edge of the Burial Mounds never seemed to draw any closer. Maybe it had always been further than he thought, maybe he'd been walking in circles.

If he doesn't eat soon he'll die for real, then there will be no chance of him escaping this place, of getting retribution for his sect, his family...

He doesn't want to die refuses to die, he'd sworn he'd come back he'd even said he'd do it as an inhuman monster and make the Wen Sect pay for what they'd done.

What were morals to a Demonic Cultivator any way?

He forces the meat down, cracks to bones to suck the marrow as the crows scream above him. Something in the miasma of the Burial Mounds' resentful energy seems to laugh gleefully as he throws away a piece of his humanity for vengeance.

The Resentful energy seems to answer his call a little more readily afterwards.

-

His revenge is not yet complete, but he has his shijie and shidi back. maybe he can keep that promise this time His shijie made him soup, the bowl is warm in his hands, the smell is familiar and comforting.

Until the flavour hits his tongue.

"Pork," she tells him, and it is he knows it is, but somehow it tastes like his sin.

-

His people are starving, A-Yuan is starving, there isn't enough food. He's managed to pull enough resentful energy from the gardens so that the food will grow un-rotten, but there still isn't enough. Even when he manages to cleanse the area enough for the fruit to grow without poison, even when he brings home small animals that have begun to make their cautious way to the area.

Wei Ying sees to his people's needs first, makes sure A-Yuan has his fill as best he can even when it leaves his own plate empty.

Wei Ying wanders out into the Burial Mounds to follow a circling flock of crows, just like he had on his long walk out the first time.

-

“Come back to Gusu with me.”

Yes, Help me, Save me, I'm scared of what I'm becoming. A thousand things are lost under the weight of what he's done, beyond the people he's killed in revenge, beyond the dangerous cultivation he's created, there are sins that weigh heavily, things that can't be forgiven, can never be spoken of. He doesn't deserve saving.

“Get lost."

-

Lan Wanji plays until his fingers bleed, keeps playing until they're too numb to play the notes correctly.

Inquiry, yes, always unanswered by the only one he wants to hear from, but Clarity as well.

If he had played for Wei Ying, if he had stayed with him instead, would he have been strong enough to save him? Would he have been enough to temper the resentful energy Wei Ying filled himself with? If he...

Lan Zhan directs spiritual energy to his fingers to heal them, cleaning Wangji's string and board of his blood.

He plays again the next day and the next and the next...

[jennifermonk99-blog]

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[gripefroot]

Too Cold!

“I’m beginning to think Canada is colder than Siberia.”

He’d meant it as a joke - and glancing from beneath his ice-encrusted eyelashes across the glowing room to where you’re shivering at the stove, face peeping out beneath the hood of both your coat and his - he breathes a sigh of relief to see a smile. Just barely visible in the hanging lanterns around the diameter of the yurt.

“Well, luckily this time you have me.” The affirmation is matter-of-fact, and his frigid fingers struggle to unlace the frozen laces of his boots. “I’ll keep you warm, Bucky.” 

“I’m counting on it, babe.” 

The radio on the messy kitchen counter - this safe house wasn’t meant for the whole team, and yet it’s managed to hold them all somehow - crackles and spits. Then a voice, recognizable as Sam’s. 

“We got the watchtower,” he says. “Roger. Heading back. Roger. Storm’s picking up. Roger. If we’re not back in a half hour, start planning our funerals. Roger.”

You make a grab for the radio with mittened hands, pressing the talk button to snark, “You don’t have to say ‘roger’ after every sentence, Wilson. That’s not my name.” A pause, and your eyes sparkle over at Bucky, finally managing to wrench the first icy boot off his feet. “Or is it?”

“Hope you’re asleep and done being annoying by the time we get there,” Sam says back. “Roger.” 

“Fine. I won’t start the coffee for you. Roger roger.” 

“Hey - ” But the radio crackles again, and goes silent. With your teeth you yank the mitten from your hand, flexing stiff fingers over the stove. Bucky had built it up with extra firewood upon his and your return, but the cabin -  more like a yurt - hasn’t warmed yet. 

His boots are starting to get wet though. Yanking off his damp socks, he hisses as he rubs the first with his flesh hand, and then the other - one of the times he wishes most for two hands. Frostbite is a nearer enemy than Hydra, out in the Arctic tundra…

“Okay,” you say, and throw back one hood, and then another, and then tug off first a hat and then ear warmers. Messy, considering the amount of layers you’d worn for the mission, but Bucky thinks it’s cute. “I’m going to strip down and go straight to bed. I expect to see you there. We have thirty minutes before the others get here.”

The storm has definitely picked up, as Sam said - the walls shudder and creak in the wind, and Bucky can smell at least three different drafts coming in through beneath and between insulated canvas walls. With a mental note to berate Stark for the low quality of this safe house, he stands to shrug off his damp undershirt, next. It goes next to the stove to dry off, where you’ve hung both coats. Unfortunately, bare in the frigid air, he starts to shiver - oh, that’s almost worse than being in wet clothes - and with his teeth chattering he crawls right into the bed beneath layers of down and flannel. Which somehow manages to be colder than the open air. 

“Gosh,” you say, and off goes your sweater and pants. “Imagine how much colder you’d be without that drop-dead sexy beard, huh?”

“Imagine how much warmer I would’ve been if I’d kept my coat.” 

“And imagine how dead I would be if you had.” Sparkling eyes, a wry smile - a half-second away from a full-on laugh, he’d guess, but your face is slightly drawn - weak from the cold and your movements jerky. He doesn’t like to think about how right you might be; this mission had been difficult from the beginning, and the arctic blast that had come from the northwest while trying to get back to the yurt had worsened everything. But there’s no need to think of ‘what-if’s’ now. 

“Come on, babe,” Bucky orders. “Warm me up.”

Unsteady, you dive for the blankets he holds open, and curling up into a ball as soon as you hit the mattress, shaking but smiling, and he tucks the blankets around you tightly. Then, now no more than a pair of lumps, wraps his flesh arm around your back. 

“Brr,” he says. “You’re colder than I am!”

“Does that mean you’ll warm me up?” Fluttered lashes, pursed lips - and he laughs - and then yelps as ice cold fingers splay on his naked chest. 

“Not even near-death in the Arctic can stop you from flirting, huh, babe?” He rubs up and down your back, willing the blood to rush faster and hotter, though you’re cold to the touch. 

“Never.” 

Bucky yelps again as you snuggle closer, winding up with him in what’s usually a nice way - but your toes are even colder than your fingers, if that’s even possible. But his reaction just makes you giggle more, and that means a bloom of warmth, and so he tolerates it with lip pressed close and his skin racing with goosebumps. He frowns down at your face, with your eyes now closed and your eyebrows creased as you continue to shiver - and with a shrug, opens his mouth and bites down on your icy nose. 

Your eyes shoot open. 

“Bucky,” your voice is nasal. “I know our situation isn’t ideal, but have we really resorted to cannibalism?”

“I’m warming you up,” he says through one side of his mouth.

“I can think of a better way to do that.” And one of your f-r-e-e-z-i-n-g hands creeps downwards, Bucky nearly biting his tongue in half, and after a moment you frown, too. “Did you leave him behind?” you ask. 

“He’s cold, babe!” Bucky bursts out. “He doesn’t want to come out!”

Your lips twitch. With a growl he presses his knees between your legs, rolling on top of you because in his mind, it’ll warm you better - mostly he just squeezes some giggles from between your chilly lips, and he kisses them to share his heat. Skin on skin is wildly more pleasant than damp clothes, and already Bucky can feel his heart rate rising - the flannel sheets around starting to pick up temperature. He notices as you tug the covers up his shoulders, keeping the cold from seeping in, and when he rests his forehead against yours, your skin is more flushed. Good. 

“You’re better at this than I am,” you tease, and the tip of your nose presses into his shoulder - a sharp sting of cold, and he plants his elbows on either side of you. For protection. For the worry of your shivering, stumbling way to the safe house from the power station mission. 

Bucky’s just glad he didn’t suffer much from giving you his coat. 

“Better?” he says, painfully aware of the rasp in his throat. 

“I think you are.” Your hips shift, thighs stretching out - oh. 

Yep.

“He,” Bucky declares, and brushes his lips against your cheeks now. Less chilly. “Just wants to say hi, babe.” 

“How does he feel about getting to know each other?”

“I think you know him pretty well already, babe.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” you muse, and your smile glows pretty in the lanterns. “I’m sure we could find something new.”

“Babe,” he says severely, though really, his head is spinning slightly. From the extreme shift of temperatures to something sultry warm, or from you in his arms all soft and pretty. “We only have thirty minutes. Probably twenty by now.”

“Well, I’m an efficient girl.” 

“Babe,” Bucky tries again, and your foot is stroking up the back of his calf. Without meaning to, his hips buck forward, and the throaty gasp from your lips is followed by a laugh, and he shivers. Not from the cold, this time. “Okay,” he goes on shakily. “Okay. Let’s do it.” 

“Maybe let’s stay beneath the covers,” you whisper in his ear, which he fumbles down below. “Just this one time. I’ll admire your bod another day.”

“I take it that’s a promise,” he grunts.

“Oh, it is.” 

A sigh - warm breath on his mouth and he wastes no more time kissing those tempting lips. It is warm, almost too warm, but he suffers the flannel on his shoulders just to love you, the wood bed creaking, all wrapped up in this cocoon - he’s never been more thankful for Sam and Nat’s tardiness. 

The storm rages, but it’s too distant. Too far away from here. Though it continues to shake and rattle, his mind is on you - your sighs, your moans, your sweetness. It’s starting to burn, and he pants, the tickle of sweat down his spine almost unbearable. But you are more. More distracting, more enticing, more everything, and he nuzzles his nose behind your ear to breathe you in; in and out, in and out, while you wrap your arms around the back of his neck and he feels the vibration of your voice in your throat through his lips - 

He lasts about a half-second longer than you. 

The cold is forgotten. At least for him. In that tangle of arms and legs and fingers in hair, lips finding new places to place fiery brands - but no visible marks, just to be safe - it’s not really the Arctic at all, and it’s not a dangerous mission. It’s just…

It’s just home. 

Bucky savors it. Savors every breath in the rise and fall of your chest, the stroke of your hand as you move his hair from his cheek with a smile, then drag your fingers through his new beard. He grins at that, and you do, too; catching your bottom lip between your teeth as you admire the adornment on his jaw. Rather hungrily, he thinks. 

“Keep the beard,” you murmur. 

“For now.” An indulgent promise, and wickedly you counter, 

“Forever.” 

It’s a simple word; a mere three syllables, but it makes his chest swell and puff and he laughs. “For now,” Bucky repeats. Kisses your hair, smelling of snow and storm and sweat and him. It seems so natural to trace little shapes on your bare arm beneath the covers; little hearts, and without thinking, his initials and your initials…

Within minutes, you’ve fallen asleep, cheek against his chest and face completely cleared of the worry. Warm to the touch now. The danger is gone. 

The clock is ticking. Carefully he removes himself from around you, tucking instead a pillow against your cheek and you squirm but go still, eyes never opening, and once he’s back in the frigid air he hops around to find clean, dry clothes. And on second thought, finds some of yours in your duffel bag and shoves them beneath the bed covers. So as to avoid awkward questions, of course. 

And when Sam and Natasha blow in from the storm, bringing in whirls of snow and ice and looking like snowmen with white-crusted gear and hair, Bucky has coffee ready, and shushes them before they wake you. 

No chance he’s warming them up, though. 

[ecotone99]

[FN] Father and Son

u/reverendrambo: The Chosen One was defeated, but not killed. As punishment, he/she must live among their peers, tormented with the shame of letting them down.

My father was an important man. A powerful man that many looked up to and worshiped. But apparently he felt that he wasn’t being worshiped enough, because he was always jealous of the ruler of the other place. The other man felt the same way, so they made an agreement: the two would battle for the right to rule everything.

Despite what others say, my father and his opponent aren't opposites but are remarkably similar. They’re both cunning, secretive, deceptive, and most importantly, egotistical. Seeing how alike they are, it should be no surprise that they came up with the same idea of using their children to do their dirty work for them.

My followers and my brother’s followers have a tendency to sugarcoat our fathers’ actions. For instance, they call the rape of my mother a “blessing” or her being “chosen,” but make no mistake, it was rape. To this day I still don’t know why my father and my brother’s father chose the same woman. Maybe they wanted only one person to have to suffer (although I doubt this “generous” interpretation), or maybe one of them wanted to play mind games.

Can you imagine what it’s like to have to be enemies with your twin? The memory of seeing him from across the battlefield is still burned into my mind. A man and his dark reflection, except I couldn’t tell which I was. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After our poor mother gave birth to us, we were both adopted into different families and wouldn’t meet again until that day on the battlefield. I lived a fairly normal childhood filled with cartoons, toys, holidays, and vacations. Like most adopted children, I always wondered where I came from and how my life would’ve been if my parents had kept me. Little did I know that I wouldn’t have a say in the matter, and my father fully intended to claim me as his.

The week before my bar mitzvah, I had a dream about my father. I’ve always grown up hearing about him, but I wasn’t really religious enough to give him any thought. Truthfully, I was scared of him. The stories about his wrath and treacherous ways always terrified me, but this fear vanished after the dream.

In the dream, there was a handsome muscular man leading his army of winged soldiers, and there was something familiar about this man. With a start, I realized he shared a resemblance to me.

This man’s voice echoed as he talked, and I could tell that his soldiers feared him and respected him. This man was the one I had grown up hearing about, but he had no trace of angry or evil in his eyes. He was about to head into battle, but all I could see was a calm leader, ready for anything. I would have given anything to be like him back then.

I left home, and without any assistance, was able to find my father’s home. Not his real one obviously, but close enough. Once I performed a couple of miracles for the followers, they were ecstatic. They cried at my feet and praised my father and me. I was only a child, but adults- the same ones who were supposed to lecture me, punish me, look down on me- were worshiping me. I had found power.

The night of my 13th birthday, I had the dream again, except it kept going. I saw my father’s horrible struggle as he fought in Heaven.The golden blood of angels and demons dripped from their bodies, hitting the ground like raindrops. Flaming swords cut the wings of unsuspecting soldiers, causing them to fall and scream in pain. The smell of smoke was thick in the air.

I saw my father and his opponent fight viciously with their blades, and after their weapons were shattered, with their fists. They were the most powerful men in the world, but I felt none of their authority as they clawed each other with their nails, tumbling on the ground like wrestling adolescents, not war generals. As father and son battled, I felt the fear for the first time. The fear that I would follow my father’s footsteps and be forced to continue this pointless fight for him.

I kept a low profile for the years that followed, and traveled around the world to perform miracles and recruit followers. My brother was doing the same thing, but we never crossed paths. I always made sure to never go where he went, and I’m positive he did the same. My father- in the few times we would communicate- would always warn me to never get close to my brother, that he would whisper lies into my ears and betray me. My father was a liar himself, but I followed his advice and stayed cautious.

I was around 30 when it finally happened. Cases of a virus were being reported around the world, a virus that was managing to kill millions. It got so bad that people were ordered to stay at home, and wear masks if they went outside. I knew this was the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, and that my true task had begun.

I went to hospitals and showed the world the miracles I’ve been keeping hidden for years. I healed the sick, I gave faith to nonbelievers, and I even managed to raise the dead. People were begging to join my cause, and suddenly my small group of followers became an army at my command. The only reason the world didn’t bow at my feet was because of my brother, who once again was doing the same thing.

It was the first time I really hated him. I always knew that we were destined to be enemies, but I’ve never felt this jealousy and rage before then. Instead of turning to me, there were millions that said my brother was the chosen one and I was the false prophet. I wanted to burn them alive, flood them, torture them and their families in excruciating ways. I guess you could say the forbidden fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.

My brother and I had our war, but we never fought ourselves. That was going to happen later. Our followers were the ones who bled for us. The first time I heard reports of fallen troops, I felt a tremendous sadness for not being able to aid them, not being able to revive their bodies, too torn to pieces in battle. But as the war went on, this sadness melted, and as their body count increased, so did my frustration. They were tools under my disposal, how dare they die uselessly! Instead of mourning them, I felt like spitting on their graves and cursing them for not being better.

Food became harder and harder to come by, and I did my best with my miracles to feed my followers, but even my powers weren’t enough. Many had to resort to cannibalism, eating enemies or even their friends and children if they had to. I punished my followers if they turned against each other, but I turned a blind eye to them eating enemies. I reasoned that not doing so would’ve been a waste.

I never engaged in the eating of human flesh myself, but I could feel every soul cry out as their bodies were bitten into. They couldn’t feel the teeth marks, but their souls still felt tarnished by the abuse of their corpses. The ghosts looked at me, not in anger but more in confusion of how I could let this happen to them. I had no answer.

One day, my soldiers told me that the opposition’s leader wanted to meet with me, face-to-face. The conditions were that we would call off our soldiers, and meet in the middle of the battlefield, far away from each of our camps. We were allowed to bring twelve of our guards, but no more than twelve.

I heard my father’s voice in my head- couldn’t be sure if it was real or imagined- telling me to not trust my brother. That he would use this to betray me. I don’t know if it was arrogance or loneliness, but I accepted to his terms and left for the battlefield.

As I walked out of the camp with my men, I thought about what I would say to him. Would we talk about our lives and how we ended up where we were? About our overbearing fathers, who viewed us as puppets instead of children? Or would we be like them and declare each other enemies and fight for an eternity? Whatever was fated to happen, I was determined to see it through.

When I reached the battlefield and saw him, a flush of memories hit me at once. I remembered my parents who loved and supported me, who I had tossed away immediately once I learned who I really was. Parents who might have been dead at this point. My simple life as a regular child, my friends who viewed me as an equal instead of their king. That world was gone now and replaced with blood and ash. And it was our fault.

I wanted to cry out to my brother and beg him to stop this war. We didn’t need to fight, we didn’t need to be our fathers’ sons. Instead of being mortal enemies, we could be brothers and bring back that world I had almost forgotten. Before I could say any of these things, I heard an explosion behind me.

I turned around with my men and saw my camp burning in flames. I felt the souls of my followers scream as they burned alive, their voices hitting me like a volley of arrows. Distracted by the screeching of my followers, I didn’t even notice the war cries of my guard. Fearlessly they charged at my brother and his men.

I didn’t see them fight, but once I heard their voices join the phantom choir, I knew that they had fallen as well. I made no resistance as I felt my brother’s knife plunge into my back.

After my death, I was greeted by a winged figure grinning cruelly at me. He called me “Prince” sarcastically and shoved me roughly down the stairs. It was so dark and I kept tripping over the steps, but the winged figure didn’t care. Their response was to kick me until I stood on my own and continued to walk down.

Mercifully, we reached the end of the stairs. There was a door, and I could see light spilling out from it. I was glad about leaving the darkness at first, but then my tormentor laughed. They opened the door, and I was blinded by a room filled with fire. Before I could shield my eyes, my tormentor threw me in and locked the door.

My soul is in constant pain from this fire, but this is still more bearable than their voices. My followers scream in their own prisons and ask how I could fail them, how I could betray their faith. As I’m trapped in this room, doomed to forever burn while hearing my followers curse me, my only solace lies in the fact that my father will one day join me when he loses the war. It’s about time father and son had a little chat.

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