#or do you want him to prevail because in a way he represents you now?

[kingfisherprince]

wow actually 2023 cincy final brought me so many rafole and fedole feelings.... novak really turning into roger and keeping the cincy title from the youth (tm) which really was what roger did to him for several years and then obviously carlos bringing novak war flashbacks with rafa..... novak is soon to be the last guard standing (if he is not already one) and with every match he played against everyone else it always comes with a shadow, an echo, a deja vu from the past that's not exactly the same with the past but is loaded with history nevertheless. it's just a lot!!!!!!! a lot!!!!!!

i love those connections wow

i only really saw the war flashbacks to ao12 (my all time match i watch that thing start to end regularly) but like. the generations. the turning of the wheel. the old guard making one last stand. the History of it all i'm —

[queen-dahlia]

𝐆𝐢𝐥𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐯𝐨𝐧 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧

𝗠𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗥𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗲 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬

I'm sticking to the 'proxy' bc 代理 is representative; deputy; substitute; agent

Note: Translation is not 100% accurate. Expect grammatical errors.

// : alternate translation | ⫘⫘ : flashback | 4:4 answer

A week after Emma left for Obsidian—

There was a respite in Rhodolite, at least ostensibly, for the hostages and the price they had paid.

Yves: "That girl... I hope she's doing well."

Yves, who was walking down the hallway, suddenly stops.

The roundtable meeting of the eight princes had just ended, and they had all left the room.

Luke: "It might be better for her to stay over there unexpectedly."

Luke, who happens to be walking by Yves, looks out the window.

Luke: "Rhodolite is not a safe country right now."

Licht: ". . . . . ."

Yves: "I agree. An agreement between the four countries should be pleasing, but..."

A large number of people crowd around the castle gate, which can be seen from the window.

Not only today, but since it was widely announced that the signing ceremony would be held soon, protest demonstrations by some people have continued.

Licht: "It's unnatural."

Yves: "What?"

Licht raises an eyebrow as he watches people in the distance.

Licht: "They claim that it is impossible to make peace with an enemy that has trampled on our lands."

Licht: "They have mistrust about the non-aggression pact and the lifting of sanctions."

Licht: "One day a country suddenly agrees to a settlement after not hearing from them for 10 years."

Licht: "Under such circumstances, it's understandable that it would lead to mistrust."

Licht: "But their protests are only emotional. It's baseless mistrust."

Licht: "It's spread like... like an epidemic, and more and more people are coming in every day."

Luke: "What's unnatural about that?"

Licht: "... It wouldn't happen that way unless someone deliberately instigated it."

Licht: "Maybe there's someone out there who is trying to verbally instill mistrust and cause things to explode..."

Licht: "It's just speculation, but I just thought."

Luke: "I think you're overthinking things."

Yves: "I hope so... There's a signing ceremony coming up soon."

Yves: "If an unfriendly atmosphere prevails in the country toward non-aggression pacts..."

Licht: "It's more likely that something will happen."

Licht: "... The kings of the four neighboring countries will gather that day. If any problems arise, there will be no way to recover."

Despite the serious looks on their faces, Luke shrugs his shoulders languidly.

Luke: "Well, it's going to be like that."

Yves: "Aren't you overly optimistic!? You are also a member of the royal family, so you should have at least a sense of urgency."

Luke: "I don't know about that..."

Licht: "There is one more concern."

Licht: "His Majesty the Emperor of Obsidian... his presence cannot be ignored after all."

Yves: "The blood-crazed king... was it the "King of Trampling"?"

Luke: "Is that what they call him?"

Licht: "Yeah. He's the world's aggressor. He's also the one leading Blood-Stained Rose Day."

Licht: "I think the public sentiment will probably be even more "unacceptable" than Gilbert's."

Luke: "... Hmm."

Yves: "I'm sure he'll be at the signing ceremony."

Luke: "... But maybe Gilbert will come. The emperor has been nowhere to be seen in recent years, right?"

Yves: "Well. In the last 10 years, there have been no rumors that he has even been seen on the battlefield, let alone in diplomacy."

Licht: "Signing by proxy would only add fuel to the fire of animosity."

Licht: "I don't think he likes to come here because it's obvious he doesn't feel comfortable."

Yves: "... Somehow, I really feel like a riot is about to happen."

Licht: "Maybe we should review our security arrangements."

Yves: "Then we'll have to recalculate the budget—"

???: "What a gloomy face you guys have."

Jin appears from behind the three and taps Luke and Yves on the shoulders.

Jin: "Here, Jin will give you candy."

Luke: "... I don't want it."

Jin: "... Oh."

Luke roughly brushes his hand away and walks away without looking back.

Jin: "Luke?"

Luke: "I just remembered being called by Chevalier."

Yves: "... You don't usually go even if you're called."

Luke: "Sometimes I'm in the mood."

The three look at each other as his back disappears in the blink of an eye.

Licht: "Jin, what did you do?"

Jin: "I don't know, but... We haven't been able to get along lately."

Yves: "He's obviously avoiding Jin."

Jin: "... Have I messed up his adolescent troubles?" **

Licht: "Maybe worse."

Jin: "... I can't say anything."

Yves: "You need to catch up and make up with Luke... That boy went in the opposite direction to the office of the foreign policy faction."

Licht & Jin: ". . . . . ."

Jin: "Haa... what can I do?"

Outside the window, the commotion is as usual, and the atmosphere in the corridor is heavy.

A calamity was surely creeping into the Land of Roses.

══════════════════

Emma: "Lord Gilbert, may I put this here?"

Gilbert: "Yes, thank you."

When I put the flowerpot next to the desk, Lord Gilbert, who was writing, suddenly laughed softly.

It had been a week since I arrived at Obsidian — I was getting used to life here in my own way.

(I was bracing myself for what it would be like in a country of deceit and corruption...)

(This castle is kept in order by Lord Gilbert.)

It is more comfortable than the Rhodolite court because, as far as I can see, it is surrounded by a healthy environment, and there is no one who is hostile towards me.

(Not that I want to fit in at Obsidian...)

The people I pass in the court treat me as a guest of Lord Gilbert and never glare at me or trip me over.

I think it was because of the tension in the air that they would be executed if they did so, but ironically, I felt as if I could breathe more easily now.

(... Let's not think about it any further.)

I shake my head and carry the next flowerpot.

This place seems to be some kind of laboratory for Lord Gilbert.

There are many samples related to the selective breeding of food, and it is the only place surrounded by plants in the castle built with black stones.

In the past few days, besides making sweets for Lord Gilbert, I have been doing a lot of little things like this.

Lord Gilbert helped me a lot since we were in Rhodolite, and I wanted to return the favor here.

(And...)

Gilbert: "Hehe, you're strong, aren't you?"

Before I knew it, the pen had stopped moving, and Lord Gilbert was staring at me with his chin resting on his hand.

Emma: "I train at the bookstore."

Gilbert: "Even so, I wonder where the strength comes from in those slender arms."

As I put the flowerpot on the ground, Lord Gilbert's hand reaches out and grabs me by the arm.

His cold fingers rubbed my upper arm, and it tickled me.

(I was wondering if things would get awkward after that night... but it didn't last long.)

It's hard to keep my anger at Lord Gilbert, who doesn't change his attitude, so I put the gun in the room for a while and said what I wanted to say and forced myself to make peace with him.

(Although I'm actually still a little hazy on that!)

Gilbert: "... And it's so squishy."

Emma: "Oh, did you just pick a fight?"

Gilbert: "Why? I just thought it felt good. See, I'm hard, you know?" // "Why? I just thought it felt good. You see, I'm tough, okay?"

(I'm curious when you say that.)

I also reach out and grab Lord Gilbert's second arm.

Emma: "... It's true."

(It's so firm! I had an image of Lord Gilbert not being very strong...) // (He's really tough! I had an image that Lord Gilbert isn't that strong, but...)

Emma: "This is clearly training, isn't it?"

Gilbert: "Well, it was an environment where I had to say hello to assassins every day, so it was inevitable that it would turn out like this."

(... I knew that Obsidian Castle "was" that kind of place.)

Gilbert: "I'm reasonably strong as long as it's not a long-term battle."

Emma: "So you're the kind of person who could endure if I were to hang on to your arm?" // "Then, perhaps, are you the kind of person who can stand me hanging on your arm?"

When I unintentionally mentioned a scene that a muscular person would do well in, Lord Gilbert was dumbfounded for a moment and then burst out in a loud burst of laughter.

Gilbert: "Ahaha... we'll never know until we try."

Gilbert: "Because no one dared do that to me in the first place... Ahaha!"

Emma: "It's a metaphor!?"

Gilbert: "Oh, what the heck. I thought the little rabbit wanted to do it."

Emma: "I don't."

(No need to laugh so hard that tears well up in the corners of your eyes...)

After laughing for a moment, Lord Gilbert stands up from his chair and, for some reason, picks me up in his arms.

My vision suddenly became higher and this time I blinked my eyes.

Gilbert: "Well, I can hold you, so let's just do this, okay?"

Emma: "I'm sorry... but you have to put me down!"

Gilbert: "I don't know what I should do." **

(I don't know what to do... I wonder if this person wants to embarrass me.)

Lord Gilbert's beautiful face is right there, as beautiful as if it were built.

It was impossible not to be aware of it, and I covered my ears for the inexplicable beating of my heart.

(Because everyone would be surprised if someone did something like this...)

When I tried to hide my blushing face as much as possible, Lord Gilbert laughed and sat back in his chair.

... I was held in his lap.

Emma: "Please... let me go."

Gilbert: "Nope."

Emma: "But I think it will be difficult for Lord Gilbert to work in this way."

Gilbert: "Not really?"

Emma: "Your legs will go numb."

Gilbert: "... You know, Little Bunny."

When I turn around with a sliver of hope, Lord Gilbert also greets me with a refreshing smile.

Gilbert: "Why not just give up?"

(... Right.)

Lord Gilbert reaches for his pen again, with me in his arms.

My gaze inevitably turned to the notebook spread out on the desk.

Emma: "What is that?"

Gilbert: "You probably wouldn't understand even if I told you."

(I had a feeling that was it.)

The notebook is filled with mathematical formulas that I have never seen before.

I understand that Lord Gilbert seems to be doing some kind of calculation, though.

It is not at all clear to me in layman's terms whether the calculations are related to plant breeding, engineering, or something else.

Emma: "Lord Gilbert is an amazing man after all."

Gilbert: "Hehe... Are you in love with me?"

Emma: "Why is that?"

Gilbert: "You've been blushing for a while now."

Emma: "Of course, it's embarrassing for anyone to be subjected to this!"

Gilbert: "No, no, if it were me, everyone would turn pale, so it's just Little Bunny. I've never done this before."

(... It's getting uncomfortable.)

I am aware that this is a strange thing.

The opponent is the king of the enemy country of Rhodolite, the disaster of the world, a great villain who kills and tramples people without hesitation.

I know it's not the kind of reaction I would show to such a person, but I can't help it.

(Since then, embarrassment has outweighed fear.)

I also remember the sight of a white rose dyed black.

(I—...)

Emma: "... I just remembered that the signing ceremony is coming up soon!"

I force myself to cut off my emotions and change the subject.

What immediately came out of my mouth was about something that had been bothering me recently.

Gilbert: "Yeah, right."

Gilbert: "You know, we even got it approved through the Obsidian Parliament, right? It's great that you did what you did."

Emma: "So even the Emperor has to go through Parliament."

(Obsidian has a strong streak of tyrannical monarchy, so I thought there was no parliament...)

Gilbert: "Well, it's a parliament like it wasn't there. Everyone blindly believes in my decisions."

Emma: "Blind trust?"

Gilbert: "To have no doubt that it is right. Apart from the fear of being killed if they disobey the royal family..."

Gilbert: "Everything I do is the right thing to do."

Gilbert: "I put it that way. ...Hehe, it does come in handy, though."

(... This is a face that doesn't think it's a "good thing".)

(It should be the right way for the trampling beast.)

Gilbert: "Anyway, it was decided to proceed with the conclusion of the non-aggression pact with the consensus of Obsidian."

Gilbert: "It's just that I'm in a bit of trouble."

Emma: "What is it?"

Gilbert: "I don't think I can go to Rhodolite."

Emma: "I see. That's tough..."

Emma: "... What!?"

(Lord Gilbert... can't go to Rhodolite!?)

The signing ceremony is essentially a gathering of the heads of state of each country.

In order to conclude a non-aggression pact, it must be signed by His Majesty the King,

Benitoite and Jade will be attended by the kings of both countries,

And even Rhodolite should be making arrangements for the new king I have chosen to attend.

However, when the main character of this signing ceremony, His Majesty the Emperor of Obsidian, does not participate in the ceremony,

We will not be able to conclude a non-aggression pact after all, and it will be meaningless for me to be here as a hostage.

Emma: "... Are you lying to me?"

Gilbert: "No, I'm not. It's just really unforeseen circumstances or something..."

Gilbert: "But don't worry. I'll set up a proxy."

Emma: "The signing ceremony is not something a proxy is allowed to sign."

Gilbert: "I'll just have to convince them. It's better than not participating, isn't it?"

Gilbert: "But it's not easy to set up a proxy. People don't want to go."

Emma: "... Is it because of the responsibility?"

Gilbert: "It's simpler than that. What would people think if a representative who is not the Emperor showed up at the signing ceremony?"

Gilbert: "I'm sure they would be angry that Obsidian looked down on them and wouldn't give them hospitality."

(That... might be true.)

Not only Rhodolite would feel offended, but even Benitoite and Jade would.

In the first place, as long as it is a "proxy," even the effectiveness of the non-aggression pact becomes doubtful.

The deputy must go to Rhodolite, prepared to take all the blame.

Emma: "Lord Gilbert, are you really sure you can't go?"

Gilbert: "I'm sorry about this...?"

(. . . . . .)

There is a reason I couldn't say anything.

The reason why I can't help swallowing words is—

Gilbert: "Haa... Here's the Emperor's mandate."

Lord Gilbert lifts the notebook to reveal a parchment lined with letters that seem to be in a hurry to come to life.

(When did you...)

Gilbert: "If only someone would go, that would solve everything."

Gilbert: "Otherwise, the long-awaited non-aggression pact will be ruined."

Gilbert: "It's sad that world peace will end here..."

Emma: ". . . . . ."

Gilbert: "The proxy can be anyone I approve of."

Gilbert: "I think I should prepare a dress and accessories for you now."

Gilbert: "... I mean, actually, I've already hired a tailor to do it."

Emma: ". . . . . ."

Gilbert: "All that's left is for someone to say, "I'm going..."

Flickering, flickering, I can feel his gaze on me.

As expected, if he goes this far, I can understand what Lord Gilbert wants from me, even if I don't like it.

Emma: "It's all a joke... isn't it..."

Gilbert: "Hmm? What?"

I feel my blood rush, and I am mindlessly dizzy.

Emma: "I can't be the emperor's proxy."

Gilbert: "Oh, is Little Bunny going? If that's the case, I'm relieved. Good."

Gilbert: "Little Bunny is the emperor's representative... So you are the empress. A proxy empress."

Gilbert: "Yes, here's the authorization form. Nice to meet you?" **

As I froze in his lap, Lord Gilbert made me hold the form for the proxy.

Emma: "Wasn't I just a hostage!?"

Gilbert: "I don't like that. I wouldn't bring a hostage in without a second thought, would I?"

Gilbert: "I've been thinking about making you my proxy when the time comes." // "I was thinking of using you as my substitute in case of an emergency."

(Lies...)

After coming here, I can finally see Lord Gilbert's purpose.

The real purpose for which not only I but even Prince Chevalier couldn't read...

Emma: "I'm not even an Obsidian, am I?"

Gilbert: "I mean, there's only one way for a person from another country to become an Obsidian, right?"

Gilbert: "Once upon a time, an Obsidianiate became a Rhodolitian."

Emma: ". . . . . ."

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Gilbert: "What do you think is the easiest proof of friendship, Little Bunny?"

Gilbert: "Yes... It's love."

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

(I didn't dare to go into it because I kept it under wraps after that, but...) **

Gilbert: "You thought hostages were the only price for ideals?"

Emma: "... The whole thing was meant to be this way from the beginning..."

Gilbert: "Because you want to fill the gap between Rhodolite and Obsidian, don't you?"

Gilbert: "I was curious to see how far you would go."

His innocent smile, with no malice in it, leaves me speechless again.

(... He's testing my resolve.)

In Obsidian, Lord Gilbert is the law. No one is going to interfere with Lord Gilbert.

Even if I were to go there on behalf of His Majesty the Emperor, there would be no one who could object to that.

(Because it is a country where Lord Gilbert can behave freely and even reckless things can get away with it.)

Gilbert: "In Rhodolite, you can call yourself whatever you want. I'll adapt mine to your setting."

Gilbert: "But I don't like lying. When you say your name, you have to take responsibility."

Emma: ". . . . . ."

Gilbert: "Take your time to think about it, okay?"

(... There is no peace that can be obtained with words alone.)

(It is up to me to make the most of the opportunity that Lord Gilbert has given me...)

(Even if this non-aggression pact is meaningless to Lord Gilbert, it is meaningful to us.)

I know, but it's a big decision, like risking my entire life.

I didn't have the courage to make a quick decision, so I kept my mouth shut—

Suddenly, something cold brushed against my lips, and a blood-colored eye covered my vision.

Gilbert: "Hehe, so many openings."

(. . . . . .)

Gilbert: "I'm tired of using my head so much. I think I'll take a rest."

As if nothing had happened, Lord Gilbert picked me up and made me sit on a chair.

Then he went to a nearby hammock and laid down.

(Again......)

(He did it again!) // (I've been hit again!) **

Putting aside the momentous decision, I slam the document for proxy on the desk and stand up.

Emma: "You big villain! You are a scoundrel! I've never done this before!"

(I've never been kissed before.)

To Lord Gilbert, it may be just a greeting, but I can't put it off like that.

Gilbert: "Is that so? We've done it once before..."

Emma: "That's malice, so it doesn't count!"

Gilbert: "Then count that one for now."

Emma: "N-No, that was an accident."

Gilbert: "I see, an accident. No problem then."

(This man...)

There is no sign of being offended.

He doesn't even tell me what the kiss earlier meant.

(... Is he just being mean?)

Gilbert: "... cough."

A cough is heard from the hammock, and the thought bursts and disappears.

Emma: "Are you all right?"

Gilbert: "Mmm... I'm fine."

I heard no more words.

Lord Gilbert turned his back on me and fell asleep.

(. . . . . .)

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Chevalier: "—The last, third, is baseless speculation."

Chevalier: "It's more likely that it's different, but I'm still worried about his behavior."

Chevalier: "That Eyepatch—"

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

(... No, that can't be right.)

I pull out a blanket I found on a nearby shelf and drape it over Lord Gilbert's body.

I try to look at his face gently, but he seems to be sleeping at a very good angle, and I can't see it properly.

(I know I'm overthinking this.)

══════════════════

That night — after I left Lord Gilbert, I still had the document for the proxy in my hand.

After pondering over and over again, I finally made up my mind.

(I can tell him when I see him tomorrow...)

Emma: "Excuse me, Lord Gilbert."

Unable to stay still, I knock on the door of Lord Gilbert's room.

But there was no answer from inside the room.

(I wonder if he's already asleep.... He didn't wake up until the afternoon...)

No matter how much we hurry, what will happen in the future will not change.

I told myself this and was about to turn on my heel when I heard a coughing sound coming from inside the room.

(... It's totally different from coughing during the day!)

It was clearly an abnormal cough. It sounded as if someone drowned in the river was coughing frantically.

Emma: "Lord Gilbert!"

Emma: "I'm sorry, I'm coming in!"

Fortunately, the door was unlocked, so I jumped into the room.

Lord Gilbert was kneeling behind his office desk, repeatedly taking labored breaths.

Emma: "Lord Gilbert!?"

He seemed unable to even speak, and I quickly rubbed his back.

I thought that would calm him down, but after another violent coughing fit, blood splattered on the floor.

(—... No way.)

Emma: "Anyone—"

Gilbert: "Don't... call..."

He grabs my clothes, and Lord Gilbert's voice comes out with his exhale.

He wipes the blood from his mouth, and the look he gives me is filled with murderous intent.

Gilbert: "Don't... call... anyone."

Emma: "But if I don't...!"

Gilbert: "Go back... to... your... room."

Emma: "Don't be so unreasonable!"

(How could I go back as if nothing happened!?)

(At least a doctor—I'm sure he's somewhere in the castle.)

Walter: "What's all the fuss, Lord Gilbert!"

(Ah...)

My voice must have echoed down the hallway, because a man with curly hair — Walter — comes running into the room.

Perhaps he sensed the situation from Lord Gilbert, who was coughing, and moved quickly.

Walter: "It's okay. I'll take care of it."

Walter quickly grabs a nearby jug of water and slowly pours it into Lord Gilbert's mouth.

(... He's used to it.)

Leaning Lord Gilbert against a nearby desk, who was about to lose consciousness with a pale face, Walter placed the case he was holding on the floor,

From it, he took out a bottle-like object with a long, thin needle.

Walter: "... I'm a doctor."

Walter: "I'm Lord Gilbert's personal doctor."

(He is... a doctor.)

(He said he was his aide...)

A lie that is so rare for Lord Gilbert makes my heart race fast.

Walter: "Emma, please return to your room."

With a practiced hand, Walter removes Lord Gilbert's jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt.

(. . . . . .)

His arm was so bruised that it was discolored.

(What's... that...)

Walter sticks the needle into a different vial, makes sure the elongated bottle is filled with liquid, and now sticks it into Lord Gilbert's arm.

It was a treatment scene unlike anything I had ever seen or heard of.

Emma: "... Is there anything I can do?"

Still, I can't help but let my voice leak out.

My legs are not moving, and I understand that there doesn't seem to be anything I can do.

Walter: "No, thank you—"

Walter turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

Walter: "... No, may I still ask for your assistance?"

Walter: "I'd like to carry Lord Gilbert to bed—"

══════════════════

It takes two people to somehow get Lord Gilbert to lie down on the bed.

His breathing seemed to have calmed down, and at first glance, it appeared that he was just sleeping.

Emma: ". . . . . ."

Walter: ". . . . . ."

Emma: "... He's okay, isn't he?"

Walter: ". . . . . ."

Emma: "He's... colder than usual."

When I lightly hold Lord Gilbert's hand, it is as cold as ice.

There was no human-like warmth at all, which made me even more anxious.

Walter: ". . . . . ."

Emma: "Walter..."

Walter: "... I can't answer that question. Confidentiality as a doctor and strict orders from Lord Gilbert."

Emma: ". . . . . ."

Walter: "But... I think you have the right to know."

Walter: "Even if I am ordered to be executed later, I want you to know."

Walter: "I want to entrust my hopes to you."

(... Hope?)

There was a troubled, conflicted silence.

Walter looked at Lord Gilbert, and—

I twisted my face to hold back my tears. // My face distorts as I hold back my tears.

Walter: "... He has one month to live."

Emma: "............ Huh."

Walter: "That was the last time... I gave it to Lord Gilbert before he went to Rhodolite." // "It was the last time Gilbert was given a chance before going to Rhodolite."

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Chevalier: "That Eyepatch... makes me think he has some kind of disease."

Chevalier: "And it's a pretty serious kind of thing."

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It got dark in front of my eyes.

[midnight-in-town]

If Twilights’s dad is a spy Then is he working for Westalis or Ostania?

Hey Anon and sorry for the delay! :3

Hmm, first of all, I don’t think his allegiance would be what matters the most, when in case this plot twist happens.

To recap a bit on the theory that Twilight's dad is still alive and a spy (first draft here), I think that, narratively speaking, the interest lies in:

Twilight's entire childhood, nay, life was based on a lie

A lie he's currently exactly reproducing by pretending to be Anya's dad (except that, unlike him, Anya knows her dad's a spy on a mission), which is why it'll need to be addressed by the plot eventually.

Additionally, and considering that this trauma from his childhood turned him into everything he didn’t want to be, I'd say facing this terrible truth (for once) is how he's going to come to the realization that he can't do to Yor and Anya what his dad did to him and his mom.

Otherwise, you know, "he's really just like his dad", a dad who possibly caused a terrorist attack or, at the very least, who took advantage of one to leave his wife and kid behind.

All "for his mission".

Twilight being recruited as a spy might be related to WISE knowing his dad is a spy

In that case, if his dad is also a spy working for Westalis, then WISE recruited Twilight because they bet he shares the same skills as his dad.

However, if his dad is a spy working for Ostania, then WISE recruited him for the same reason, except it was to use him as possible leverage/weapon against his own dad.

Either way, if WISE knew about Twilight's dad being a spy, then WISE will be held accountable for manipulating Twilight with lies. So I think, by the end of the story, Twilight will also come to realize this truth, because it's the only way to untangle the web of lies that now represents his life.

Also, Twilight realizing that WISE used him from the start would match with Yor being indoctrinated since childhood by the organization she also currently sides with.

And, while I have no doubt that eventually their family will prevail over old allegiances, I believe it will only be possible if both Twilight and Yor face the truth that they were totally used as pawns by the organizations they believed in, in order to free themselves from them.

To finally answer your question (sorry for rambling): thematically since Twilight is Westalis' "greatest spy/asset", tbh it's likely that his dad is the Ostanian equivalent.

As for who he is, I'd say someone currently working for the SSS, which is how Twilight risks being discovered by them (if Garden doesn't sell him out first, for being Yor's fishy husband being interested in Donovan Desmond).

And considering the fact he must be an older man, with a light hair color, visible cheek bones and a slim nose, well, we don't have a lot of possible suspects in the cast...

Especially since, interestingly, the job of Yuri and his captain is to catch spies.

Lastly, if Yuri's captain is Twilight's spy dad, then he must have gotten that scar after leaving his wife and kid behind, say, maybe during that very same explosion/terrorist attack that happened in their hometown?

TL;DR my money is on Yuri's captain being Twilight's spy dad, because this has high comedic value, when we know how much Yuri dislikes Loid while his dad mentors him on the job. Though it's also quite ironically devastating considering that, in that case, Twilight literally impersonated his dad in ch14 when investigating Yor...

...implying he's slowly becoming exactly like his dad, a man he will despise once he finds out the truth. ://

Sorry for rambling, I hope it answers your question ! Have a good day ahead, Anon.

[roydeezed]

One Piece-Mini Chapter Round-Up(Chapter 1087)

My heads not in analysis mode much right now but a new One Piece chapter came out after the most recent Void Month so I wanted to talk a little about the focus of this weeks chapter. Catch it below the cut.

Garp. That's the focus of this week's chapter. And through it, we get so much more insight into the hero of the navy than is evident at first.

A lot of my assumptions and conclusions are based on what happens next. Because the situation looks hopeless at the end of the chapter and Garp isn't smiling even though he is a D and he might die soon. SO! What does that say?

First of all, there's an assumption that Garp expects some intervention. Now, I'm gonna come out and say that I expect Coby and the other marines, as well as everyone they have rescued, to make it out. I also expect Garp to die. I also don't think Garp's death will be front page news. I don't know how it's all going to go down but I think there's a chance Garp expects Kuzan to bail them out. I don't think Kuzan will blow his cover that early. So that leaves some deus ex machina to save the new generation. Who knows what that'll be? I'm not here to speculate. What I am here to do is to talk about what all this says about Garp.

Garp is in deep denial. That's basically what his character is. At the beginning of the chapter, Commodore Brannew states that being a hero is a strength that you have to earn. And Garp has earned that. But just like Kuzan, he has also let it slip away by denying the obvious truth. The Marines are a corrupt organization that he continues to be the poster boy of by staying with them. He sees the truth of it. He also sees the truth of the matter in that those he loves and trusts choose things other than the Marines, and therefore condemn it as well. Him having to watch the execution of his adopted granson, Ace, should've been the final nail in the coffin but we see how he deals with that and all of those painful choices and decisions. He ignores it and keeps punching away. Training his body instead of confronting what all of it means. At the end of the chapter, Garp states that Justice will Prevail with a grim look on his face. Not at all like the D's we have seen in the past, smiling as they face certain doom. To me, this feels like Garp losing the way of the D's, those who challenge power. This invoking of justice at this time also brings back to mind my favourite Marine, Fujitora, and how he represents that Justice is blind. Garp wants his justice to be blind too. Thinking that if he does enough good on the side of the law that he'll tilt things in a way that'll lead to change.

It's the perfect counter to every single Marine with a strict sense of justice. Arguably they all see themselves as necessary if not even the good guys. But Garp, with his immense strength, reputation and extremely long tenure is the perfect counterpoint to them. He shows why their efforts will not pan out. Right now the only reason he's even making a dent is because he is working outside of the system. And even then, as an agent of the government, it's just senseless chaos. It's a resetting of the status quo and not real progress. To me this seems to be heading towards a tragic end for an extremely tragic character. Garp is denial and ignorance. Garp is stubbornness. Garp is one of the best foils in the series. But most of all, Garp, who's had so many of his loved ones choose a path away from him, is a tragic figure.

Being a hero is a strength that you have to earn and that justice will prevail are also concepts that link back to Luffy in a positive light. And by having Garp basically be a foil to Luffy in this sense, Oda highlights how great our protagonist is as well. A lot of people disliked the idea of Luffy being a chosen one a la the gum gum fruit/nika/gear 5. But Oda really wants to hammer in the point with this chapter that being a hero is something you earn. And something Luffy has earned with his actions as well. I'm sure Garp's end will be epic and tragic and probably somewhat heroic, but that heart of a hero that Luffy has is something Garp lost a long time ago. And Luffy shows how Justice really is blind.

Blind in that it doesn't follow laws. There's a lot that can be said about how justice is subjective, with how each admiral seems to have their own version and how Luffy's is entrenched in kindness. And how there is no cosmic right or wrong and how the law is a threat to follow rules and not at all true justice.

Garp also reminds me of so many of the older people I know and some that I dearly love and some that I wished I could love. He's stuck in his ways and because of that it's not hard to project that loved one that refuses to change onto him. He's relatble in the the way that he's someone who wants the best for you but your definition and his don't quite match up. And you see the love there but there is also the overbearingness and the expectations. I love garp. I hate garp. I love garp. He's such a great character.

One last tangent in this wildly rambling post. Garp and Koby. Koby is naive and falls for the pirates trap. But Garp realizes that it's not a fault with Koby. Koby needs to keep that innocent heart he has. It's absolutely essential that he does. And just like how Whitebeard couldn't get mad at his idiot son Squard, Garp can't let Koby take the blame and become what he has. Someone blinded to other's because they've been too busy ignoring their own pain. So Garp has only one job. And that's to get Koby off the island as the same marine he was when he got captured. He doesn't want Koby to change like Dragon or Luffy or Ace or Kuzan. More and more this becomes like Marineford and Whitebeards death. The ship splashing down. The hidden stab wound. The absolute insistence in believing in your own son. You hope that these character's learn from the past. That they change. That they aren't doomed to repeat the past because the story needs them to. You hope that this time it's different. You hope.

[backjustforberena]

Can you share just some headcanons you have about Rhaenys and Corlys?

Absolutely! Let's see what my brain comes up with...

Rhaenys told Corlys about her intention to arrive at their wedding on dragonback pretty much as soon as she got her grandfather's blessing that they could get married. Days before the event, Corlys presented her with a wedding present directly from him, which he gave to her in private. It was a saddle for her to use on their wedding day. Gold as hell, probably, with a heck of a lot of wealth spent on it because it was a statement as well as a gift - but he'd spent weeks secretly working with the craftsmen and the dragon-keepers to learn about the needs and the specificities of Meleys in particular. The ropes for the reins were handmade by Corlys himself (a skill picked up from his sailing). It's as close to ceremonial as a dragon's saddle can be. She loved it, and what it represented. It's kept in the halls of High Tide now, as she only used it during their wedding celebrations (which was a long and grand old time). But it did kick-start a habit of Corlys gifting her with dragon-saddles. So the one she uses on the show is from him as well.

Rhaenys basically picks their outfits when they need to coordinate. So the Velaryon entrance to the betrothal feast? All Rhaenys. She's the one who understands the politics and messaging of these things better than Corlys. He's happy to do whatever his wife says in that regard.

Rhaenys and Corlys have been separated a lot by the fact that Corlys goes to sea quite a lot. So much so that they have a routine almost. She actually wakes and breakfasts alone as Corlys gets up at the crack of dawn (the fluffy stuff happens the night before), due to his restlessness (blaming the call of the sea idk), and will head straight down to the docks to help his men. He's a bit possessive that way and likes to see it all being done. Rhaenys will not rush. As much as this is preparing him to go away, she is also preparing to rule Driftmark in his absence. She gets dressed up to the nines, always. The perfect image. The last thing he always does is to kiss her hand.

Corlys has a lot of practical skills from his voyages. When he's frustrated or annoyed at the Small Council or politics, he will go and make rope or sand something or build a boat. Sans all the finary of a lord, he's just in a shirt and trousers and boots. It's as common as he will ever look. Rhaenys finds this incredibly attractive and always knows where to find him when she knows he's in a mood. She'll sit with him, and they'll talk. He will get rid of his explosive energy and she will come up with a solution or a way forward.

Rhaenys knows the stories of the artefacts of High Tide just as well as Corlys now. He told them to her when she was courting, told them to their children, told them to visiting lords. She knows them inside out and backwards. She also knows when he embellishes them a little bit, to intimidate (especially to visiting merchants or influencers) and if she's smiling it's because she's proud not because she knows her husband is making a power play.

One of their first "dates" was Corlys taking Rhaenys out on a boat. Funnily enough, the boat could only fit two, so Rhaenys had to dismiss the guard that wanted to insist on coming with... she did joke (to the guard) that if the Lord of the Tides did want to drown her, he could have come up with a stealthier plan.

They both have pretty low opinions of knights and tourneys. Corlys actually isn't knighted, though, obviously, they are both extremely proud of Laenor when he gets knighted. Perhaps the only time they touch one another in public is when Laenor is participating in a tourney.

When it comes to the Queen That Never Was title, Corlys loves it. Rhaenys loathes it. Constantly and consistently, it is Rhaenys asking for cooler heads to prevail.

Both of them feel incredibly more at home at Driftmark than at King's Landing. But they met and courted at King's Landing whilst High Tide was being constructed at Driftmark. Midway through construction, Corlys realised that all of his plans had been slightly slanted to incorporate Rhaenys's tastes and he wanted her good opinion only. The Lady of Driftmark position that he was envisioning morphed from a corporal figure, an assumption, to simply be Rhaenys. He would have no other.

They talk a lot. At the fireplace in the Hall of Nine, at Corlys's workshop or whatever it might be, when walking along the coast, in their chambers, in their bed. About anything and everything and this was as it was from the time they met. They engage one another.

Rhaenys feels freest on Meleys's back. She feels safest in Corlys's arms. Corlys has a protective streak a mile wide when it comes to his wife and also his holding her waist or her hips will give you a good indicator of how he's feeling.

[amyriadfthings]

[Cleaned up a little night rant turned essay and reposting]

God, just rewatching ep 2 and it´s so crazy to see the difference in power Wille can wield around school compared to the court, like making August call him Crown Prince, and challenge him whenever he pleases, while the larger institution of the royal family represented by Jan-Olof can just move in from one moment to the next and physically take him out of school. (The way the headmistress just says goodbye to him at the start, like it´s a decided fact while Wille doesn´t even know what´s happening yet.. wow.)

(It´s also quiete unnerving to see how Jan-Olof continues to correctly address Wille with his title while mercilessly ordering him to get ready to leave or bluntly tell him he can´t just issue threats. How Jan-Olof politely asks Malin if she could please... not even saying the actual words, but let´s close the door so nobody sees.

How cold the court seems, cruel behind that appearance of meaningless politeness.)

The absolute shock value that has, to see Wille so powerless, after what we´ve seen him do to August up to this point. And to realize that that´s what they want Wille to know and feel, too.

Sure, he prevails and stays, but they demonstrate to him they absolutely can and will do this to him. That his presence at school, where his life is, is fragile. That there is no regard for his autonomy whatsoever. At the beginning of ep 2 that´s now an established truth. He´s nothing in the big machine but a cog that has to do its job or otherwise be removed or hammered into shape, and they make it clear to him in a way that I can´t even imagine experiencing as a 16-yr-old kid and then just continue interacting on a semi-functional level with your family.

(And you´re also made aware Wille´s power over August that´s been so satisfying to watch means nothing in the big picture since August is himself just another cog in that big machine.)

But that´s not even all. Because then the phone call happens and the machine shifts into next gear.

Jan-Olof tells him (orders him) to talk to his mom (no, the queen) and you might wonder if it wasn´t the plan all along to just scare Wille into submission. And then you realize, yeah, that was probably the plan.

Because the way the queen then talks to him in that phone call, absolutely unaffected, sounds an awful lot like she´s gaslighting Wille into making him feel unreasonable: After all, he´d issued the threat against the court, so naturally this would be the consequence.

Wille, meanwhile, is literally sitting on the floor after having been tackled by Malin, holding shards of glass in his hand, and visibly numb.

And his mom, the queen, tells him matter-of-factly that Wille fully well knows "Jan-Olof is only called in when it´s absolutely necessary", so he did this to himself.

The sympathetic tone of her voice is making me nauseous and almost scared for Wille there.

The way she effortlessly moves from soft, apparent understanding of his grief that she suddenly brings up (after he just flashed back to a memory with Erik and in the remaining sharp fragments of which he´s now sitting) and implies what was just done to him moments earlier was a result of his grieving, a punishment he must receive for acting out, which he is surely just doing out of grief and no other reason, is just masterful and chilling.

Again, the levels of manipulation, of first telling him what he feels and then suggesting that his action must be from those feelings and also that he has now been punished for them are stunning.

Then the queen has the audacity to tell Wille his parents love him for who he is. The queen is conducting this phone call while on a plane, doing business. This phone call is business.

She is telling Wille she wants him to be able to come out on his own terms, and I´m getting whiplash from listening to her saying he´s not mature enough for that, after she almost had him, this, her 16-yr-old kid physically dragged from school.

She tells him that he has to manage his outbursts after the (controlled, deliberate) outburst we just watched being afflicted on him. Oh, and whoever they choose to let into the machine (Simon) must of course also accept the way things are handled, and submit. All of this is said in a parental soothing voice.

Then the queen adds it would have been "misconduct" if she "didn´t act" after what Wille said, directly telling her son that all of what just happened was her. And again making it sound like she didn´t have a choice because of his behaviour.

This scene is unbelievable on rewatching.

The way they then start to negotiate. Negotiate. Making it even more obvious this was a game move to make Wille do what she wants.

But also, and I´m just realizing more things as I write, it doesn´t even seem hard or unnatural for the queen, just like the whole interaction hasn´t been, nor unusual for them to get to this point of where they negotiate.

Wille seems to fall into the dynamic naturally, too, as numb as he is.

So much of this scene looks and sounds like internalized, normal behaviour on the queen´s part just because of the easy flow of it. And Wille has been subjected to it his whole life. There is NEVER going to be a separation of queen and mom no matter how much Wille pleads for there to be. Because clearly, those are not separate entities that exist in the queen.

(Jesus, Wille, how are you even semi-normal? My gratitude for Boris is growing by the minute and I was already so happy about the therapy. The fact that the queen honestly wants Wille to go to therapy, too, fits the idea that this was her natural response and she wasn´t being extra cruel in any of this interaction. Or maybe it just doesn´t even matter. There are no separating lines anyway.)

By the end of the scene you´ve come to the painful realization that the court=the queen, and this season are not playing around getting their messages across, and it´s honestly brutal to watch. I know I didn´t even fully took all of this in on my first viewing.

But now, rewatching it again and seeing Wille by the end of that phone call negotiate with his mom for his life and level of participation in his role as he´s sitting on the floor in that glass and holding on to the shards and poking at them defiantly, and seeing the queen roll her eyes as she hangs up, hits you with the power of an anvil after already breaking your heart, and I´m kind of in shock.

[k-s-morgan]

Love your analysis! I wanted to ask what you thought about Hannibal’s conversation with Chiyoh on Will’s front porch (following the Verger farm massacre). Chiyoh interests me so much, and I want to know more about her character and her relationship with Hannibal. What do you think Hannibal meant by the “between iron and silver” line? I always interpreted it as him implying she deserves stability. Also, do you think Chiyoh would be involved with Hannibal and Will post fall? (such as helping them/protecting them, etc.)

Thank you very much!

Chiyoh is definitely a character who leaves a lot of questions. She seems to have been loyal to the Lecter/Murasaki family. She is obsessed with Mischa, even though she’s never met her.  This is what she says to Will: 

The day I met Hannibal, he was an orphan. I was meant to meet him with his sister, but he was alone.

So I assume this was the first time Chiyoh was supposed to meet both of them - I don't think she met Mischa alone before. Her obsession must be the result of Hannibal telling endless stories about her - at some point, Chiyoh grew so attached to her image and Hannibal’s memories that she decided to dedicate her whole life to avenging Mischa and celebrating her existence. This says a lot about her as a person - she’s lonely and detached from reality; she feels empty and aimless, and Mischa gives her a purpose.

Hannibal must be one of very few people who also made Chiyoh feel attachment. She remains loyal to him despite the years separating them. She initially wanted to find Hannibal to “cage him” after learning of everything he’s been doing, but upon seeing him, her fondness must have prevailed and she changed her mind. Now she acts like his guardian angel, his protector - though this is once again for Mischa, like she says, so maybe Chiyoh isn’t that fond of Hannibal himself but of what he represents. Mischa loved Hannibal and Hannibal is the only other person who loves her.

Regarding their conversation in Digestivo, I agree with your take: I think Hannibal is telling Chiyoh that she is resilient, stable, and not prone to corrosion & corruption. She was not seduced into darkness by Hannibal and Will; she would have spent the rest of her life not killing anyone if Will didn’t force her hand physically. Chiyoh ended up killing people, but not because she wanted it. She resisted Will’s (awkward) attempts at admitting she liked it because this wasn’t true and she wasn’t malleable enough to fold under pressure. Chiyoh has her steely principles and she doesn’t deviate from them unless she absolutely must; when this happens, she doesn’t get any enjoyment. She’s merely doing her duty. This is contrasted with Hannibal (who represents silver in this scenario, in my opinion) and Will (who represents iron). They are affected by different factors and can change coloring & form. Chiyoh does not need to Become - she already is who she is. 

I wouldn’t want to see her in S4, but I imagine she would continue to watch over Hannibal, yes. This seems to be her goal: to keep honoring Mischa in whatever way she can. If it involves protecting her brother and the man he loves, then so be it. 

[kimchokejin]

omg okay so i was tagged by the whimsical @wistfulocean​, the jellicle (😲) @jiminsproof​, and the splendid @seoksao to list 10 of my blorbos (favorite characters) from 10 different fandoms. this was kind of hard (but fun!) for me because i am very on and off when it comes to tv, i haven't read a book with characters in a long time 😬, and i tend not to obsess over movies. so i came up with a list of 10 blorbos that i've had over the years. and we are starting EARLY okay? also i started writing descriptions for these and then i got so embarrassed because i literally don’t remember shit about anything so i’m just gonna not say much lol. and then check marks mean i can safely recommend the show/movie, otherwise...proceed with caution

Stitch from Lilo and Stitch ✅

he might be more of a “scrunkly” actually, represents my inner child?

She-Go from Kim Possible

i was always like she’s way too cool for dr. draco or whatever lmao

Elyon from W.I.T.C.H.

(but from the books i didn’t watch the show as much)

Prince Zuko from Avatar: The Last Airbender ✅

gotta love a redemption arc! hope the new live action version isn’t bad! 🤞

Eli Goldsworthy from Degrassi

hey shut up

Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds

my baby boy! special shout out to the episodes with him and aubrey plaza's character ahh i wish i could watch those for the first time again

Rosa Diaz from Brooklyn 99

acab ofc i simply wasn’t thinking straight (heh). i bought my first pleather jacket because of her. don’t laugh.

[redacted] ❌

** *** ***** ****, **** ** **** ***

Snufkin from The Moomins! (the 90s version) ✅

the most comforting children’s show you could ever watch tbh. this kid reminds me of one of my neighbors from my childhood and i definitely remember feeling very…moomin-y…around him…one time i chased him down the street because i wanted a hug 😬 whereas now i think i act more like a snufkin but i think moomin is still there deep down? oops now i’m getting too deep lol ummm i also love his philosophy on things (be gay do crime!!!) and i might be dressing like him for halloween

Nam See-hee from Because This Is My First Life ✅

i literally had to look up this dude’s name tbh because my friends and i lovingly refer to him as robot man. this guy...he’s the real deal. THE unattainable standard. if you’re into kdramas i HIGHLY recommend this show which doesn’t mean much coming from me since i haven’t seen a lot of kdramas BUT my friend who has been watching kdramas for over a decade now says it’s the best kdrama they’ve ever seen. so. it’s not a super dramatic one either more of a rom com so i don’t think you would cry if you didn’t want to?

lmao i’m like scared of what this list says about me i think the two prevailing types here are snarky assholes with a heart of gold (alleged) and women who could kill me without remorse or hesitation? and i gravitate towards "lighter” shows because i generally don’t like to feel more than i already do? ummmm i’m still embarrassed idk might delete later. but if you see this and would like to play say i tagged you!

[opera-ghosts]

OTD in Music History: Delusional and suffering from advanced tertiary syphilis, master “lied” (German art song) composer Hugo Wolf (1860 – 1903) is taken to an insane asylum in 1897. Although he spent most of his life in Vienna, Wolf was actually born in what is now Slovenia (conductor Herbert von Karajan [1908 - 1989] was distantly related to him on his maternal side). A musical prodigy, Wolf became good friends Gustav Mahler (1860 - 1911) when they both attended the Vienna Conservatory together -- but Wolf was dismissed before graduation after he blew up one day and informed the Director that he was "forgetting more than he was learning." (Later in life, Wolf tried to save face by claiming that he actually quit before they could expel him...) Wolf spent the next decade suffering in grinding poverty, eking out an itinerant bohemian lifestyle. He taught sporadically; wrote vitriolic music criticism that made him many powerful enemies in the conservative Viennese musical establishment; and, occasionally, actually got around to composing. Over the course of his career, Wolf wrote nearly 300 German art songs. But of his first 100 -- i.e., those dating from his early period -- he ultimately considered only a handful to be truly "worthwhile." It would not be until he blossomed into artistic maturity in 1888 that he began to produce a torrent of widely-acclaimed masterpieces. The mature Wolf excelled at creating vocal melodic lines that express every emotional nuance of a given poetic text. The atmosphere of his lieder ranges from tender love lyrics, to biting satirical humor, to deeply felt spiritual suffering. The vocal-melodic line is often combined with strikingly original harmonies in the piano accompaniment, resulting in a remarkable fusion of music and speech. Indeed, many lieder aficionados consider Wolf to be the single greatest practitioner of this rather rarified art form. PICTURED: A lovely original decorative bookplate that was personally designed by Wolf to be inserted into volumes in his library.

In his published criticism, Wolf had some particularly nasty things to say about Johannes Brahms (1833 – 1897):

"Through [the D-Minor Piano Concerto] blows an air so icy, so dank, so misty, that one's heart freezes and one's breath is taken away. One could catch a cold from it. Unhealthy stuff!"

"Brahms has, to be sure, never been able to raise himself above the level of mediocrity... but such nullity, emptiness, and hypocrisy as prevail in [his Fourth Symphony] have come to light in none of his previous works. The art of composing entirely without ideas has decidedly found its most worthy representative in Johannes Brahms!"

Etc, etc.

Suffice to say, statements like these not go over very well in Vienna, where Brahms (who also lived and worked there) was generally hailed as the world’s greatest living composer. The backlash was swift and severe; one of the most infamous examples arose when Wolf approached Arnold Rose (1863 – 1946), the concertmaster of the Vienna Philharmonic, and asked if he would arrange for the orchestra to play through Wolf's symphonic poem "Penthesilea" (one of the relatively few orchestral works that Wolf ever penned). Rose no doubt took great pleasure in letting him dangle for several weeks before sending him the following devastating letter:

"Mr. Wolf: We have attentively looked through your work, and we have unanimously resolved to leave the score for you with the doorman of the Opera House. Will you please have the kindness to retrieve it as soon as possible? I fear that he may easily mislay it… With kindest greetings, Arnold Rose."

("Penthesilea" did eventually receive a playthrough under legendary conductor Hans Richter [1843 – 1916]. Allegedly, however, before he even picked up his baton, Richter loudly announced for all present to hear that he was only doing it because he wanted to hear for himself “the work of the man who dares to write in such a way about *Meister* Brahms.")

But the final word should go to Wolf, explaining (in a private letter written to a close friend) his own thoughts on that particular art that he excelled at above all else -- songwriting: "There's something gruesome about the intimate fusion of poetry and music -- actually, the gruesome role belongs only to the latter. Music has decidedly something of the vampire about it. It claws at its victim relentlessly, and sucks the last drop of blood from it. One could also compare it with a greedy suckling, who relentlessly demands fresh nourishment from its mother and thereby becomes plump and fat while its mother's beauty withers away. But this comparison is valid only with regard to the effect that music, in league with poetry, has upon the public... Indeed, nothing has shocked me, personally, more than the groundless injustice of the preference of one of these arts over the other..."

[god-whispers]

feb 15

a preemptive daily (regular daily will follow tomorrow)

is this what we've been praying for?  on february 8th during, a chapel service on asbury campus, at least a hundred young people came forward and fell to their knees at the altar.  it began a mighty campus revival that continues to this day and word has it that it is spreading to other campuses as well.  has the woke young generation finally awaken to God?

we all know that God has a people He wants to rescue from this generation.  only God knows where all this is heading but we know what Jesus said.  "and I also say to you that you are peter, and on this rock I will build My church, and the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it." matt 16:18  no, He is not calling peter the rock but the rock is the revelation that Jesus Christ is indeed the Son of God.

the Holy Spirit is making that truth known today around the world.  religious revivals and growth are happening all over the world.  in sub-sahara africa christianity is growing faster than their actual population growth.  and by the way, sub-sahara population growth is currently the fastest in the world.

the growth of the pentecostal growth in recent years has been nothing less than staggering.  in 1970 they represented only about five percent of christians while today they number about twenty-five percent.  they are projected to reach over a billion by the end of the century.  that amounts to the current population of china.  (of course, i don't believe any of us think there is anywhere near that much time left.)  people today are tired of the old form and ceremony traditional religion has been offering.  they are hungry for more.  the spirit within them yearns for more of the Spirit of Truth Jesus spoke of.

some studies show that the growth of christianity is far outreaching the growth of islam.  by these estimates there will be soon be three christians for every two muslims.  politics and culture have been so impacted by the christian sentiment, many leftist believe the rise of a christian theocracy is trying to establish itself.  (note the recent rise of the prime minister of italy.)  the media and ruling elite actively strive to hide all these things from the people at large.  

yes, darkness is having it's rise but even as the devil turns up the heat, God will be matching it - burner for burner.  the bible says the devil will have his day.  the bible also says, "those of the people who understand shall instruct many; yet for many days they shall fall by sword and flame, by captivity and plundering." dan 11:33

in recent years we have witness zealots for religion sacrifice their lives for what they believe would earn them heaven.  one cannot earn something that is freely given.  it had to be freely given because it's cost was more than anyone could pay.  anyone but One, that is.

"I came to send fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!" luke 12:49  pockets; pockets around the world.  the match is lit and soon the fire will become a blaze which cannot be contained.  the church will have to be removed for darkness to have it's day simply because darkness cannot overcome light.  it exists only in the absence of light.  do you feel the spark in your heart yet?  feed the fire and watch it grow.  the Holy Spirit has a work to do in these days and i pray we all be a feather drifting wherever He blows.

how long will it be before the secular world takes stringent notice and attempts to "cancel" us out - figuratively and literally?  it may soon not just be words of condemnation we will have to endure.  count the costs today.  decide now how far you are willing to go and whether there be any price too costly for you to pay.

i have counted the cost.  whatever i have was given to me by God and i freely offer it all back to Him.  "finally, there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give to me on that day, and not to me only but also to all who have loved His appearing." 2 tim 4:8  maranatha.  even so, come Lord Jesus!

[destinyimage]

Freedom From 16 Demonic Strongholds: Symptoms & Authority Over Evil Spirits

There are sixteen demonic strongholds.

There are also sixteen major and minor prophets in the Old Testament. The following, through extensive research and desperate cries for answers, is what I discovered about each. You must have the presence of the Holy Spirit, His guidance, and God’s Holy Word in order to wage spiritual war and emerge victorious. You also need advisors; those who have already faced the giants and can give you intelligence, “intel,” to help navigate the situation—so you don’t have to reinvent the wheel. I learned how to battle and have great success in expelling demons by realizing that satan always mimics Christ and tries to be a mirror reflection.

Please know that I am like everyone else and my priorities are as they are called to be—God first, then spouse, family, and the ministry. I believe that you will find the answers you are looking for in the next few chapters. I began by becoming familiar with the foundation of these spirits and their fruit. Then, every time I went to take the darkness out, I had the basics and I learned more and more, and little by little my knowledge grew until now when I train and show people of many nations how to pull down and take back what belongs to them.

I want to also point out that the only way I could have gone and done a few of the successful exploits I wrote about was because of years of learning, and making many mistakes. Once I understood, I wanted to help anyone and everyone. Remember, there are many deliverance techniques and ways of doing them. The most important thing I can say to you is to be who you are. As the years have progressed, so have the dos and don’ts. As previously mentioned, one prays this way, another rebukes that way. Sadly, some charge unbearable amounts of money to set people free.

The sixteen demonic spirit strongholds are:

Lying Spirit

Spirit of Bondage

Spirit of Fear

Spirit of Heaviness

Spirit of Infirmity

Spirit of Jealousy

Spirit of Haughtiness

Spirit of Discord

Spirit of Whoredom

Seducing Spirit

Perverse Spirit

Spirit of Divination and Familiar Spirit

Antichrist Spirit

Unclean Spirit

Dumb (mute) and Deaf Spirit

Spirit of Lethargy

While I examine each of these 16 strongholds in my book, Power & Authority Over Darkness, let’s look at the first 3 in detail:

1. Lying Spirit

So he said, “I will go out and be a lying spirit in the mouth of all his prophets.” And the Lord said, “You shall persuade him and also prevail; go out and do so.” Therefore look! The Lord has put a lying spirit in the mouth of these prophets of yours, and the Lord has declared disaster against you (2 Chronicles 18:21-22).

Manifestations:

And for this reason God will send them strong delusion, that they should believe the lie (2 Thessalonians 2:11).

Lies, strong delusion; statements that deviate from or pervert the truth, to release a false appearance; the spirit “talks too much”

Suggests; to put (as a thought, plan, or desire) into a person’s mind

Perverts; diverts to a wrong purpose

Implies; expresses indirectly: hints at

Assumes; takes as granted or true, though not proved

Exaggerates; enlarges (as a statement) beyond normal

Flatters; praises too much or without sincerity

Curses; prays for harm to come upon someone

Gossips; habitually reveals personal or sensational facts

Babbles; talks enthusiastically or excessively

Mystifies; perplexes the mind of; makes mysterious

Misleads; leads in a wrong direction or into a mistaken action or belief

Misrepresents; represents falsely or unfairly

Deceives; causes to believe an untruth

Mistakes; makes a wrong judgment of the character or ability of

Falsifies; alters so as to deceive

Religious; relating or devoted to an acknowledged ultimate reality or deity

“Therefore thus says the Lord of hosts concerning the prophets: ‘Behold, I will feed them with wormwood, and make them drink the water of gall; for from the prophets of Jerusalem profaneness has gone out into all the land.’” Thus says the Lord of hosts: “Do not listen to the words of the prophets who prophesy to you. They make you worthless; they speak a vision of their own heart, not from the mouth of the Lord. They continually say to those who despise Me, ‘The Lord has said, “You shall have peace”’; and to everyone who walks according to the dictates of his own heart, they say, ‘No evil shall come upon you’” (Jeremiah 23:15-17).

The lying spirit is what I refer to as the godfather of the dark underworld. Without the lie, there is nothing. This spirit’s job is to steal, kill, and destroy; to annihilate, to kill your calling, and steal your inheritance. One of the tragedies I have seen is that often when new Christians come into the church, they are given strict rules and regulations, causing greater bondage and fear in their lives than before they came to Christ. It isn’t because of Christ, because we know His yoke is easy and burden is light. It is more often the religious, lying spirit at work in a church. Too many have sadly watered down the Holy Word, using grace as a crutch. Grace is important, and a gift from God, but so many believers misunderstand what grace truly is.

Whenever I do deliverance, I expect that the lying spirit will always be there trying to stop me. It must be bound and then commanded to shut up. This spirit’s true mission is to pervert the truth and will use us to lie, accuse, and blame one another. Often the person needing deliverance will receive mental pictures, seeing things that are not actually there, and hearing what is not actually spoken. Be careful as a deliverance minister. Be aware of your surroundings, your own thoughts and perceptions. Keep in mind what you are there to accomplish—to deliver those out of darkness into the light of Jesus.

We need God’s wisdom and understanding as we navigate through these darker times. The enemy’s job is to lie, twist, and insinuate in order to remove what the Father has given us. He has given us truth and life, not death and destruction. Without the lie, the enemy has nothing, and that is why it is always important to test every spirit. Unfortunately, there have been numerous marriages, families, ministries, and jobs destroyed by the misunderstandings caused by this spirit.

With every promise that the Father gives us, there will always be opposition to that promise. The calling on many saints’ lives have been lost by buying into a lie, just like Adam and Eve in the Garden bought into a lie and lost the promise and God’s glory. Once they knew they were naked, it was too late. But that is why Jesus came—to restore us to Himself and the Father. Jesus is our glory, and it is never too late to accept Him as our Lord and Savior. Perhaps you have gone through a divorce, lost a loved one, or fell away from what you believed. Please know that the calling on your life is yes and amen; it is irrefutable. Remembering your calling and who He created you to be is the ammunition you need to say to the lies, “No more!” It is time to remind the enemy of his place, declare the truth out loud, come out of your death clothes, and be whole in Jesus’ name!

Prayer

Pray this prayer with me:

Right now, in the name of Jesus, we bind up the lies of the enemy. I curse every word that has had an assignment on it against me with Your truth. You will not take root or cause my name to be destroyed by your lies and deception. Father, I loose faith to arise and scatter the enemy in Jesus’ powerful name. Whatever I need this day, I am wearing my belt of truth, as I am armed and dangerous! Father, every time the lies come in and want to mislead me from You, I ask Holy Spirit right now for your help to endure the trial and times until full vindication comes. I refuse to settle for less. I thank You for what You’re doing and teaching me. Amen.

My personal weapon of choice is warring in tongues, using my prayer language. I do pray in English or at times a different language, but I find personally a thrust from the natural to the spiritual realm when I pray in tongues, releasing the angels of heaven to move on my behalf.

2. Spirit of Bondage

Bondage is the state of being under the control of another person. People can become imprisoned in every area of their lives; a slave to satan. Every addiction is linked to the spirit of bondage, because they are unable to break free.

For you did not receive the spirit of bondage again to fear, but you received the Spirit of adoption by whom we cry out, “Abba, Father” (Romans 8:15).

And that they may come to their senses and escape the snare of the devil, having been taken captive by him to do his will (2 Timothy 2:26).

Manifestations:

Causes submission; to commit to the discretion or decision of another or of others

Forms a yoke; a device that embraces two parts to hold or unite them in position

Constrains; compel, force, confine

Enslaves; to make a slave of (also sex slaves, including children)

Instills dependency; the quality or state of being influenced by or subject to another

Commands subjection; a person under the authority of another

Self-doubt; the enemy can plant self-doubt and you begin to second-guess yourself, which is self-sabotaging. “Such a person is double-minded and unstable in all they do” (James 1:7-8 NIV).

Spiritually blind; lacking the fullness of the Holy Spirit. Some denominations believe that speaking in other tongues is of the devil. However, we know this is part of our born-again birthright: “All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them” (Acts 2:4 NIV).

Oppressed; burdened psychologically or mentally. “God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and power, and how he went around doing good and healing all who were under the power of the devil, because God was with him” (Acts 10:38 NIV). This is our mandate.

Not saved; in darkness, not yet redeemed. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved. He who believes in Him is not condemned; but he who does not believe is condemned already, because he has come to the light, lest his deeds should be exposed. But he who does the truth comes to the light, that his deeds may be clearly seen, that they have been done in God” (John 3:16-21).

Bitterness; a feeling of deep and bitter anger and ill will. Bitterness will rob you of your joy and your peace. It leads to either isolation or greater sin. Cain was bitter in his heart toward Abel; being consumed with negativity, he murdered his own brother. “Another dies in bitterness of soul, never having enjoyed anything good” (Job 21:25 NIV).

Compulsive; unable to stop; bound in a sin. “The evil deeds of the wicked ensnare them; the cords of their sins hold them fast” (Proverbs 5:22).

Bound in chains; unable to break free, enslaved addictions. “For I see that you are full of bitterness and captive to sin” (Acts 8:23 NIV).

Human captivity; under the power of another. Sex slaves. “But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members” (Romans 7:23).

A lot of relationships keep victims broken and unable to be free. This is why there is so much domestic violence of battered and abused adults and children. It is everywhere, a plague within our society. I could write volumes on this spirit alone. It is in our churches as well our schools, neighborhoods, and nations. So many come from dysfunctional homes and are like lost children, groping in the dark for their identity, crying out, “Who am I?” They have never really tasted freedom because they have not received the Spirit of adoption in which they cry out, “Abba Father.” I have seen more of God’s people whole and healed once they receive revelation of who their heavenly Father is. It is like an umbilical cord in the Spirit that goes from God’s heart to theirs.

When you see people struggling with alcohol, drug abuse, or pornography, always remember that it is rooted in spiritual darkness. They are in bondage to this sin. It isn’t flesh and blood we fight against; many of these people have opened doors that they do not know how to shut, and they feel powerless. Many keep searching for the answer. If this is you, do not stop—you will find what you need! Continue to walk in love and keep praying for your loved ones because they will be set free. Love is powerful and disarms bondages.

The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, because He has anointed Me to preach the gospel to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed (Luke 4:18).

Every shackle and yoke that has been laid on you can be removed. I would remind you first to forgive others and yourself. Many have experienced so much shame. Once you forgive yourself, those chains will fall off and, like Lazarus, you will come forth! No one can disqualify you—except you, yourself.

I keep my heart and attitude in check as much as possible. I have my moments, but I really don’t want to be bitter and downright mean. Regrets and guilt are the most powerful weapons the enemy uses to keep us captive to our past. When I get caught in the loop of the past, you know, that rerun that goes over and over in your head, I start decreeing out loud, “No more!” I always come back to the Word; especially I love Deuteronomy 28:6-7 (NIV):

You will be blessed when you come in and blessed when you go out. The Lord will grant that the enemies who rise up against you will be defeated before you. They will come at you from one direction but flee from you in seven.

Prayer

Father, right now in the name of Jesus Christ, we break free all who have been chained and held in bondage! (Say out loud) Father, I receive the fullness of what the blood of Christ purchased for me at the cross. I refuse to be chained to the past. I refuse to live like this for one more day. I know the enemy wants me defeated, disgusted, and busted, barely getting by, begging for crumbs, because he sees my future. Lord, I am victorious and leading others out of bondage to You. Thank You for leading me to the right people who can help me walk through and get the understanding I need. Thank You, Jesus, I am learning what real love and freedom is. Angels of Heaven, I call forth Heaven’s angelic army to annihilate the enemy at every turn. Thank You, Lord, that one day I will help others receive the revelation and the freedom You have given to me. I am a furious force of Your Holy Spirit and I will not be tamed or shut down. In Jesus’ name, amen and amen.

3. Spirit of Fear (enemy within)

The spirit of fear is an emotion experienced in anticipation of some specific pain or danger (fight, flight, freeze, faint). It feeds off of emotions and terrifies the victim. “For God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind [self-control]” (2 Timothy 1:7).

Manifestations:

Torment; intense feelings of suffering; acute mental or physical pain. It cripples the mind and body. “There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves torment. But he who fears has not been made perfect in love” (1 John 4:18).

Fear of death; “Inasmuch then as the children have partaken of flesh and blood, He Himself likewise shared in the same, that through death He might destroy him who had the power of death, that is, the devil” (Hebrews 2:14).

Tension; a state of mental unrest, often with signs of bodily stress

Stress; a factor that induces bodily or mental tension

Worry; to feel or express great care or anxiety

Agitation; to stir up

Fright; sudden terror; something that is ugly or shocking. “Fearfulness and trembling have come upon me, and horror has overwhelmed me” (Psalm 55:5).

Inferiority complex; feeling of little or less importance, value, or merit. This can hold you from your destiny.

Horrify; to cause to feel horror; appall, daunt dismay

Terrify; to fill with terror, frighten, scare, terrorize, startle alarm

Hysteria; a nervous disorder marked especially by defective emotional control: unmanageable fear or outburst of emotion

Petrify; to make rigid or inactive (as from fear or awe)

Bullying or belittle; to make one seem little or less. Not being good enough.

Fear of people; causes a snare or entrapment. Fear of sharing words in church or things behind the scenes that God has revealed. Fearful of the church’s authority so that you shut down or are attacked when you speak. “Those who flatter their neighbors are spreading nets for their feet” (Proverbs 29:5 NIV).

Anxiety; painful uneasiness of mind, usually over an anticipated ill; abnormal apprehension and fear often accompanied by physiological signs (as sweating and increased pulse), by doubt about the nature and reality of the threat itself, and by self-doubt

Nightmares; a frightening dream; a frightening or horrible experience

Anorexia nervosa; a serious disorder in eating behavior marked especially by a pathological fear of weight gain leading to faulty eating patterns, malnutrition, and usually excessive weight loss

Heart attacks; an acute episode of heart disease due to insufficient blood supply to the heart muscle

Survivors guilt; you made it out but others didn’t. Why you? “People will faint from terror, apprehensive of what is coming on the world, for the heavenly bodies will be shaken” (Luke 21:26 NIV).

Fear can be very crippling and can manifest itself in many forms in people’s lives. Many people are given medicine to help them achieve balance in their brains, sometimes as simple as sleep aids, sometimes heavier.

The reason people turn to doctors and medicine is because they feel trapped, like they are stuck in their own minds. Many hospital facilities are designed specifically for bipolar depression and patients suffering with schizophrenia, but in most people’s cases this is not necessary. It is estimated that there are around 5.7 million bipolar disorder cases according to the National Institute of Mental Health. They are struggling with debilitating fear—yet God has given us weapons in His Word to help many bound up in chains of fear.

The spirit of fear is an oppressor—so we must use our God-given authority and voices to command the enemy to let the oppressed go free. Since my husband and I have a calling by the Father on our lives, we continued to press on and do His will regardless what people thought or said. But it took much watering of God’s Word over our hearts and minds to dispel the lies of the enemy. I am happy to say that God brought healing and reconciliation. We are happily married again, to each other!

My words to the Father were, “I’ve tried to do my share for the Kingdom all these years. Please, Lord, let me just stay home and be a wife and mom.” For a time and season God allowed me to stay home, but when the season was over, it was over. I knew that there were multitudes out there waiting for freedom. I’ve heard it said that more than one hundred people go to hell every second. Every second! I am a soul-winner first and foremost, and I knew at the core of my being that God was not done with me.

Is not this the fast that I have chosen: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, to let the oppressed go free, and that you break every yoke? (Isaiah 58:6)

We are not to fear any evil…

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me; Your rod and Your staff they comfort me (Psalm 23:4)

…or the reproach of people:

Hear me, you who know what is right, you people who have taken my instruction to heart: Do not fear the reproach of mere mortals or be terrified by their insults (Isaiah 51:7 NIV).

Remember fear as an acronym: FEAR = False Evidence Appearing Real.

Prayer

Father, right now, in the name of Jesus Christ, I command the spirit of fear to let go. Devil, I walk by faith and not by sight. No matter what my faith is, it will arise, and all of my enemies, You will scatter in Jesus’ name. I counter fear with my will and the sword of faith. I know, Lord, that my faith has to have action. Today I take action over the fear that has gripped me. I take the chains that have held me captive, and this day the Lord breaks every one—enabling me to defeat every enemy.

For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart (Hebrews 4:12 NIV).

Your sword will cut through all of my fear and insecurities. Thank You, Jesus. Amen!

But now, this is what the Lord says—he who created you, Jacob, he who formed you, Israel: “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior…” (Isaiah 43:1-3 NIV).

For more prayers to defeat other demonic strongholds, please check out my book, Power & Authority Over Darkness: How To Identify and Defeat 16 Evil Spirits That Want to Destroy You.

[ledenews]

Storch: “It’s Always Been People Over Politics”

W.Va. Del. Erikka Storch (R-3rd) is in her 12th year as a member of the West Virginia House of Delegates. She cringes when she is reminded of that fact because, in her words, “It sounds like such a long time, but it didn’t feel like it.” She has run for the position unopposed and challenged, and this time around, when District 3 will sort of split into two new ones, she will face off against Democrat Teresa Toriseva, a successful defense attorney from here in Wheeling, to represent the new District 4. “Redistricting and population loss,” Storch explained. “Hopefully, someday, there’ll be reasons to go back to two-delegate districts.” Storch is a Republican, the party almighty in Charleston now with supermajorities in both the House and state Senate. She is the chairperson of the Interstate Cooperation and Pension and Retirement committees, and Storch is a member of the Finance, House Rules, Political Subdivisions, Redistricting, and Technology, and Infrastructure committees, too. She has not, however, been appointed to a power position by House Speaker Roger Hanshaw, a gentleman now in his fourth year as the chamber’s leader after winning his first election in 2015. “The fact that I have not always voted with the other members of my party has, possibly, cost me positions of leadership over the years. I do believe that’s fair to say,” Storch said. “I voted against the party line concerning the repeal of prevailing wage because I thought that was stupid, and I voted against Right to Work because I thought that was stupid, too. So, that could have cost me, but I’ve also turned a position down. “I didn’t believe if I was vice chair of the House’s finance committee that it would bode best for the people in my district because it may have forced me to support initiatives that I didn’t believe were best for the people in the Third District,” she explained. “I decided at that time to work on other bills and amendments that were in the best interests instead of supporting things I didn’t think were best for us up here.” Storch never has been afraid to voice the concerns of the people of the Northern Panhandle. “Boss” Finance. Education. Health. Judiciary. Government Organization, and Energy. Those are the big six committees in the House of Delegates, and Storch has been a member of Finance for 10 years now. Could she be a boss instead? Perhaps, but in her mind, it would present an impossible position. “The Northern Panhandle is very unique when you compare it to the other districts around the state, and that’s why our priorities in Ohio County are very different than those other areas,” the lawmaker explained. “Maybe if you live in a landlocked county in the middle of the state, your issues are close to the same to someone’s from a neighboring county, but that’s the case up here. “I do vote most of the time with my fellow Republicans in Charleston, but it’s not across the board. To me, it’s always been people over politics,” she said. “And I know I still make people mad at me because of the way I vote sometimes, but that’s going to happen. That’s a part of it.” It didn’t help when Del. Storch decided to vote for the other guy in the race for Speaker of the House. “When all of that was taking place, I asked Speaker Hanshaw if he wanted to be the speaker, and he never answered me. Instead, he asked me if I thought he would be good in the position,” she recalled. “I told him that he’s a brilliant man, and I’m sure he’d be a great speaker, but because he never answered me, I voted for Del. Eric Nelson, a gentleman who is now a member of the state Senate. “Could that be a reason I’ve not been asked about one of those major committees? Maybe,” Storch said. “But that’s not what matters to me and not why I decided to run in the first place.” Storch has many allies when in Charleston for interim or regular sessions of the W.Va. Legislature. Her People From her house in Woodsdale, only an alley separates the future districts 4 and 5. Across that alley is the street where Del. Shawn Fluharty resides. Storch is running to represent the future District 4 and Fluharty the District 5 to be. “When you look at the map, it’s really confusing,” she admitted. “It’s the worst in my neighborhood, as far as being able to tell where it’s (District) 4 and not (District) 5.” That is one of several reasons why Storch will not ask a resident when they call or email if they live on the other side of the alley before assisting them with whatever issue they may have. “They are my friends, they are my neighbors, and they are my family,” Storch said. “They are my people, and I am very territorial about them. Plus, I am proud to represent Ohio County Schools because we don’t have the issues that other school districts do in our state,” the lawmaker insisted. “Plus, in my district there are a lot of people who I can call to ask questions or for their input on whatever I might be working on at the time. “Overall, the people in the districts are moderates who lean right, as far as politics are concerned,” she added. “They appreciate what we have here in Ohio County because they’ve realized not everyone has an Oglebay Park or the riverfront or all the things that we take for granted most days. So, yeah, working with those people for those things has been more important to me than some big-time leadership position.” Read the full article

[sargeant-bxrnes]

1 step forward, 3 steps back.

warnings: rafe being… rafe. drug mention & consumption, cursing, toxic relationship, sexual situations/implications, mental health issues. ANGST.

[AN: this is the first thing i’ve written, ever, so my apologies if it’s not flawless ; also, english is not my first language, that’s a warning on its own]

my requests are open btw

click for my master list

word count: 4.4K

Called you on the phone today

Just to ask you how you were

All I did was speak normally

Somehow I still struck a nerve

“Hey,” you said in a soft tone as soon as Rafe picked up the phone, you were laying down on your bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Hey princess,” his tone was calm, but his voice was rough and raspy all together.

“How you doing?” you asked him, even though you’d seen him last night, up close.

“I’m doing great,” he replied in a surprisingly cheerful tone, which is weird this early in the morning. Rafe is not a morning person. “You sound tired.”

“I am tired,” you confirmed with a sigh. “Guess I have you to thank for that.”

“My pleasure.” he replied cockily, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could practically hear his proud smirk.

“So, what’s the plan today?” you asked in a casual tone, fidgeting with the edge of Rafe’s shirt, the one you wore to sleep.

“Uh, what do you mean?” he asked in a distracted tone, he sniffed subtly and coughed.

You knew what that meant, but still, you hoped it wasn’t what you deep down knew it was.

“Yeah, I mean—“ you said and made a brief pause. “Wanna go to the club? Maybe we can take a ride on the boat, you know, with food, alcohol... just us.”

“Can’t, I’m busy.” he said after a few seconds, if you didn’t know him better and his occasional mood swings, you would’ve said his tone was harsh.

"Really?" you asked in a soft tone, trying to disguise your disappointment with interest. "But I thought we were going out together today."

"Y/N, just because I'm your boyfriend it doesn't mean I have to be with you all the fucking time."

Okay, now he was definitely angry, you thought you said the right thing, but it still made him angry.

"Rafe-"

"No, Y/N. I have a life of my own, you know? Things to do besides you."

“That’s okay Rafe, I get it,” You said calmly, nodding your head softly. “Have fun today.”

Now you clearly heard the sound of him sniffing something and the sigh that left his lips after, and Barry’s voice in the background. “Don’t play the victim card on me, that’s not gonna work. I deserve to have some time off.”

“I didn’t,” you said softly. “And it’s okay baby, you’re right, you deserve to have some fun.”

“See? No need to be so fucking dramatic,” he said, his voice and words slurring. You? Dramatic? It was all him. “But don’t worry princess, I’ll drop by tonight and fuck the attitude out of you, yeah? That way I’m not just doing things with you, I’m doing you.”

And with such a vulgar comment and a harsh tone, Rafe hung up on you, leaving you completely dumbfounded and filled with incredulity.

What you did know for a fact, is that he would keep up his word. And judging by his tone of voice and how annoyed he was, you could already imagine the ache between your legs.

You got me fucked up in the head, boy

Never doubted myself so much

Like, am I pretty? Am I fun, boy?

I hate that I give you power over that kind of stuff

You knew exactly what you were getting into when you started hooking up with Rafe, and what you were committing to when you agreed to be his girlfriend.

You know that man carries more problems than he shows, he prefers to make himself appear as the Kook prince who lives a life of partying and money; hiding all the things that were going on in his head.

However, there were times when his attitude made you doubt yourself.

You couldn't help but think, ‘What if one day I don't manage to calm him down?’ ‘What if one day he realizes that there is someone prettier, or hotter, or wealthier out there?’

And Rafe would get angry if you doubted yourself. He would complain to you about it, saying you had no reason to be insecure about your looks; if you are absolutely gorgeous, or to feel insecure about your personality; if you were the most genuine person he'd ever met, and you could make him laugh until he forgot all his problems.

But what really made him furious was when you had doubts about the relationship itself, about whether or not he was capable of leaving you for someone else. He took those doubts personally, as if he wasn't trying hard enough to show you how much you mean to him.

When in reality; you were doubting yourself.

'Cause it's always one step forward

You were preparing dinner for you and Rafe, your family was out for the weekend, and Rafe had decided to spend it with you.

Your hair was tied up in a bun, your attire consisted of nothing but your underwear and a shirt that used to be Rafe's, but you took it so long ago that it's yours now.

Music from your shared playlist played in the background, as you danced absentmindedly with a spatula in hand, extremely calm and enjoying time with your boyfriend.

Rafe could do nothing but stare at you with admiration, you are literally the only good thing in his life; his little piece of heaven. You are everything to him.

As soon as Dark Red by Steve Lacy started playing, you let out an excited gasp. That song in particular is Rafe’s and yours, like… if you two had to choose a song to describe your relationship, it would be that one. It represented how you two did not always have good times, but your love prevailed.

Seeing you this happy, comfortable and at ease with him made Rafe's soul happy. All his life, he had done nothing else besides make people angry, disappointed, terrified. But with you, everything was different.

You were so focused on swaying your hips to the music and singing, that you didn't notice when Rafe stood up and walked over to where you were.

It wasn't until he stood behind you, chest to back and with his hands on your hips, that you realized he was closer. His head was bowed, you could feel his breathing close to your ear, so he was able to murmur in your ear the lyrics of the song:

“Only you, my girl, only you, babe,” he sang in your ear, his voice a soft whisper as he wrapped his arms around your body and started to sway with you. “Only you, darling, only you, babe.”

The gesture quickened your heart to unsuspected levels, you felt your knees weaken as you pressed closer to his body, appreciating his closeness as he pressed a kiss against your temple.

“You know I love you so much, right?” he mumbled in your ear, as you closed your eyes and relished his presence.

“I love you too, baby.”  you mumbled back, leaning your head against his chest, caressing one of his arms around your waist with your fingertips, and bringing your hand to his ash blond hair, stroking it softly.

and three steps back

“Why is he mad at you, again?” Topper asked you with a raised eyebrow, after witnessing Rafe utterly avoiding even looking at you when he walked into the room and then left without a word.

“Because I told Barry to not open the door if Rafe dropped by,” You replied with a shrug, closing your eyes and leaning back against the chair. “And when Rafe tried to lash out on him, Barry said it all had been ‘Mrs.Country Club’s’ request.”

“And he’s mad at you because you don’t want him to get all fucked up?” Topper questioned next, trying to understand the situation. But he never knew what the fuck you two were up to.

“Yes, but it’s Rafe, are you surprised?” you said with a heavy sigh.

“No, not really,” Topper admitted. “Honestly, I don’t know why you keep up with him, Y/N.”

“I ask myself that all the time…” you said with a deep sigh. “But I love him, so I guess that’s the answer.”

“And? I mean, I don’t want to be ‘that guy’ Y/N, but he’s…” Topper trailed off, apparently looking for the right word.

“I know exactly how he is, Topper, I don’t need you to remind me. I already think about that way too much.”

You and Topper had easily assumed that Rafe was no longer around, since he seemed to be making his best efforts to avoid you.

But Rafe was there, and he heard everything. He’d heard Topper giving you bad advice (or what he considered bad advice) And he heard you, having doubts about why you loved him or stood by him at all,and it made him want to lash out again.

I'm the love of your life until I make you mad

It's always one step forward and three steps back

Do you love me, want me, hate me? Boy, I don't understand

No, I don't understand

[+18. Really]

“Leave me alone!” his voice boomed in the room, his brows furrowed and the veins in his neck were popping out.

“Rafe—“ you tried once again, approaching slowly in an attempt to place a hand on his shoulder, but he waved it away aggressively.

“Leave-me-alone,” he said, pausing in between each word to emphasize on how much he meant it. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose had specks of white dust, his lips were dry and his voice was coarse.

You weren’t entirely sure what you could say to get him to calm down. Or if there was anything at all you could do.

Normally, what upsets him the most is Ward. His own father. Rafe has spent his whole life trying to prove he's a good son, to make his father proud, and Ward never appreciates his efforts, only notices the bad, and ignores Rafe's clear calls for help, has since Rafe was 10 years old, so he certainly wasn't going to pay attention to him now that Rafe finally had a steady girlfriend, someone who had willingly decided to help.

95% of the time, you managed to talk to Rafe before he decided to resort to intoxication. Most of the time just seeing you helped him calm down, hearing your voice soothed him, and your lips, your skin, put him in a state of peace.

But the other 5% is when Rafe resorted to alcohol and, above all, drugs.

When Rafe is upset and decides to get high, he only manages to become unstable, erratic and yes, aggressive if not handled with care.

In those situations, the best thing you can do, putting yourself first, is to give him his space. Let him screw himself as much as he wants for that day, and help him deal with the consequences the next day, while you listen to him lament his attitude.

Rafe always said he would quit the vice; claiming you were all he needed to calm himself down, that you made him feel at peace. And above all, that you weren't slowly killing him; on the contrary, every minute he spent with you made him feel more alive.

However, for one reason or another, he always came back to it. Whether it was at a party, because Kelce suggested it, or, as is almost always the case, when he's upset with his father and needs quick relief.

And usually, this ‘quick relief’ ends up with Rafe fucked up, big time.

Once he was convinced that you wouldn't try to intervene again, Rafe went back to his business. He turned to the table, and since he already had the line ready, he simply leaned over and inhaled it, throwing his head back, running his hand through his hair and exhaling as he closed his eyes.

You exhaled heavily, shaking your head as you stared at your feet.  You knew he would struggle to quit, after all it is an addiction and he has to fight it, but sometimes you get the impression that Rafe doesn't want to quit, not really.

"Do you want to help me?" asked Rafe eventually, turning his head to look at you. You didn't know if it was a trick question or not, so you hesitated before answering. "Answer me."

"Yes, of course I want to, Rafe." you replied with your respective hesitations, wondering what he was up to.

"Come here then," he said, making a 'come hither’ sign with his fingers.

You took a hesitant step but stopped, your eyes narrowing as you analyzed Rafe, trying to determine his intentions.

He raised both eyebrows in your direction, in a silent question of whether or not you're going to go with him.

Eventually you walked over to where Rafe was, he smiled at you while biting his lip lightly. Without saying anything he approached you and kissed you; the drugs made his senses heighten, so the kiss was intense from the beginning.

So that's when it made sense to you what he wanted, he wanted you. Your most obvious thought is that he would use you to take out your frustration, put the drugs aside and, most likely, fuck you.

Your idea seemed to be the right one as soon as Rafe grabbed you by the waist, still with his lips on yours, left a little bite on your lip before pulling away; and without any problem, lifted you off the floor and placed you on the table.

It's something you wouldn't admit out loud,—mostly out of shame and guilt,—but this kind of sex with Rafe was the best, he's completely unrestrained, rough, full of stamina and teasing, and above all, possessive. And that, in combination with his attractiveness, always drove you crazy.

And honestly; if what he wanted was to fuck you to take out his frustration, you'd let him.

His kisses were hungry and his hands desperate, running all over your body without distinction, as if he didn't know where to start.

He parted his lips from yours, and left a kiss at the corner of them, on your jaw; and began to make a little trail of slow kisses down your neck. The feeling of his lips on your neck made you bite your lip as you wrapped your legs around his waist to feel him closer.

You slid your hand under his shirt, caressing his defined abs and the sides of his body gently with the tips of your fingers, as he left little bites on your neck. Your hands slowly moved up, intending to remove his shirt, but Rafe was quicker and brought his hands to the edge of your shirt, causing you to stop your movements to raise your arms, so he could remove your shirt with ease. And so he did.

He parted his lips from your neck and stared at you, the hunger in his eyes made you feel a fire in the pit of your stomach that only he could put out.

Desperately, your lips connected again as he settled between your legs. One of his hands traveled to your neck, and he wrapped his fingers around it, pressing lightly to the sides. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head; though he couldn't see it.

With just enough strength, Rafe used the grip he had on your neck to push you down onto the table, so that you were lying on top of it.

As soon as he leaned over the table, you could feel his breath over abdomen, so you bit your lip in anticipation for what was to come.

He began to leave slow, wet kisses on your abdomen, making a slow trail to the edge of your shorts. Your automatic reaction was to close your eyes and put a hand in his hair, stroking it gently.

What you didn’t know is that the fact that you closed your eyes had given Rafe an opportunity he couldn't miss. Without you noticing, he slid a hand to the side of the table, where the small bag of white powder was.

To conceal his actions, he unbuttoned your shorts, and returned his lips to the beginning of your abdomen for more time.

The little bite he left to distract your attention caused a gasp to escape your lips; and that sound almost caused him to change plans completely.

He did want to fuck you, don’t get him wrong. He even had a mental debate about whether to continue what he was doing or simply sink his head between your thighs and provoke more sounds like that.

But he wanted to try something first. He had always wanted to try it, but had never asked you, because he knew that you would most likely say no.

With ease, he slid your shorts down your legs; so that they stayed at your ankles or fell to the floor; he didn't care. One of his hands slid into your underwear with ease, his fingers going straight to where he knew you needed him the most.

Trusting that you would not open your eyes, carefully, he put the white substance on your body, so delicately you didn’t notice. He began to prepare to inhale, while biting his lip in reaction to the sinful sounds that left your lips.

And obviously, without warning, Rafe inhaled a line from your thigh.

And all your sounds stopped, your eyes opened and your expression was filled with surprise, the bad kind.

You couldn't believe what Rafe had just done, you felt like an idiot for falling into the trap.

You also had to bite your lip to keep from letting out a moan in reaction to what his fingers were doing in between your legs, but your pride forbade it.

But more than anything else, you were outraged.

“Rafe, you did not just—“

“It felt nice, yeah?” Rafe’s voice was hoarse, you could feel his breath over your skin, as he left little kisses around. “After all, I did feel you clench around my fingers.”

His dirty words, hoarse voice, and close proximity to your body, not to mention his fingers deep inside you, caused you to let out a soft moan, causing Rafe to smirk in what he thought was victory.

But you wouldn't let him win this little game.

Although you really didn't want to, you grabbed his hand by the wrist and pulled him away, your legs trembling slightly at the sudden lack of anything between them.

Rafe's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as soon as you pushed him away from you and got off the table, lifting your shorts off the floor and putting them back on without a word.

"What are you doing?"

You didn't answer, as you searched for  your shirt, feeling his heavy gaze on your body.

"Y/N, where do you think you're going?"

“I’m leaving you alone as you asked me to, remember?” you said in irony. “Before you sniffed a line off me after I begged you to quit that shit?”

“Oh, so now you’re playing the victim?” his voice rose. “Don't- Don’t act as if you wouldn’t have let me fuck you less than a minute ago!”

"Yes I would have let you, to distract you from that shit!" you admitted to him, failing to control your anger. "I said I wanted to help you, to distract you, to give you something different to do. Not that I'd give you another place to snort lines from!"

Rafe knew you were right, of course he did.

You had spent months after months trying to get him to quit, you had offered him countless hours of your days to give him something new to do, distractions, attention and love. And this is how he had decided to pay you back?

But Rafe was angry too, very. You had interrupted him, you were yelling at him; and you had left him so hard, that it would start to hurt unless he did something about it.

“Fine, then get the fuck out of here.” Rafe spat, his anger clearly getting the best of him.

Your eyes widened at that, you hadn't expected him to react like that.

Your best case scenario would be that your attitude would piss him off, yes, but that he would retaliate by getting you back to the table and showing you everything you were missing.

Instead, he simply took your word for it and told you to get out of the room.

“What?”

“You heard me, get out.”

“Rafe—“

“You uh, you have three options, yeah? You let me fuck you over that table and do whatever I want, you get out of here, or I’ll get you out of here.”

The first offer was tempting, it really was, but you wouldn’t allow him to talk to you like that. Before anything, came respect and dignity, and no matter how much you wanted him to fuck you silly, you were too angry and disappointed at him to let it slip.

Blinking repeatedly to chase away the tears from your eyes, you grabbed your phone from the other end of the table, your jacket from Rafe's bed, and walked out of there without another word as you heard him calling your name.

And maybe in some masochistic way

I kinda find it all exciting

Like, which lover will I get today?

Will you walk me to the door or send me home cryin'?

Your relationship with Rafe was unique.

Not because of the circumstances in which it was created. A one-night-stand that turned into something casual, that was formalized after a dinner.

If not for Rafe.

You loved him, no doubt about it. You would give anything to see him happy and at peace, at peace with himself and succeeding in his life.

Rafe would do anything for you, really, anything. No matter how risky, demanding or dangerous, he would do anything for you.

He would die and kill for you.

But that surely didn’t mean it was an easy relationship, hell no. In fact, the willingness both of you had to do anything for each other sometimes made things too complicated; for at times it seemed that not a single rational thought crossed your minds.

And yes, Rafe’s addiction was a big issue. Whenever he was too high, or going through withdrawals, he wasn’t the Rafe you knew or had grown to love, it was another side of him you wanted to help get rid off. And the process wasn’t easy.

While trying to get clean; there was no way to know how he’d behave. He could either get clingy and want you around at all times to calm himself down, or he’d be in a very bad mood all the time, constantly snapping at you and raising his voice.

So there were days where he’d walk you to the door of your house and leave you there with a tender kiss and a smile.

Or days when you’d get out of his truck without a word, with tears streaming down your cheeks while he kept yelling for probably the stupidest thing.

No, it's back and forth, did I say something wrong?

It's back and forth, goin' over everything I said

It's back and forth, did I do something wrong?

'It's back and forth, maybe this is all your fault

Rafe knew he wasn’t okay. After all, he had begged his father for help, begged for anything that would get those thoughts to stop, but his father hadn’t listened, had only told him to ‘man up.’

You knew he wasn’t okay. Which is why you wanted to help him, to offer the support no one else had bothered to give him before he met you.

Whether he wanted it or not, those thoughts were still there. Being with you made them easier to ignore, but it’s not like they vanished entirely. He still had some ideas that made his own skin crawl.

And sometimes, you’d say or do the wrong thing and trigger those thoughts. And things got bad again for him.

Rafe knew you wanted nothing but to help him get better and be the best version of himself, and he really wanted to give you that. To change and make an effort. Not only for himself but for you. He wanted to be a man worthy of your love.

But it was hard to be anywhere near decent when you two went out and a guy stared at you for longer than Rafe’s limits allowed, or when guys tried to hit on you, when his friends got a little bit too close for his comfort.

Whenever he got jealous, he turned into a walking, talking ticking bomb. Anything could, and would set him off.

It wasn’t your fault, not really, but most of the time you felt it was. You knew Rafe dealt with a lot of insecurities already, of not being a nice person, not being good enough and so many other things. And you hated being one of the factors that caused his insecurities to arise.

And I'd leave you, but the roller coaster is all I've ever had

It was a complicated relationship, and it would probably never stop being complicated because both of you are complex people, plus there are other factors that affect the relationship.

But that didn't mean either of you would stop fighting to keep it alive. Neither would let the other go.

Rafe utterly refused to ever let you go. He loved you as he had never loved anyone, as he never thought himself capable of loving with that twisted heart of his.

You are, without exception, the best thing in his life, the best thing that ever happened to him. And you being in his heart was slowly turning him into who he had wanted to be during all those years of loneliness.

And you would never let him go, because you loved him with all your heart, soul and nerve of your body. And because you know that no one will ever love you like him. With so much passion, intensity, honesty and purity.

Because every feeling Rafe expressed with you was true; he was himself with you. And you didn't want to let him go.

Even if the two of you went one step forward, and three steps back, that single step would be longer than any step life makes you take backwards.

[con-fection]

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

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

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

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

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

Word count: 17K

John Walker is absolutely insufferable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...and then there was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, though, Walker's not alone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like what, Sam?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hell yes, I can sense it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Bucky's flat is near-barren. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh god, the staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can't really resist searching your name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, only then, would he fuck you.

God, you'd take his cock so well. 

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

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

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

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

'Walker's girl' his ass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

So much for not seeing you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. This was definitely reciprocated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's intoxicating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come for me, then." Bucky says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky really fucking hoped not.

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

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

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

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

And god, doesn't that make him glad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You. You. You."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is, yeah." He says gruffly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[inhuman-obey-me]

On Simeon and what it means to be an angel

The beautiful, gentle angel who can smile through just about anything. But what's underneath the ever-present smile of his? Is he really just pure, sweet, and kind?

Not at all. Simeon can be very mischievous at some times, and scarily wrathful at others. Some of you may be thinking, just what kind of angel is someone like that? Well, let's talk about that.

(includes spoilers up to lesson 52)

Starting with the idea of what angels are supposed to be like - the common, pop-culture characterization of angels is that they are pure, merciful, peaceful beings who can only do good and are horrified by anything dark or bad.

And admittedly, Simeon doesn't seem to quite perfectly fit that mold.

[Disclaimer: Neither mod of this blog belong to the Abrahamic religions, so this is purely from our own research]

In terms of how angels have been described in various scriptures, however, this isn't actually what they are like. Angels act on behalf of God, and are usually not meant to have any free will of their own. The thing that separates angels from demons is not a tendency towards kindness and purity, but that their actions are aligned with God's desires rather than their own. What this means in effect is that, both in actual scripture and in the game, angels can and will do things that are a lot less pure and peaceful than their modern mainstream depictions would suggest.

For example, there is a part of the Bible (at least in various versions) where it is mentioned that an angel was ordered by God to kill one hundred eighty-five Assyrians, leaving their camp full of dead bodies in the morning.

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke states in his The Duino Elegies - "Every Angel is terror".

Seraphim - which is what OM!'s renditions of Simeon and Lucifer both formerly were - are basically six-winged snakes. Cherubim, as OM!'s Beelzebub formerly was, are actually multi-faced humanoid-lions with wings. "Do not be afraid," is a line angels often say when they meet humans because they are just as scary-looking as demons - just they're, you know, the "good" ones.

Actual descriptions of angels aside, even in-game, we are presented with example after example that angels are not perfect "pure and good" beings either. The game itself emphasizes this point at various times - if you upset Simeon during Surprise Guest interactions, one of his displeased lines is: "Just because I'm an angel doesn't mean I'm all forgiving." In lesson 51, though he initially says he left Satan to be with the Angel versions of his brothers for Satan's benefit, if MC actually agrees that he was just being kind, he is surprised that they really believed him.

It's not just him, either. Similar to Simeon's upset reaction, if you give Luke a present he doesn't like, he says, "I know I'm an all-forgiving angel and everything, but even so, this is a little too much..." When MC briefly lands in the past, the brothers actually describe Simeon as the least intense of the seraphim. Back when the brothers were angels, Lucifer was still known for being strict and arrogant. On the more extreme end, Raphael was known for keeping the angels in line via the pointy end of his spear, as Asmodeus fears will happen to him as punishment for going to a party. And Michael himself, the top-ranking leader, who one might think should be the most angelic of angels, is described as a sadist. In the Angelic Demons event, Michael even gets Simeon to give the demon brothers cursed bracelets that temporarily turn them into angels. It's not a very nice prank to pull on them, as it makes the brothers miserable to be converted back to their old forms, not to mention that the curse goes so far that they are turned into the caricature of overly nice and polite angels - but as it could be considered more in line with pulling them towards "God's will," this would actually be considered a good angel thing to do.

As the game points out, being the least intense doesn't exactly make Simeon easygoing, either. In fact, we have seen at this point quite a few examples of Simeon's rage. As a play director, he berates the brothers so much over any mistakes that they call him a dictator. Not to mention, the reason they are in the play in the first place is because the entire previous cast quit because they couldn't deal with him.

Later, when he and Luke are running the Angel's Halo, he drags the brothers into helping out. Though he is shown still smiling, everyone agrees because they are terrified of his menacing aura. Even Diavolo, when on the home screen, remarks about hiding because he made Lucifer mad again, but it's Simeon who he calls "the one person in this world I don't want to anger."

On a much lighter note, some of his less "angelic" behavior also comes from his playful, mischievous side. As referenced earlier, he is surprised if MC believes he was just being nice, but if the player says they thought he was pranking Satan, it gives intimacy points with him, and he says:

He also joins in on the teasing of Luke, having his name as "Luke (Chihuahua)" in his D.D.D. contacts. Multiple of his home screen lines also show how much he loves messing with Luke in general:

"I'm free right now, so I think I might go and tease Luke."

"Luke is like a Chihuahua who thinks it is a German Shepherd. Cute, huh?"

"I'm back! I was so excited to meet you that I left Luke behind."

"If you don't eat enough breakfast, you'll turn out tiny like Luke."

Plus, in dance battles, one of his chibi poses is him teasingly scaring someone, while Luke has a corresponding scared pose, suggesting that he may be meant to be scaring Luke in particular.

He also gets MC to mess with Belphegor when they are looking for him, instructing them to kick the tree that he knows he's probably asleep in as hard as they possibly can.

However, while none of those things make him any less of an angel, there is evidence to support that he is, in fact, a "bad" angel in a different sense.

As the two Celestial Realm exchange students, Simeon and Luke represent two opposite ends of a spectrum of angel attitudes. Luke, having still been very young when the Great Celestial War happened, has been taught to have very uptight views of the demons, insisting that they are evil and should be avoided at all costs. When he first arrives in the Devildom, he is terrified at the idea that the two of them could get corrupted by the demons and fall. This is the prevailing attitude taught in the Celestial Realm: that demons are wicked, and that angels are inherently better than them.

By contrast, Simeon does not hold this view at all. He is happy to spend time with the demon brothers, and doesn't look down on them for falling. On the home screen, Luke complains, "Simeon is too sweet to demons! He's sweeter than a cake from Madam Scream's!" In the Rain, a Fire and Simeon Devilgram story, Simeon even talks about how he actually prefers the hustle and bustle of the Devildom, feeling that the Celestial Realm feels too quiet now.

This difference between him and Luke is not only expressed in his fondness for the demons, either. Simeon understands the nuances of good vs evil, and he himself seems to operate in shades of grey at times, rather than being perfectly aligned with Michael's (and by extension, it's implied, God's) wishes. More than once, he displays quite a flippant attitude towards following the rules, such as his very hand-wavey dismissal when MC asks about his lying.

Luke also calls him out on his disregard for rules, saying that Simeon is just too loose about following them:

However, this glib attitude should not be taken to mean that Simeon doesn't know exactly what he's doing. When it seems the only solution to restore stability to the three realms is for MC to sever all their pacts with the demon brothers, he quickly realizes that the other option, the Ring of Light that used to belong to Lucifer, must be hidden among Michael's things rather than lost to time as everyone thought. He tells Luke that he needs to go back to the Celestial Realm to take care of something, but he is firm that Luke should not come with him - because he is going to steal the ring from Michael, a risky, rebellious move that he doesn't want Luke to get involved in. He is perfectly aware of what he's doing, and actively chooses to do it anyway, consequences be damned, because he wants to do what he feels is right.

When Michael does confront him about it, he's not the least bit sorry, either. In fact, he sasses him and talks back, unafraid to show disrespect to God's top angel.

We also know that he's been demoted at some point. Luke tells MC that Simeon is an archangel, making him one of the Celestial Realm's warriors, or as Simeon himself has jokingly described it, a "low-level grunt" who is overworked by higher-up angels like Michael. However, during MC's time travel back to the Celestial Realm, we learn that Simeon used to be a seraph right alongside Michael and Lucifer. It is again referenced during the fairy incident, when he makes the low-level grunt joke again but is then reminded that he was a seraph at this point in time. We're not sure yet why he was demoted - there's a lot of speculation on this point, and we can't draw any definitive conclusions yet - but if we take that being a "good" angel means being obedient to Michael and God, we start to get a far less rosy picture of Simeon's good standing as an angel.

What does this mean? Is he a "bad" angel? Kind of, but not for the reasons some may think. His mischievous, devious, and playful side is not what makes him less angelic. It is his more rebellious, nonconformist way of doing things that actually opens up the possibility of him gradually getting further and further away from being an ideal angel, and potentially putting him on the path of falling from grace.

[transrevolutions]

I realized something interesting today.

Almost every major character in Les Mis is an archetype, an allegory for something else.

Of course, the most obvious example of this is Javert. He ‘is’ the law, the relentless, unforgiving, unyielding law. He personifies the almost inhuman side of the law, the one which condemns people to worse fates than the crimes they committed just because a document tells them to. He is the epitome of a cop.

Then there’s Jean Valjean, who’s the archetype of lawless morality. He does his best to do what’s right, even if it means breaking the set-in-stone laws that Javert adheres his moral code to. Jean Valjean is a paragon, a man who chooses, each day since his release, to do the morally right thing, or at least he does his best to do the morally right thing.

Thenardier is the embodiment of capitalist greed and selfishness. Much the way Javert is the dark parallel to Valjean’s good side, he’s more-or-less the dark parallel to Valjean’s bad side the only-living-for-survival, criminal, bitter side. He’s a con man, a swindler, and he is abusive and dishonest- everything Valjean could be but chooses not to. He’s also very much a product of the system he attempts to manipulate.

Fantine is the victim, the mother, the naïve and innocent one, who is the one the world has done unfairly dirty. Forced to grow up too fast, abandoned by her lover, and forced to give up her own daughter to survive, Fantine is rightfully angry but also genuinely soft-hearted and kind. Then she dies early on, of course, fully cementing her as the foremost victim of the story, as well as the catalyst for the remaining segments of the book.

Cosette, however, is the example of peacetime, of hope, and of simple joy. She’s a little bit naïve as well, and although she grew up as one of the ‘miserables’, by luck and by fate she has risen above her beginnings- perhaps the opposite of Fantine in that way, who started so high and fell so low. She is everything peaceful, good, and pure in the world.

Marius is foolish youth and young love. He’s the epitome of the awkward teen (young adult? Same thing). He is confused, grew up sheltered, and lacks strong moral convictions at first due to this. Gillenormand (who isn’t important enough to get his own segment but is the representative for conservativism) is partially the cause of this. He’s also strongly emotional- he follows his heart, not his head. Which explains how immediately and obsessively he is attracted to Cosette, because Marius, like many young folks, never does things halfway.

Enjolras represents the fight, but the positive fight. He’s basically the ‘hero’ in every children’s book, with a one-track mind and a perceived duty to fulfill. He’s untouchable much in the way that Cosette almost is, because he also represents the ‘good’ in the world, but rather than the already-there good (Cosette), he embodies the fight for good, and the hard-won good. 

Grantaire is literally skeptical philosophy and nihilism condensed into a person. He’s the opposite of Enjolras in that Enjolras believes to the point of self-destruction and Grantaire disbelieves to the point of self-destruction. He’s in love with Enjolras because Enjolras completes him (and in their last scene together, Enjolras realizes somewhat that Grantaire completes him as well). He’s also a metaphor for the people of Paris, who sleep but eventually, someday, rise up. He’s not especially likeable, he’s extraordinarily irritating, but he’s there, and he’s important all the same.

Gavroche is freedom. He’s also childhood, and the two are often one and the same. He does what he wants to, has free reign of the streets, and takes absolutely zero shit from anyone (you go little dude). He’s also an example of how the good in human nature prevails even through difficult and hard times- Gavroche is that little kid in everyone who just wants to run around and be free. He’s also a little snark, even to people like cops who could hurt him for it. Life lesson- be like Gavroche.

Now there’s one exception to this unstated ‘rule’- that each major character represents a quality- is an ideal rather than simply a person. That exception is Eponine.

Which is really interesting, in a lot of ways. Eponine is hard to pin down. Eponine is somewhat morally grey- she does hide Cosette’s letter and bully her as a child- but she is also kind in her own way, and will do anything for who she cares about. She’s a little awkward- not Marius-level awkward, but insecure and unsure of herself. She’s lonely in a world of strangers, but she finds a little joy in her friendships. She’s described as ragged but beautiful, which is an interesting use of antithesis by Hugo.

Eponine is tough, hardened, and sharpened by years of abuse and life on the streets. She’s also soft-around-the-edges and has moments of genuine, almost childlike innocence, like when she’s so happy to learn how to read. Eponine’s motives are equal parts selfless and selfish, hard and soft. 

So as far as I can tell, Eponine is a paragon of humanity. She’s the humanest of humans, not an ideal nor a vice, but a complex, easily-forgotten, beautiful, ugly, beloved, unloved human. That’s what makes her so different from the others- she’s the prism amid all the colors. And then she dies too, and in time is almost forgotten, just as so many humans are. 

But she’s vital- her little actions, like finding Cosette, saving Marius’s life, stopping the robbery at Rue Plumet- had impacts. Though few of the characters recognized it, without Eponine, the story would’ve ended very, very differently.