#Sneaker Catalog

[snkrbonbon]

Reebok Footwear Spring 1994 Dealer Product Catalog.

[thisisrealy2kok]

link to pic 1 // link to pic 2

[ogindex]

CO.JP (Concept Japan) Nike AF1 (2001)

[vansfriend]

Vans original 1998 catalog

[horrid-phantasm]

Nike Quantum Force High

[hoshifighting]

ok... so i've seen your amazing college fling works for seungcheol, jeonghan, and joshua.... but what about one for hoshi 👉👈

ONCE AGAIN I LOVE YOUR WRITING!!!! ❤️❤️❤️

WARNINGS: freshmen!hoshi, late night practices, burn-out, shyness, sunbae!reader, fluff, a lil bit of angst.

WC: 2.8k of this... judge me 🗣needed to divide this into parts...

part 1 / part 2

college fling!hoshi that you clocked that he was a freshman by the very moment he stepped into the dance practice room. it started with the smell, honestly. freshman reek—like nervous sweat and too much axe body spray, paired with the faintest whiff of fear. baggy-ass hoodie that practically swallowed his arms, hands shoved deep in his pockets like they’d get fined if they came out, sneakers so new they squeaked against the gym floor. he looked young. not in a bad way, just in that “i’m not used to being left unsupervised” way.

he stood in the doorway like he didn’t know what to do with himself. everyone else was stretching, pulling their limbs into shapes human joints probably weren’t meant for, and there he was, swaying on the balls of his feet like a kid waiting to ask if they could borrow a crayon.

“you lost?” you called out, not even looking up from where you were sitting, tying your shoelaces.

“huh? n-no, i’m, uh—this is intro to hip-hop?”

the way he said it like a question had you biting back a grin. “yeah, you’re in the right place. c’mon in before the instructor roasts your ass for lurking.”

he shuffled in, taking a spot in the back corner like he was hoping no one would notice him. “i'm invisible if i stand still enough”, he thinks. but of course, everyone noticed him. new kid energy was impossible to ignore, and to top it off, he had that awkwardly cute thing going on. messy bangs falling into his eyes, face pink like he was one awkward comment away from combusting. his eyes, wide and curious, darting around like he was mentally cataloging every single thing in the room.

“you got a name, freshman?” you asked, leaning back on your hands as you watched him.

he blinked, like he didn’t realize you were still talking to him. “oh, uh, hoshi. i mean, soonyoung. but people call me hoshi.”

“cool. you dance before, hoshi?”

“alright, new guy!” the prof clapped his hands, dragging everyone’s attention. “show us a little freestyle! don't be shy...”

college fling!hoshi who freezes mid-blink, still thinking about your question. clutching his backpack straps so hard you thought they might snap. he turned to you, wide-eyed and panicked, like you could save him from the impending doom.

“relax,” you whispered, stepping closer, your voice low enough that only he could hear. “you do this and sunbae’s buying you dinner. whatever you want. ramen, fried chicken, you name it.”

he blinked, like the concept of being spoiled by you was enough to short-circuit his brain, but there was something there. a spark. like maybe he didn’t wanna flop in front of you.

“okay,” he mumbled, and you gave him a grin that could probably power a small city.

“attaboy,” you said, patting his shoulder as you turned back to the class.

by the end of the first class, he’d loosened up a bit—mostly because the instructor made everyone run through improv drills, and there was no room for shyness when you were flailing around to some experimental old-school rap track. you caught him sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

college fling!hoshi who finally zipped up his backpack after what felt like an eternity, stood up, and immediately knocked over a water bottle with his foot. he muttered a quick, shy “sorry,” barely glancing at the offended plastic, and shuffled toward you. his shoulders were stiff, his hands gripping the straps of his backpack like they were the only things tethering him to this earth. you gave him a once-over, your phone in one hand, and a smirk playing at your lips. “you survived,” you said casually, and his grin was so tiny you almost missed it.

college fling!hoshi who started walking alongside you, a little too close like he didn’t know how to pace himself yet. every few steps, his elbow brushed yours, and he’d shift just enough to make it obvious he noticed. you didn’t say anything—just side-eyed him with a teasing smile that had his ears turning red.

college fling!hoshi who paused outside the building with you, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve as he asked, “so, uh… what do you like to eat?” his voice was barely louder than the passing breeze. you raised an eyebrow at him, tucking your phone into your pocket. “you’re really gonna let me pick, huh?” he nodded, determined, even as he shuffled his feet. “you said you’d spoil me,” he countered, and for the first time, there was a flicker of sass in his tone. you liked it.

college fling!hoshi who almost tripped on his untied shoelace when you said you’d pick a place, his backpack slipping off one shoulder as he bent down to fix it. he was mumbling something about bad luck when you crouched beside him, yanking the lace from his hands and tying it with a quick knot. “you’re gonna kill yourself before dinner at this rate,” you said, and the way he stared at you—wide-eyed, lips parted—made it feel like you’d just handed him the keys to the kingdom.

college fling!hoshi who sat across from you at the tiny chicken shop, looking at the menu like it was a math test. “it’s just chicken, dude,” you teased, propping your chin in your hand. he fumbled with the laminated page, finally blurting, “but what if I pick something too spicy?” you laughed, shaking your head. “okay, rookie, let me help you out.” you ended up ordering for both of you, and when the dish came, his eyes lit up.

college fling!hoshi who distractly puts too much sauce on his chicken wing and doesn’t notice because he was too busy grinning at your stories. “wait, wait—so you fell during a performance?” he asked, the sauce at the corner of his mouth. you groaned, throwing a napkin at him. “it wasn’t just a fall, okay? it was a crash,” you admitted, and his laugh was so loud the couple at the next table glanced over. “stop making fun of me or I’ll make you pay,” you threatened, and his face instantly sobered. “wait, what?”

college fling!hoshi who insisted on paying despite your earlier threats. he pulled out his wallet like it was some grand declaration of independence, only to hesitate when he realized he didn’t have enough cash. “um…” he started, cheeks burning. you rolled your eyes and handed your card to the cashier before he could protest. “rookie rule number one,” you said smugly, “always check your wallet before acting like a big shot.” he muttered something about repaying you, and you just laughed, nudging him toward the door.

college fling!hoshi who got lost again on the way back to his dorm, despite the fact that he’d been living there for a week. “are you serious right now?” you asked, watching him squint at the campus map on his phone. he scratched the back of his head, mumbling, “it all kinda looks the same at night.” sighing, you grabbed his phone, pulled up the map yourself, and started walking. “come on, hoshi-ya you’re hopeless.”

college fling!hoshi who walked beside you, hands in his pockets, quietly humming a tune you didn’t recognize. “what’s that?” you asked, tilting your head toward him. his eyes widened like he’d been caught. “oh, uh, just something I made up,” he admittedquietly. you stopped in your tracks, turning to him with a grin. “wait, you write music?” he shrugged, suddenly bashful. “a little… it’s not a big deal.” you nudged him with your shoulder. “nah, that’s cool as hell. show me sometime?”

college fling!hoshi who hesitated outside his dorm door, hand hovering over the handle. “thanks for… you know, today,” he said, glancing at you shyly. “and dinner.” you smirked, crossing your arms. “you earned it, rookie. but next time, you’re paying.” his smile stretched wide, and for a moment, he just stood there, like he didn’t want to go in. finally, he nodded, fumbling with the key. “goodnight, sunbae,” he said softly, and you had to resist the urge to ruffle his hair as you turned to leave.

college fling!hoshi who always trails behind you, holding onto the strap of your backpack like a lost puppy. “you’re gonna rip it, you know,” you tell him, but he just grins and tightens his grip. “you’re my sunbae. gotta make sure I don’t lose you.” it’s so dumb and cheesy that you flick his forehead, but your chest feels warmer anyway.

college fling!hoshi who managed to charm his way into your friend group like he’d been there all along. one of your music department friends spotted him loitering outside your lecture hall and asked, “is that the guy you’ve been dragging around campus?” you rolled your eyes, but hoshi smiled like he’d just won an award. “that’s me!” he said proudly, and somehow by the end of the conversation, they were swapping playlist recommendations.

college fling!hoshi who shows up at your dorm one night with a bruised knee and a sheepish smile. “i tripped during practice,” he admits, wincing as you drag him inside. “tripped or collapsed?” you demand, pointing at the ice pack in his hands. he shrugs, trying to play it off, but you’re already crouched in front of him, scolding him as you press the ice to his knee. “you should stop, sunbae its worried about you.” you mutter, and when he mumbles, “i’ll be fine,” you glare at him until he mutters an apology instead.

college fling!hoshi who gets into his first real argument with you after you find him practicing in an empty studio way past midnight. “what the hell are you doing?” you snap, flipping on the lights to find him mid-spin, sweat dripping down his face. “just a bit more,” he protests, breathless. “i need to get this routine perfect.” but you’re not having it. “perfect doesn’t matter if you’re too dead to perform, hoshi!” he flinches, wide-eyed, but you don’t stop. “you can’t keep pushing yourself like this. stop before you break something.” he looks at you, frustrated, and finally, he slumps onto the floor, whispering, “sorry, sunbae.”

college fling!hoshi who randomly shows up with snacks between your classes. “figured you’d be hungry,” he says, handing you a convenience store bag. you peek inside—your favorite drink and a pack of cookies. “didn’t know you were trying to bribe me,” you tease, taking a bite. “is it working?” he asks, grinning, and when you give him a thumbs-up, he beams like a kid on christmas morning.

college fling!hoshi who ends up crashing at your dorm after a long night of studying. he’s sprawled on your bed, one arm thrown over his face, while you sit cross-legged on the floor, typing away at your laptop. “you’re gonna fail if you don’t actually read the material,” you say, glancing up. he groans, rolling onto his side. “then i’ll just ask you to tutor me again,” he says, smirking, and you chuck a pillow at his head.

college fling!hoshi who catches you off-guard one day by slipping his jacket over your shoulders during a chilly walk across campus. “you looked cold,” he says simply, his voice softer than usual. you pull the fabric tighter around you, the faint scent of him lingering on it, and when you glance at him, he’s pretending to be super interested in a tree. “thanks,” you say quietly, and he shrugs, his ears turning pink as he mutters, “anytime, sunbae.”

college fling!hoshi who came back one day to the practice room after a late practice, two cans of soda in hand, humming to himself. “sunbae, I got—” his voice cut off when he saw you slouched on the floor, one hand clutching your forehead. “y/n?” he rushed over, dropping the sodas with a dull clunk. crouching in front of you, his voice softened. “what’s wrong? are you okay?” you waved him off weakly. “just tired. it’s nothing.” but he didn’t buy it for a second.

college fling!hoshi who gently pried your hand away from your forehead, his fingers brushing against yours. “you’re burning up,” he said, his brow furrowing. “why didn’t you say anything?” you tried to sit up straighter, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “it’s fine, really. just pushed too hard today.” his expression tightened. “this isn’t fine, y/n. you shouldn’t have kept going if you felt like this.”

college fling!hoshi who helped you lean back against the mirror. “stay still, okay?” he murmured, crouching next to you. you gave him a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. “you’re acting like I’m dying, hoshi.” he didn’t laugh, his lips pressing into a thin line. “don’t joke about that,” he said quietly, his eyes scanning your face for any signs of improvement.

college fling!hoshi who let you rest your head against his shoulder when you slumped forward again. “here, like this,” he said softly, adjusting so you were cradled in his arms. his hands were steady, one supporting your back and the other brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “just relax. you’re safe.” he started gently blowing on your face, the cool air soothing your heated skin. “better?” he whispered, his voice close enough to send a strange flutter through your chest.

college fling!hoshi who stayed with you until you could sit up on your own again, his arm still lingering behind your back just in case. “you scared me,” he admitted, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “i thought… what if something happened and I wasn’t here?” you blinked up at him, guilt bubbling in your stomach. “sorry,” you muttered. his hand found yours, squeezing it gently. “just don’t do it again, okay? i mean it, you always scold me for practicing too late...”

college fling!hoshi who refused to let you walk home by yourself, no matter how many times you insisted you were fine. “nope, not happening,” he said firmly, slipping your bag over his shoulder along with his own. “if you collapse halfway there, what am I supposed to do? carry you like a princess?” you snorted, but the teasing tone in his voice couldn’t hide the worry in his eyes.

“you know, I could really get used to you carrying me around,” you said, nudging him playfully with your shoulder. he raised an eyebrow, glancing at you. “oh, really?” he asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “yeah,” you said, deadpan, “I mean, who wouldn’t want a cute guy carrying them everywhere?”

college fling!hoshi who, despite the teasing tone in your voice, caught that little glint in your eye. “alright, then,” he said, voice suddenly serious, as he paused in front of you. “come here.” without waiting for a response, he slid his arms under your knees and around your back. you yelped in surprise, but before you could protest, he had you lifted off the ground like you were weightless. “you wanted it, right?” he said with a grin, carrying you like it was nothing. “not a word out of you until we get to your dorm.”

“you’re a natural at this,” you teased, your chin resting on his shoulder as you looked up at him. “yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep you from passing out on me,” he muttered, but his cheeks were flushed, and his hands felt like they were holding you just a bit too tightly. “this isn’t bad,” you added with a smirk, “maybe I’ll start making demands. like, no more walking for me from now on.”

he blushed at your joke but didn’t miss a beat. “you sure about that?” he asked, glancing down at you with a sly smile. you nodded, playing along. “definitely. I’m a princess now. I’ll need snacks, water, a blanket... and don’t forget the back rubs.” hoshi shook his head, clearly trying to hide his amusement. “I’m pretty sure you’re taking this way too far, but okay,” he said, adjusting his grip on you. “I can do all that...”

“deal. but only if you don’t drop me halfway there,” you teased. hoshi’s grip tightened, his voice lowering a little. “I’ll never drop you, sunbae.”

college fling!hoshi who made it to your dorm room, still carrying you as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “I should’ve known you’d enjoy this,” he said, shaking his head as he set you down on your bed. “enjoy what?” you asked innocently, grinning up at him. “this whole ‘being carried around’ thing,” he said, still laughing a little. you shrugged dramatically.

college fling!hoshi who would come up to you after class, always fussing over you—was your shoulder okay? did you stretch enough? how was your lunch? you’d always brush it off, sulking a little at the way he took care of you like it was his full-time job.

[aeth-eris]

★ the physical essence of venus ★

★  aries  venus  ★ the  scarred  helmet  hanging  on  the  back  of  your  door  that  you  won’t  replace,  even  though  it’s  scratched  beyond  repair,  because  it’s  been  with  you  through  every  wild  decision  you’ve  made.  the  sneakers  at  your  front  door,  caked  with  mud  from  an  impulsive  hike  you  dragged  your  friends  on  last  spring—still  laced  tightly,  ready  to  go  at  a  moment’s  notice.  your  jacket  pockets  always  seem  to  hold  something  random—keys,  an  old  receipt,  or  a  coin  you  found  that  felt  like  it  could  bring  good  luck,  though  you’d  never  admit  it.  even  your  wallet  looks  battle-worn,  stuffed  with  notes  you’ll  never  throw  out  because  they’re  pieces  of  a  past  that  make  you  feel  alive  when  you  touch  them.

 ★  taurus  venus  ★ the  candle  on  your  bedside  table,  burned  just  enough  to  release  the  scent  of  wildflowers  but  still  pristine,  because  you’re  saving  it  for  “when  it  feels  right.”  the  blanket  on  your  couch  is  perfectly  folded,  even  though  you  use  it  every  day,  its  edges  slightly  frayed  because  it’s  older  than  you’d  care  to  admit.  your  collection  of  tea  blends  isn’t  about  drinking  them—it’s  about  the  ritual  of  opening  the  tin,  inhaling  the  scent,  and  deciding  what  fits  your  mood  that  day.  even  the  wooden  cutting  board  in  your  kitchen  feels  sacred,  smoothed  from  years  of  careful  use,  holding  the  quiet  memories  of  meals  shared  with  people  who  make  your  world  feel  steady.

 ★  gemini  venus  ★ the  pen  you  always  lose  but  somehow  manage  to  find  at  the  exact  moment  you  need  it,  its  cap  chewed  and  its  ink  running  dry  because  you  use  it  for  everything—doodles,  random  notes,  grocery  lists,  and  the  occasional  half-baked  love  letter.  your  phone  case  has  a  faint  crack  from  being  tossed  on  a  table  during  an  animated  conversation,  and  there’s  a  tiny  keychain  charm  dangling  from  it  that  you  picked  up  during  a  trip  you  can  barely  remember.  your  desk  is  a  mess  of  brightly  colored  sticky  notes,  most  of  which  have  cryptic  one-liners  that  no  longer  make  sense,  but  you  refuse  to  throw  them  away  because  they  “might  mean  something  someday.”

 ★  cancer  venus  ★ the  slightly  faded  Polaroid  stuck  to  your  fridge  of  a  moment  you’ll  never  stop  replaying  in  your  mind,  its  corners  curling  just  enough  to  show  its  age.  the  quilt  on  your  bed,  soft  with  time,  smells  faintly  of  lavender  and  home,  even  when  you’ve  been  away  for  too  long.  your  jewelry  box  holds  treasures  you  don’t  wear  but  can’t  let  go  of—a  broken  bracelet,  a  ring  from  someone  you  loved,  or  a  single  earring  that’s  lost  its  match  but  not  its  meaning.  there’s  a  jar  of  seashells  on  your  windowsill,  each  one  tied  to  a  memory  you  can’t  explain  but  would  defend  if  anyone  tried  to  move  it.

 ★  leo  venus  ★ the  golden  compact  mirror  in  your  bag  that  you  flip  open  with  a  dramatic  flourish,  even  when  you  don’t  need  to  use  it.  your  favorite  jacket,  velvet  or  sequined,  hangs  at  the  front  of  your  closet,  waiting  for  its  next  moment  in  the  spotlight,  no  matter  how  rare.  you  keep  a  framed  photo  of  yourself  from  that  one  perfect  night,  sitting  prominently  where  you  can  see  it  and  be  reminded  of  your  glow.  even  your  perfume  bottle  looks  like  art—half-full  because  you  save  it  for  moments  when  you  want  the  world  to  remember  you  by  its  scent.

 ★  virgo  venus  ★ the  planner  on  your  desk  is  immaculate,  with  color-coded  tabs  and  neat  handwriting  that  looks  like  it  belongs  in  a  design  catalog.  your  favorite  pen  is  a  gel  pen  with  just  the  right  flow—you  buy  them  in  bulk  because  losing  one  feels  like  losing  a  limb.  your  kitchen  has  a  perfectly  organized  spice  rack,  alphabetized  not  out  of  compulsion  but  because  it  just  makes  sense.  even  your  plants  thrive  in  an  oddly  perfect  way;  they’re  pruned  regularly,  sitting  in  matching  pots,  as  if  they’ve  agreed  to  reflect  your  careful  attention  to  detail.

 ★  libra  venus  ★ the  antique  hand  mirror  on  your  vanity,  slightly  tarnished  but  impossibly  elegant,  next  to  a  bottle  of  rose-scented  perfume  that’s  more  art  than  utility.  your  coffee  table  has  a  stack  of  perfectly  arranged  art  books  that  you  flip  through  during  lazy  afternoons,  marveling  at  the  balance  of  beauty  and  creativity.  your  wardrobe  holds  a  silk  scarf  or  pair  of  perfectly  pointed  flats  that  you  wear  when  you  want  to  feel  effortlessly  polished.  even  your  favorite  mug  has  an  air  of  charm—delicate,  with  a  tiny  chip  that  only  makes  it  more  perfect  in  your  eyes.

 ★  scorpio  venus  ★ the  leather-bound  journal  hidden  in  a  drawer,  its  pages  filled  with  raw,  unfiltered  emotions  you  wouldn’t  dare  share  aloud.  the  black  candle  on  your  nightstand,  burned  down  just  enough  to  release  its  smoky,  mysterious  scent,  but  not  finished,  as  if  waiting  for  the  right  moment.  your  ring  drawer  holds  a  piece  you  never  wear  anymore,  but  every  time  you  pick  it  up,  the  memories  it  holds  flood  back  so  vividly  it  takes  your  breath  away.  even  your  favorite  book  has  underlined  passages  that  feel  like  secrets  only  you  could  understand,  the  kind  you  re-read  when  you  need  to  feel  seen.

 ★  sagittarius  venus  ★ the  worn  leather  backpack  leaning  by  your  door,  its  zippers  jingling  faintly  every  time  you  grab  it  to  head  out.  your  passport  is  scuffed,  its  pages  stamped  with  memories  that  still  bring  a  grin  to  your  face  when  you  flip  through  them.  you  keep  a  jar  of  foreign  coins  from  places  you’ve  been,  not  for  their  value  but  because  they  remind  you  of  café  conversations,  train  rides,  and  sunsets  you  swore  you’d  never  forget.  even  your  favorite  shoes  are  battered  from  countless  adventures,  soles  worn  thin  but  still  too  full  of  life  to  be  replaced.

 ★  capricorn  venus  ★ your  desk  holds  a  fountain  pen,  heavy  in  your  hand,  its  ink  flowing  with  precision  as  you  jot  down  plans  that  matter.  the  watch  on  your  wrist  is  timeless—its  leather  strap  softened  with  wear,  a  quiet  symbol  of  discipline  and  style.  your  planner  is  sleek,  every  page  carefully  filled  with  tasks  and  goals,  because  each  moment  of  time  feels  like  an  investment.  even  your  scarf  is  understated  and  elegant,  folded  neatly  by  the  door,  ready  to  shield  you  from  the  chill  as  you  head  out  into  the  world  you’re  steadily  building.

 ★  aquarius  venus  ★ the  slightly  offbeat  earrings  you  wear  almost  daily,  their  mismatched  charm  drawing  compliments  wherever  you  go.  your  favorite  gadget—a  smart  device,  a  quirky  invention,  or  something  DIY—sits  proudly  on  your  desk,  a  blend  of  utility  and  rebellion  against  the  ordinary.  your  coffee  table  holds  an  art  book  or  zine  from  an  obscure  creator  you  discovered  before  anyone  else  did.  even  your  favorite  lamp  is  asymmetrical  or  futuristic,  casting  light  in  ways  that  feel  just  unconventional  enough  to  reflect  your  unique  vision  of  the  world.

 ★  pisces  venus  ★ the  candle  on  your  desk  smells  like  sea  salt  and  mystery,  burned  down  to  a  waxy  puddle  but  kept  because  it  reminds  you  of  a  fleeting,  perfect  moment.  your  dream  journal  sits  beside  your  bed,  pages  filled  with  poetry  and  fragmented  thoughts  you’ve  scrawled  in  the  dark,  barely  legible  but  emotionally  potent.  you  keep  a  jar  of  glitter  on  your  shelf—not  for  any  practical  purpose,  but  because  it  catches  the  light  like  magic.  even  your  blanket,  impossibly  soft  and  slightly  worn  at  the  edges,  feels  like  a  portal  to  the  dreamscape  you  create  every  time  you  wrap  yourself  in  it.

★ book a reading ★ ★ masterlist 1 ★ ★ masterlist 2 ★

[hurriane23456]

Trading Spurs for Sneakers

Tyler and James had always thrived on their shared sense of adventure, but this time, they were about to push the limits in a way they had never done before. When Tyler invited James to stay with him for the week, they came up with a challenge: not only would they swap clothes, but they’d wear full-body silicone suits that made them look exactly like each other. They’d go out in public as each other, and for the entire trip, they would live in each other’s skin—literally.

Tyler’s style was straight out of a western catalog. His wardrobe was filled with rugged denim, thick leather boots, and plaid shirts, all carrying the earthy scent of the outdoors. James, on the other hand, was all about streetwear. His clothes were sleek and oversized—designer hoodies, joggers, and fresh sneakers that gave off an urban, stylish vibe. The idea of stepping into each other’s style was thrilling enough, but the bodysuits took it to another level.

When James arrived, Tyler showed him the silicone suits. They were disturbingly lifelike, each one a perfect replica of the other, right down to the tiniest details—skin texture, hair, even the faint freckles on Tyler’s arms. The suits were smooth, soft silicone that would cover them completely, with zippers running down the back, meaning they’d need to help each other into their new bodies. Attached to the suits were masks, just as detailed, transforming them from head to toe.

“So, you ready to become me for the next few days?” Tyler asked with a grin, holding up James’s suit.

James ran his hand over the suit’s smooth surface, already feeling a shiver of excitement. “Only if you’re ready to rock some streetwear,” he teased back.

They headed to the bedroom, and that’s when things got interesting. Tyler helped James first. He unzipped the back of his own silicone replica, and James stepped inside, sliding his legs into the suit. The silicone was cool against his skin at first, but it stretched perfectly, molding to his body like a second skin. As Tyler pulled the suit up, James slipped his arms into the sleeves, feeling the soft material hugging his muscles, creating the illusion of Tyler’s broad, rugged physique. Tyler tugged the mask over James’s head, adjusting it carefully so the silicone fit snugly over his face. The cool sensation of the mask pressing down, forming around his nose, cheeks, and forehead, was strangely comforting.

When Tyler zipped up the back, James couldn’t help but admire the feeling of the suit fitting him perfectly. It wasn’t just wearing Tyler’s skin—it *felt* like Tyler’s body. Every movement was smooth, every gesture natural. His hands, now Tyler’s rough, calloused hands, flexed as he stared at the mirror. It was like he had become his friend, in every possible way.

“Your turn,” James said, voice altered slightly to sound like Tyler’s.

Tyler grinned and stepped into James’s bodysuit. The experience was just as surreal for him. The silicone slid smoothly over his legs, pulling snugly against his skin, transforming his usually broader build into James’s slimmer, leaner form. Tyler could feel the cool material warming up as it molded to him, turning him into an uncanny replica of James. When James tugged the mask over Tyler’s face, the sensation of the silicone wrapping around his head was exhilarating. The mask fit like a glove, sealing him into James’s identity.

Tyler moved in front of the mirror, marveling at the transformation. His own reflection was gone, replaced by James’s face, his tattoos, and his slim frame. The bodysuit moved fluidly with him, and he could feel every part of the suit stretching and flexing like real skin. It wasn’t just a costume—it felt *real*.

“Man, I think I could get used to this,” Tyler said, his voice now identical to James’s.

James laughed, admiring how weird and amazing it felt to see Tyler’s face reflected back at him. “Same. This is wild.”

Next came the clothes. James reached into Tyler’s closet, pulling out a pair of well-worn jeans. They were thick, stiff, and smelled faintly of leather and dirt. He slid them up his legs, the denim feeling tight and rugged, a stark contrast to the soft joggers he was used to. The jeans clung to him in a way that made him feel powerful, like the sturdy fabric was wrapping him in strength. He fastened the heavy belt with its oversized buckle, feeling the weight of it pressing against his stomach. Next came the plaid shirt. The material was rougher than anything he usually wore, but it felt good as he buttoned it up, the tight fit making him feel more grounded, more solid. The cowboy boots were the final touch. As he slid his feet into them, he felt a satisfying firmness, the boots hugging his feet in a way that made every step feel strong and deliberate.

Tyler, meanwhile, was having the opposite experience. He pulled on James’s oversized hoodie, and it felt like slipping into a cloud. The fabric was soft, almost silky, and it pooled around his body in an effortless way. The joggers came next, sliding over his legs like butter, loose and relaxed. He pulled on a pair of James’s sneakers—lightweight and cushioned, like he was walking on air. The sensation was completely different from the structured feel of his boots, but it was freeing in a way he hadn’t expected.

Dressed in each other’s clothes, they both admired themselves in the mirror, reveling in the strange thrill of looking and feeling like someone else. It was more than just a swap—it was like stepping into each other’s lives, fully embracing the new persona.

Now it was time to go out. They headed into town, each fully committed to their roles. Tyler, now dressed in James’s streetwear, strolled down the sidewalk with a casual swagger, loving the way the loose hoodie swayed with his movements. The soft material brushed against his skin, a constant reminder of the freedom and ease of James’s style. It made him feel relaxed, like he could blend into the city’s energy without trying.

James, on the other hand, was adjusting to the ruggedness of Tyler’s outfit. The jeans were stiff but in a comforting way, like they were made for hard work and adventure. Every step in the cowboy boots felt strong, as if they grounded him with each clomp on the pavement. The belt buckle pressed firmly against his waist, a constant weight that made him feel solid and secure. The plaid shirt hugged his shoulders in a way that gave him a sense of confidence he didn’t usually feel in his streetwear. As they walked, he felt powerful, like he was embodying the spirit of Tyler’s lifestyle.

They hit the streets, walking into coffee shops, browsing stores, and even stopping at a park. Everywhere they went, they marveled at how natural it felt to be each other. Tyler loved the lightness and ease of James’s clothes, the way the hoodie made him feel like he was gliding through the day without a care. James, meanwhile, relished the weight and structure of Tyler’s outfit, feeling every bit the part of a rugged cowboy.

As the day wore on, the bodysuits felt less like costumes and more like their real bodies. The silicone had warmed to their skin, moving naturally with every gesture. The masks clung comfortably, fitting so snugly that they forgot they were even wearing them. There was something liberating about the whole experience—the idea of fully stepping into someone else’s shoes, literally living as the other person for a day.

By the time they returned home that evening, they were laughing, still fully enjoying their swapped identities. They helped each other out of the suits, peeling the silicone away, but even as they returned to their own bodies, they both knew they’d never forget the thrill of being someone else.

“That was insane,” Tyler said, wiping sweat from his brow, but still smiling. “I think I could do that all week.”

James grinned, tossing the bodysuit aside. “Same. Let’s do it again tomorrow.”

[reveryfics]

Physical

Frank Castle "The Punisher" x Male Reader

Summary: Frank insists on teaching you to defend yourself.

A/N: Three posts in one day as I try to motivate myself to finish all the requests (7). Barking for this man.

TW: Blood - Fighting - Slightly suggestive

The downpour was relentless, each fat drop hammering against the corrugated iron roof of the makeshift gym like a tiny, furious fist. Thunder cracked overhead, a guttural roar that seemed to vibrate through the very concrete beneath your worn sneakers. Jagged streaks of lightning split the bruised twilight visible through the open doorway, momentarily illuminating the swirling dust motes dancing in the humid air. The sharp, clean scent of rain mingled with a heavier, cloying sweetness – the metallic tang of dried blood that clung to your split knuckles and the coarse, sweat-darkened leather of the heavy bag swaying gently before you.

Your breath hitched in your chest, ragged and uneven, each inhale a shallow burn. Sweat plastered your thin t-shirt to your back, a cold, clammy film against your skin. It dripped from your forehead, stinging your eyes and matting the hair at your temples. Every muscle screamed in protest, a dull, throbbing ache that spoke of the relentless assault you’d just unleashed on the unyielding canvas.

Frank stood a few feet away, leaning against a rust-streaked support beam, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow in the dim light. His gaze was intense, unwavering, boring into you with an almost palpable weight. Every twitch of your muscle, every flicker of exhaustion in your eyes seemed to be silently cataloged, scrutinized. Occasionally, his voice, a low rumble that could suddenly explode into a booming command, sliced through the rhythmic drumming of the rain. A constant mantra, pushing you beyond the limits you thought you possessed.

"Harder!" Frank’s voice boomed, echoing in the confined space. His weight shifted against the beam, the metal groaning softly. He pushed himself off, his large frame moving with surprising agility as he closed the distance. He settled directly behind you, his body heat radiating off him in a palpable wave. His hot breath ghosted across the exposed nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the lingering chill of the rain.

"You're soft!" Frank’s voice was a low growl, right in your ear. "Look at you, barely tapping the damn thing. What happens when someone comes at you for real? Are you going to politely ask them to stop while you catch your breath?" His words were like jabs, sharp and precise, aimed not at your body but at the fragile edges of your resolve. "They won't wait. They'll see the weakness, the hesitation, and they'll exploit it. A swift kick to the groin, a knee to the gut when you're doubled over, a broken nose blinding you before they finish the job. You think they care about your pretty face?"

His words burrowed under your skin, insidious whispers amplifying the doubts that already gnawed at you. The endless nights in this stifling gym, the countless times your knuckles had split and bled, the dull ache of bruises blooming across your ribs – it all felt futile in the face of his relentless criticism. You were drowning in the echo chamber of your own exhaustion and self-doubt, the rhythmic thud of the bag a distant, muffled sound.

A raw fury, hot and sudden, ignited in your chest. You snarled, a guttural sound escaping your throat, and unleashed a brutal right hook. The force behind it was born not just of muscle, but of weeks of frustration, of the burning desire to prove him wrong. The worn leather of the punching bag groaned under the impact, the already weakened seams finally giving way with a sharp rip. A cascade of sand and shredded fabric rained down, a small cloud momentarily obscuring your vision.

You stumbled back a step, your chest heaving, and finally looked down at your hands. Your knuckles were a mangled mess. The delicate scabs from previous sessions had been ripped open, the raw skin beneath weeping crimson droplets that mingled with the sweat and grime. Each inhale was a searing lance of pain in your lungs, as if they were filled with hot coals. You gasped for air, the metallic taste of blood now more pronounced in your mouth.

Frank watched you, his expression unreadable. There was no satisfaction, no softening in his gaze. It was the same assessing look, the same silent judgment that seemed to perpetually find you lacking. He stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips, a small, almost imperceptible smirk playing on the corner of his lips. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, the movement surprisingly casual amidst the charged atmosphere. Then, he pointed a thick finger at you. "Not bad. Finally showed some teeth."

You wiped a hand across your sweaty brow, leaving a streak of grime. You reached for your water bottle, the plastic cool against your burning skin, and took a long, slow sip. "I get you want me to protect myself," you muttered, your voice still thick with exertion, "but is all of this really necessary?" You subconsciously followed Frank as he turned and walked towards the worn boxing ring in the far corner of the gym, the canvas stained and patched.

Frank shrugged out of his sweat-soaked t-shirt, the movement revealing the thick cords of muscle in his back and shoulders. He tossed it carelessly onto a nearby bench. You hesitated for a moment before pulling your own shirt over your head, the cool air raising goosebumps on your clammy skin. Once inside the ring, the slightly springier surface felt oddly unsteady beneath your feet. Frank’s gaze flickered over the faint, pale scars that crisscrossed your torso before locking onto your eyes.

"I won't always be there," he said, his voice losing some of its harshness, becoming almost gruff. "Just like I wasn't there that night." A shadow flickered across his features, a hint of something you couldn't quite decipher. He sighed, stepping into a loose fighting stance, his weight balanced, his hands held low. You mirrored his position. "But you need to be ready. I know what you're capable of. Sometimes… sometimes the only way I know how to get it out of you is to push."

You nodded slowly, absorbing his words while your eyes tracked his every subtle shift. You understood his concern, the underlying fear that fueled his relentless training. "I understand," you said quietly, "but I don't exactly plan on putting myself in situations where I need to fight."

"Life doesn't care about your plans," Frank retorted, his voice hardening again. And with that, he lunged.

The next few minutes were a blur of movement and exertion. Frank didn't hold back, his powerful punches and swift kicks aimed with precision. But you had spent countless hours sparring with him, each session a brutal lesson etched into your muscle memory. You had practically memorized the subtle tells in his stance, the slight shift of his weight that telegraphed his attacks. You weaved and ducked, countering his jabs with sharp blocks and returning with quick strikes of your own. A few of his blows still connected – a jarring thud against your ribs that stole your breath, a stinging slap against your cheek.

You watched as Frank telegraphed a right hook, the slight tensing of his shoulder a familiar sign. You swiftly countered, deflecting the punch and simultaneously sweeping your leg low. His balance was momentarily compromised, and he landed on the worn canvas with a muffled thud, the air rushing from his lungs. In an instant, you were on top of him, straddling his chest, your knees pinning his arms to the mat.

A triumphant smirk stretched across your face, the coppery taste of blood finally registering on your tongue – a trickle from a split lip you hadn’t even noticed in the heat of the exchange. "Getting predictable, old man," you purred, a cocky edge to your voice that felt surprisingly good.

Frank only grunted, his eyes narrowed. With a sudden surge of strength, he bucked, his hips lifting you momentarily. He used the momentum to roll, reversing your positions with practiced ease. Now, your bare chest was pressed against the rough canvas, his weight heavy as he straddled your waist. He pinned both your wrists above your head with one powerful hand, his other resting possessively on your bare hip. He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. "You get predictable when you think you've already won."

His lips trailed down the sensitive curve of your spine, each fleeting touch sending a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air. You let out a soft hum, the tension in your muscles momentarily easing. He traced a path back up, pressing warm kisses across your shoulders and the sensitive skin of your neck before finally turning your head with a gentle hand. His lips met yours, a bruising kiss that ignored the metallic tang of blood.

Just as the kiss threatened to deepen, to ignite a different kind of heat, you pulled away, pushing against his chest. You scrambled to your feet, putting a few feet of distance between you. Frank’s gaze softened, a hint of something vulnerable flickering in his eyes as he watched you. He let his guard down, taking a step towards you, his arms reaching out as if to pull you close.

A knowing smirk played on your lips. You saw the opening, the momentary lapse in his focus. With a swift, fluid movement, you lunged forward, using his own momentum against him. You twisted, hooking your leg behind his and pulling him off balance. He landed on the mat with a surprised grunt, his chest hitting the canvas with a thud. Before he could react, you were on top of him again, twisting his arm behind his back until a low groan escaped his lips. "I win," you purred, your voice laced with a newfound confidence. "Perhaps next session you'll do better."

[ogindex]

Vintage Japan Nike ad, Street Jack mag January (2001)

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Ok well i had the brief thought “what about an ER nurse Eddie au?” and then this popped fully formed into existence so fuck it Friday pt 2.. warnings for smoking and vague references to critically injured kids

“That doesn’t seem very healthy.”

Smoke curls up from the cigarette held loosely in Eddie’s hand. “It’s not, particularly.”

Buck’s hands are in his pockets as he strolls away from the glass doors out into the ambulance bay where Eddie is doing the mature, professional equivalent of playing hide and seek. He comes to a stop barely a foot or two away from where Eddie leans against grimy concrete. “Didn’t know you were a smoker.”

“I’m not,” Eddie sighs, “Particularly.” He looks over Buck’s face as he takes a drag, cataloging bruises and cuts. He hadn’t been the one to look him over before he was discharged, probably because he was out here avoiding having to do so. “Only when it’s- only after the bad shifts.” And only once a month, even if the bad shifts come again and again. He bought this pack in January, it’s stale as shit.

Buck’s eyes follow the smoke as it drifts skyward. “Rough one today?”

Eddie thinks he probably doesn’t have to explain to Buck that it’s sometimes better when a kid is dead on arrival so he doesn’t have to try his best to administer care he knows will be useless. He doesn’t have to explain a day where nothing goes right and he loses more people than he can save and he still has to walk away from someone’s parent or wife or sister, left behind forever in a waiting room on the worst day of their life, and go on to lose the next person too. Doesn’t have to explain why he’s out here, and not in there. “Mm. We’ve got this repeat customer, always hate to have him back.”

Buck’s eyes flick to his face before they settle somewhere around his elbow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He seems like a nice guy. I worry about him. He’s here too often.”

Buck doesn’t look up. “What was he in for this time?”

“Minor concussion. Bruising. Lacerations.” Eddie sucks cancer into his lungs. “Heard a house fell on him.” Exhales it into the night.

Buck does look up this time, eyes a darker blue out here in the shadows. “Part of a house. Just a staircase and the- like, the balcony, really.”

“Maybe he should stay away from those.”

“From houses?” Buck asks, half his mouth twitching into a smile.

Eddie rests his head on the wall behind him. “Guess that’s not really practical.”

“No.” Buck is quiet for a moment, one hand slipping out of his pocket and running through his hair. Eddie wonders what he looks like, when he’s not here. He’s more styled, sometimes, when things aren’t very bad. He wonders if he’s usually all gelled up and neat. Eddie kind of likes the loose curls. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Making your day worse.” Buck looks genuinely apologetic, and Eddie shakes his head.

“The guy made it out okay this time.” Buck is just close enough that Eddie can kick at his boot with his sensible orthopedic sneaker. “You didn’t even need stitches.”

“That’s good.” Eddie’s left foot is pressed along the inside of Buck’s right, and Buck is staring down at them. “His favorite nurse was on break. I would have missed you if someone else had to do them.”

Eddie laughs, just a few bursts of soundless oxygen. “You gotta find new ways to see me before something happens that I can’t fix.”

Buck moves, taking the few steps necessary to lean against the wall beside him. Carefully, he takes the cigarette from Eddie’s hand, holds it between two of his own fingers, and takes a drag. Eddie watches it happen like he’s monitoring somebody’s pulse ox, and when Buck coughs he laughs again, louder this time. “Fuck,” Buck says, laughing too. “Thought that would be cooler than it was.”

“Smoking isn’t cool, firefighter Buckley,” Eddie says, taking the cigarette back and pulling from it again between smiling lips.

“Hm,” Buck says, grinning out into the night. Then he sighs, and rolls his head along the concrete to look at Eddie. “I think there’s nothing you can’t fix.”

They’re very close. “There’s lots I can’t fix.”

Buck shrugs like he disagrees. “I also think I’d like to find other ways to see you.”

Buck’s eyes are even more in shadow at this angle, and they’re the color of the lake back in El Paso that he and a bunch of kids went to after graduation, drunk off beer somebody’s cousin got for them, skinny dipping with breathless terrified delight under bright constellations. “Then ask me.”

Buck inhales as Eddie exhales. “What time’s your shift end?”

“5:30 AM. So, probably 6:15.”

Buck traces the two fingers he’d used to hold the cigarette down Eddie’s arm. “You wanna get breakfast with me?”

“Yes. I would.”

Buck smiles, and Eddie snubs out the cigarette on the wall between them. “I’ll meet you here?”

“Alright.” He takes a step forward, then a step to the right so he’s standing in front of Buck. “Two hours.”

“Uh huh.”

He should really get back inside. They’re understaffed, as always, and there are too many patients, as always, and not enough beds, as always. “See you then.” He doesn’t make any move to leave.

“See you then,” Buck almost whispers. He leans forward, and Eddie still doesn’t move, so he presses a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth for just a moment. His lips are warm. Eddie hadn’t noticed it was cold outside.

Buck pulls back and leans against the wall again. Eddie smiles, puts a hand in his pocket, and walks back toward the doors.

[sai-int]

hi i’ve been really into dancing lately, so can i interest anyone in some jackson!joel miller and younger!dance-instructor!reader ?

the music had just faded out—something soft and familiar, a melody that used to play in the background of your old life, when mirrors lined pristine floors and your voice echoed in cavernous studios filled with rhythm and promise. before everything went to shit, you were a dance instructor. it wasn’t just a job—it was breath, ritual, a kind of worship. you lived in the pocket of the beat, in the push and pull of movement, and it shaped who you were. then the world ended, and for a long time, you figured that part of you had ended too.

but jackson was different. it gave you safety, time, space. and for the first time in years, you let yourself wonder—what if you could get it back?

so you started small. offered a class in the large garage of your house. just once, to see if anyone would come. and they did. people showed up. moms who needed a break from their kids, teenage girls hungry for something of their own, even the occasional boyfriend who got dragged along. they laughed. they moved. they felt something. and so did you.

—although, you had some help with the space—insulation for the colder months, a line of narrow floor-length mirrors scavenged and propped along the wall, makeshift windows to let in the light. it wasn’t much, but it was yours.

the class had ended with laughter and breathless goodbyes, sneakers squeaking as a handful of teen girls skipped out into the cool afternoon, cheeks flushed. one of the older moms winked as she passed, a towel slung over her shoulder.

“see you thursday,” she said, and you smiled, hand still braced against your knee from the final stretch.

then it was just you and the scent of sweat and wood polish. the mirrors—six narrow panes salvaged from different places—stood propped along one wall, their seams uneven but functional, casting a fractured version of yourself back at you as you wiped them down with a rag.

it wasn’t much, but it was yours. the insulation helped. the sun slanting through the new makeshift windows helped. the clumsy graffiti you painted above the door that read “jackson dance co-op” in big red block letters—that helped, too.

you moved to the far end of the studio, cloth in hand, and leaned in to get a smudge near the bottom corner of the last panel. that’s when you saw him.

in the mirror, his reflection was almost like a ghost. one shoulder against the garage doorframe, thick arms crossed, his expression unreadable. joel miller. watching.

you didn’t startle, but your hand froze on the glass. for a moment, you stayed still—half-kneeling, eyes on his reflection. he didn’t move. just looked.

the door wasn’t shut all the way. he must’ve cracked it open while you were wiping down. quiet as ever.

you straightened up slowly, not turning around just yet. letting the silence settle.

“was wondering if you’d stop by,” you said, voice light but even, not quite teasing. “been seeing ellie at classes. figured it was only a matter of time before curiosity got the better of you.”

in the reflection, he shifted. a subtle tilt of his head. one brow lifted like he didn’t quite believe you.

“i wasn’t watchin’,” joel said finally. “just… checkin’ on things. heard the music.”

you turned then, the rag still clutched in one hand, hair damp and sticking to your neck. “is that right?”

his gaze flicked across the room. the mirrors. the scuffed floors. you. a slow pass, like he was cataloging something he hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

“you got this place looking real nice,” he said. “feels… alive in here.’

that tugged something in your chest. “it’s the music. the movement. keeps people grounded. gives ’em something to feel good about. even if it’s just for an hour.”

joel nodded, jaw tight, hands still folded across his chest. he looked like a man standing outside of something he didn’t quite know how to ask to be let into. like he didn’t trust joy anymore, not fully—but couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

you stepped toward him, slow, deliberate. “you ever dance, miller?”

—that got a reaction—a scoff that might’ve been a laugh in another life. he shook his head.

“no ma’am,” he said. “only time i did, it involved too much whiskey and ended with somebody cryin’.”

you smirked, close enough now to see the glint in his eye. “sounds like a challenge.”

joel raised a brow. “you challengin’ me, darlin’?”

you shrugged, moving past him to crack open the garage door wider, letting in more of the afternoon light. “i’m just sayin’, the offer’s open. i don’t judge bad footwork.”

he didn’t say anything, but when you looked back, he was still there. watching. like maybe he was thinking about stepping inside.

[ghoulsverse]

Chapter Three: Subject 00-113

3.1k Words | [tags] PTSD, Mentions of abuse

Chapter Index | Ao3 Link

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“The hardest part isn’t pulling someone from the fire. It’s convincing them they aren’t still burning.”

The quinjet touched down with barely a whisper against the rooftop landing pad.

Wanda watched the skyline through the small window by her seat, still half asleep. The city wasn’t buzzing yet. No honking cars, no blur of lights. Just that strange quiet that clung to mid mornings when the world hadn't quite put its armor back on.

Fitting.

Behind her, she could feel Aliah shifting restlessly in the seat, wrapped tight in the silver emergency blanket like it could somehow make her invisible.

Natasha was already up, moving with that same catlike, unbothered grace she always had before a mission… or after one they hadn't expected.

The ramp lowered with a hiss.

Cold air flooded the cabin, sharp enough to make Wanda blink hard once, twice.

Aliah didn’t move.

"Come on. It’s okay." Wanda said gently, standing and offering her hand without expectation.

For a long beat, Aliah just stared at it.

Then, slowly, she unfolded herself from the seat and followed.

Not touching. Not grabbing. Just moving in the shadow Wanda made for her.

Bruce was waiting at the far end of the platform, arms loose at his sides, wearing a soft hoodie and sneakers like he hadn’t been briefed that they were bringing back a potential unstable asset.

Wanda appreciated that.

So did Aliah, if the way she didn’t immediately spark was anything to go by. She was still on edge, but she didn’t feel threatened.

Steve and Sam stepped off the jet behind them, staying a few paces back… clearly trying not to box her in. Natasha flanked Aliah's other side without a word, her presence solid and non-threatening.

It worked.

Aliah kept walking.

Small victories.

"Hey there." Bruce said when they got close enough. His voice was low, even. Like he was greeting a spooked animal, not a teenage girl wrapped in fear and static. "I’m Bruce. I’m not gonna poke or prod you, okay? Just wanna make sure you're feeling alright."

Aliah’s fingers twitched at her sides.

Wanda could feel the tension climbing her spine, that buzz of energy crackling just under her skin.

She stepped a little closer, not blocking Bruce, but standing between Aliah and the unknown anyway.

"If you're hurt." Wanda said softly. "Bruce can help. But only if you want."

Aliah’s eyes flickered between them… wide, calculating, too old for her age. Whatever her age may be.

Then, finally, she nodded once.

Tiny. Barely more than a dip of her chin.

Bruce smiled. Again, small victories.

"Alright." He said gently. "Let's get you somewhere quiet. No tests. Just a check-up."

Aliah flinched at the word ‘tests’, but Wanda caught it… and Bruce did, too. He didn’t push.

Just turned and started walking toward the door inside, slow enough that Aliah could set the pace if she wanted.

Wanda glanced at Natasha once as they followed, just a flick of her eyes. Natasha didn’t say anything, but the tight set of her jaw said plenty.

They both knew it.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

Wanda could feel it in the tightness of Aliah's movements, the way her feet barely made noise against the floor, the way her head kept snapping toward every creak and hum of machinery.

She was absorbing everything.

Aliah kept her eyes flickering. 5 exits. 7 people. 2 flights of stairs.

Not that any of this information was useful for her, but it was comforting. She could never escape with other people in the room who were powerful like she was. It's just what she was trained to do.

Catalog everything. Forget nothing. 

Bruce led them toward the temporary medical bay, repurposed conference room, wide open, sterile as a lab. No locks. No restraints.

But the moment they crossed the threshold, Aliah froze.

Wanda felt the shift in the air before she even turned.

Aliah’s body went rigid, her breath hitching sharp and fast. Her fingers twitched violently and some of the metal tools began to float. Sparks of white energy flickered uncontrolled at the tips of her hands.

Hydra Base: Hemlock - 2 Years Ago

Aliah sat bare, in nothing but a hospital gown on the edge of a hospital bed. Her eyes flickered around, German and Russian soldiers walking around with clipboards on the other side of a 3-inch pane of glass while Doctor Evez stood next to her with a long needle that could only be compared in size to an epidermic needle.

“One last injection, and you will be our greatest achievement.”

“No more after this?” She asked in a soft, timid voice.

“No more, 113.”

Aliah nodded, wincing as the probe went in. She stayed quiet as Doctor Evez conducted his procedure, him speaking aloud to the soldiers on the other side of the glass. Accent thick.

“Genesis Subject 00-113 has shown remarkable adherence to advancements. The donor genetics are exceptionally compatible.”

“This is the final procedure needed to stabilize the DNA. Since the donors are both enhanced, one genetically and the other post term, it is imperative that the two samples merge completely before they can begin to grow on their own. Since Subject 113 is 12.7 years post full-term, the cells will continue to regenerate until the subject has reached 21 years of age.”

A silver/blue liquid began to filter in the needle. It burned slightly.

“Subject 113 is the only full term success of these donors. Unfortunately any other samples of the donors were used in the previous test subjects. A perfect specimen for the Widow selection. Subject 00-113 is one of a kind.”

He turned towards Aliah with a sick smile on his face. “Aren’t you, 113?”

The burning stopped, her eyes and senses can tell she’s not in the facility anymore, but her feelings still exist.

Wanda took a step toward her, but the girl recoiled instantly, stumbling back into the doorframe with a clang.

Aliah shook her head and dropped to her knees.

The white energy surged around her in a wild pulse, sharp enough to make the light panels flicker.

Bruce immediately stepped back, hands up, his voice calm. "Okay. Okay."

Natasha moved subtly… placing herself between Aliah and the nearest sharp object, casual and non-threatening.

Wanda crouched down low, palms open, heart in her throat. “What do you need?"

Aliah’s breaths came in ragged, fast little gasps, her eyes wide and wild. Glowing.

Wanda didn’t dare reach for her. Not yet.

Instead she did the one thing she knew would calm her. She let her own magic show.

Red mist drifted lightly from her palms, swirling harmlessly into the air. Calm, controlled, gentle.

Not a weapon.

Not a trap.

A simple message. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Aliah stared at the mist.

Her trembling slowed, barely, but enough. Enough for Wanda to see her. Enough for Aliah to blink hard, trying to drag herself back from wherever she’d gone.

Wanda kept her voice soft. "What do you need, sweetheart?"

Aliah didn’t answer with words. She just glanced at the med bay again… At the too-bright lights, the clinical smell, and shook her head violently.

Wanda nodded. No hesitation.

"Okay." She said. "No hospitals."

She turned her head toward Bruce and Natasha.

“Do you want to come upstairs? I can show you some TV shows that I like to watch.”

Aliah nodded, her eyes slowly returning to her normal color. Her fingers didn't stop trembling but she followed close behind Wanda and Natasha.

The elevator ride was silent.

Not the comfortable kind.

The heavy, uncertain kind. The kind where every floor ding sounded too loud against the tension stretched thin between them.

Aliah stayed close to Wanda’s side, her hands still trembling but only slightly. White energy flickered faintly at her knuckles, but it didn’t lash out.

Not yet.

Natasha stood on the opposite side of the elevator, arms folded, watching the numbers light up one by one.

She wasn’t guarding. She was waiting.

Like she knew that Aliah could take care of herself, but that she wouldn't turn for help. Natasha saw herself in the young girl. She looked at the girl almost in remembrance. When Clint had first brought her to the tower, she felt like an outsider.

The doors slid open onto the residential floor Wanda and Natasha shared… simple, private, a little worn around the edges in the way real homes were.

The common area was dimly lit by a single standing lamp.  A soft throw blanket was crumpled on the couch. Fred the half-dead plant sagged sideways in his pot.

It smelled like cinnamon candle wax and whatever Natasha’s version of dinner had been the night before.

It didn’t smell like hospitals.

It didn’t hum with the weight of surveillance.

It felt... human.

Wanda stepped out first, glancing back to offer the smallest, most careful smile.

"You can stay here with me and Nat." She said quietly. "As long as you want."

Aliah hovered at the threshold for a second, like she wasn’t sure she was really being offered anything.

But then she crossed over.

Small, silent steps.

No explosions. No resistance.

Just a girl stepping into a place that didn’t expect her to be dangerous.

Wanda kicked off her boots by the door, peeling off her jacket and tossing it haphazardly onto the couch.

Natasha hung back by the window, flicking the blinds half shut without being asked. Dimming the outside world a little more.

Small acts of protection.

Not orders. Not commands.

Just... space.

"We can put something on, keep you distracted so Bruce can make sure everything is okay.” Natasha spoke smoothly.

Aliah didn’t answer. But she didn’t retreat either.

Wanda crouched and flipped through a few options, scrolling past news broadcasts, action movies, dark crime dramas.

Too loud.

Too violent.

Finally, she landed on something soft and ridiculous, her favorite. The Dick Van Dyke Show.

Gentle colors. Dumb jokes. A world with stakes small enough to laugh at.

Wanda hit play.

The TV glowed to life.

Aliah moved hesitantly toward the couch, still wrapped in the silver blanket like it might deflect betrayal.

She perched on the farthest corner, spine stiff, eyes locked onto the screen with the kind of sharp, terrified focus Wanda recognized too well.

Natasha sank into the armchair without a word, boots still on, one arm draped casually over the side.

Wanda took the middle seat… close enough for Aliah to feel, but not close enough to trap her.

She kept her hands visible. Kept her voice low. Her breathing is steady. And let the movie fill the space between them.

It wasn’t much.

It wasn’t a solution.

But it was a start.

And sometimes, survival wasn’t about running faster or fighting harder.

Sometimes it was just about finding a couch, and two strangers willing to sit still long enough for you to believe the world might not be trying to kill you after all.

Bruce stood there, wearing the same hoodie and sneakers, holding a small tablet tucked against his chest.

He didn't step inside.

Didn’t cross the threshold without permission.

"Just a quick visual check." He said gently, addressing Wanda, not Aliah. "Nothing invasive. Nothing scary."

Natasha glanced back at Aliah, watching, tense but silent. Wanda knelt beside the couch again, making herself smaller, less imposing.

"Would it be alright?" She asked Aliah directly. "Bruce just wants to make sure you're feeling okay. You can say no."

For a long moment, Aliah didn't move.

Then, very slowly, she gave one jerky nod.

Bruce entered carefully, staying several feet away.

No tools. No wires. Just a small light he kept pocketed.

He scanned Aliah visually… pupil reaction, breathing rhythm, minor tremors in her hands. He spoke softly as he worked.

"You’ve been through a lot." he said. "No one's expecting you to be okay overnight."

Aliah didn’t answer.

But she didn’t flinch away when he checked the old bruises on her wrists from whatever Hydra restraints had left behind.

Wanda stood closely, not hovering. “I know it’s hard right now, but if you remember anything, it would really help.”

Green eyes looked void of any emotion. Choosing carefully on what to say or think around the infamous Wanda Maximoff.

She’d heard whispers of her around Hydra. The runaway.

If she could get away, then that garnered some kind of trust.

Aliah opened her mind up softly to Wanda. “Subject 00-113. That’s what I was called.”

Wanda nodded softly and turned towards Natasha before speaking to Aliah again. “That’s good, sweetheart.”

“I can only remember that I had two donor samples and that they said I was almost 15 years post full term.”

“Is it okay if I share this with Nat?”

A soft nod.

The witch stood and pulled Natasha to the corner of the living room, keeping her eyes on the young girl whose focus was being pulled by the noise of the TV.

“She was given a number for her identification and I think she’s about 15 years old.”

Nat crossed her arms over her chest and spoke quietly, her mind trying to piece together the information. “Did she say anything else?”

“She remembers that she was made from only 2 donors.”

“Meaning only 2 samples of DNA.”

When Bruce finished, he nodded once, respectful, and stepped back immediately.

"All good." He said quietly. "No more check-ups unless you want them."

He turned to leave without lingering.

Natasha shut the door behind him with a soft click.

The show droned on in the background. Aliah perched on the far edge of the couch. Still braced for impact. But here.

Still here.

Wanda stayed cross legged on the floor, her back against the couch, close enough for Aliah to feel her presence but far enough not to crowd her.

Natasha had moved to the far corner of the room, pulling the window blinds lower with two fingers, cutting out the skyline’s last glimmer of sun from the afternoon.

Then she settled into the armchair, loose and casual, as if she'd just come back from a routine mission and this was just her ritual. Comfortable.

Her body language was perfect, lazy, indifferent… but Wanda didn’t miss the way Natasha’s eyes flicked toward every tiny noise Aliah made.

Protective.

Quiet about it.

But there.

Aliah hadn't said a word since Bruce had finished his careful check.

She still sat curled on the corner of the couch, a silver blanket clutched around her, eyes half lidded and distant.

Natasha could tell she was fighting sleep.

However long the girl must have been on edge, staying awake to assure her survival in an abandoned facility. Now again, in a foreign building with a bunch of people she doesn't know.

Aliah would drop at any second assuming for that time, she’d been awake.

50 hours. Since they received word of the facility. Then drafted a mission and rescue.

Around 50 hours, this girl had been awake. Ready to run at any moment.

But for now, she wasn’t running.

For now, she stayed.

Wanda let the quiet stretch.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It felt necessary.

Every second they didn’t demand something from Aliah was another second proving they weren’t here to chain her down.

A particularly ridiculous scene flickered across the screen and sharp noise escaped from Aliah's corner of the couch.

Not laughter.

Not quite.

Just a quick, startled huff of breath, immediately smothered like she hadn’t meant to make it.

Wanda pretended not to notice.

Natasha did too.

The movie kept playing.

The world stayed soft for one more minute.

Wanda let herself lean her head back against the couch, closing her eyes briefly.

She didn't sleep.

She wouldn’t, not yet.

There was too much weight still hanging in the air, too many unanswered questions.

Where Aliah had come from. What Hydra and the Red Room had done to her. Why did her powers felt so familiar.

But she intended to find out.

Somewhere across the room, Natasha shifted just enough to kick her boots off, letting them thunk quietly against the floor. She didn’t speak. She didn’t leave.

Neither did Wanda.

Neither did Aliah.

Natasha being the first to break the silence. “You can sleep. We won’t leave.”

Aliah just shook her head.

Without thinking it over anymore, Natasha grabbed the pillow from behind her on the chair, tossing it on the floor in front of the couch. Then she got down and slid into the space next to it. “If you can feel people like Wanda can, feel me here. I won’t leave your side while you sleep.”

Minutes go by, feeling like hours.

The widow returned her focus to the TV, allowing the girl to make her own decision. On her own time.

It was subtle, but it worked all the same. A small figure slid off the corner of the couch and laid her head down on the cushion.

For the first time in what must have been days, Aliah closed her eyes in a room that didn’t expect anything from her.

And the three of them stayed like that… Suspended in the slow hum of the TV, the warmth of shared breathing, the fragile peace of a night that hadn't shattered.

Not yet.

“How did you do that?” Wanda asked, just above a whisper.

Natasha let herself smile at the mess of hair next to her lap. Just close enough to feel the presence and warmth but not close enough to touch. “Beds and couches are too soft.”

“What?”

“When I first defected… I had to sleep with handcuffs on the bedpost.” She started. Speaking softly, monotone. “They made us sleep that way in the Red Room to make sure we wouldn’t leave or escape. It was a bad habit, but for the first few months here, it was the only thing that brought me comfort. The beds were too soft. It wasn’t what I was used to. I couldn’t sleep that way.”

“Nat…” Wanda’s voice cracked but Natasha just waved it off, having had time to process and accept her own past.

“If she was raised by Hydra, I’m assuming she never had a real bed. Maybe a cot. The couch is too soft. The floor isn’t.”

The witch just nodded. She blinked a few times to hide the wetness behind her eyes. So many emotions were flowing through her that she didn't know how to process.

She's been living with Natasha for years now, but she never knew this side of her.

Then the young girl who slept quietly on the floor, having never known a normal childhood.

What a mess this was.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Taglist: @seventeen-x

[commsroom]

eiffel and lovelace have approximately 80% similar personal styles, which would delight him and horrify her. like, tank tops, cargo shorts, flannel jacket, same kind of old sneakers and sandals, etc. lovelace's fashion sense is just a little sportier; some basketball shorts, jerseys, and new york liberty logo tanks in place of eiffel's walmart discount rack selection of pop culture tees. that kind of thing. if hera could dress the way she wanted to, she'd have a very... folk festival woman at a farmer's market type of vibe. colorful, flowy, nature-y patterns. but minkowski is so much harder to imagine in casual clothing. a big part of it is how much she's separated her work life from her personal life, but even then... she just feels like someone who is practical about it to a fault. she doesn't dress badly, she's always put together, she just dresses. kind of like a mom in an old navy catalog.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest Seven Deadly Sins pop-up event.

Wham, Bam, Thank You, Ma'am

Prompt: Envy | Word Count: 666 | Rating: M | CW: Talk of Off-Screen Sex, Recreational Weed Use, Period-Typical Objectification of Women | POV: Eddie | Relationship(s): Off-Screen Gareth/OFCs | Tags: Gareth's on a Hot Streak, None of the Rest of Them Can Understand It, At All

Eddie thinks it's a fluke. A random hot-streak that's gonna end as fast as it started. 

But it doesn't. 

Gareth picks up one, three, then a dozen girls. Nearly every stop they make, Gareth finds a way to get laid. It's honestly getting impressive. For a kid that got no action in high school, he's sure hit his stride once they hit the road. Goddamn.

"Are we gonna talk about it?" Jeff asks, flicking the lighter, flame burning bright, as he holds it up for Eddie to get the joint going. 

"I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. It's a travesty," Goodie says dryly, and Eddie and Jeff both laugh at him.

Gareth's gone, out for the night, or at least well into it, and the three of them are hanging out in the van, because they don't need another angry motel manager whining about the skunky smell upon check-out.

"He's a little twerp, this's unholy," Goodie continues and Eddie leans into Jeff, cackling.

"I wish I had that kind of confidence," Jeff admits, passing the joint back to Eddie. "To get shot down, and just move along to the next one."

"I mean, if you get enough nos you're eventually gonna get a yes," Eddie reassures, "It's just if you're willing to accept all the rejection first."

"Clearly he'll get rejected all day and all night to get some pussy," Goodie snarks.

They all laugh.

When this all started, Eddie gave Gareth the safe sex lecture, loaded him down with condoms, and told him to have fun, but be safe. The last thing they need is…well, anything that could come from not wrapping it up.

Mama Jones would kill Eddie if anything happens to her boy while they're out here. It's his job to keep all of them safe and in line, at least somewhat. 

"How is he even doing it?" Jeff asks.

"Confidence," Eddie answers, "Charisma. Charm."

Gareth has an easy way about him, a swagger and smile that he's learned to work. Eddie watched it evolve. The kid was never told he couldn't do something, so now he thinks he's god's gift to women, and for some reason, the women are believing this.

It's a pretty great trick he's got going, Eddie's not gonna lie. 

"Cockiness," Goodie adds to the list, interrupting Eddie's thoughts.

They all burst out laughing, and are still cackling when there's rhythmic pounding on the side of the van, making them all jump and then laugh louder. Gareth.

Eddie slides open the door to let Gareth climb in. He reeks of perfume and sex, and they all wave their hands around, like the smell of him is stronger than the skunky weed cloud they're sitting in.

"That was fast," Jeff says.

"Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am," Gareth answers. 

"Got your dick wet, so now you're good enough to hang with us," Goodie says dryly.

"Don't be jealous," Gareth says, snagging the joint right from Goodie's fingers. He gets kicked for his trouble, but doesn't seem to mind.

"That was fast," Eddie echoes, "Did you even leave the parking lot?"

"Nope," Gareth says, and passes back to Eddie. 

"Well, I'm sure she enjoyed the quick encore you gave her," Goodie goads.

"I know what I'm doing. She left with no complaints," Gareth answers, but digs in his pocket, "But I did leave with this, though."

Gareth tosses a bra onto the floor of the van. It's pink, and lacey with a tiny bow.

"Classy, kid," Eddie says, while Goodie toes at it with his sneaker.

"Bras are expensive, she's gonna be pissed," Goodie says, and they all turn to look at him.

"How do you know how much a bra costs?" Gareth asks. 

"I know things. I read."

"Yeah, you been reading the lingerie pages of the Sears catalog," Jeff teases, and Goodie flips him off.

Eddie realizes that's probably exactly where Goodie's gotten this info, and he tosses his head back, laughing. 

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

Notes: Before there was the internet, there were the models in the Sears catalog. 👙

[itsanerdlife]

Wicked Intentions 16

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader // (Seriously close) Steve Rogers x Reader // Clint Barton x Reader // T’Challa x Reader.

Warning: Violence. Language. Bullying. Girl Fights. Name Calling. Degrading Comments. Angst. Degrade of Woman (to a point). Criminal Life. Illegal Shit. Fights. Alpha Males. Stalking.

Characters: Peter Stark. Howie Stark. Bucky Barnes. Steve Rogers. Clint Barton. TC (T’Challa). Ben Reilly. Cledus Kasady (CK). Brock Rumlow. Gwen Stacy. Wanda Maximoff. Becca Barnes. Amore Lorelei. Kitty Pryde. Frank Castle. George Barnes. Joe Rogers. Winni Barnes. Pepper Stark. Wade Wilson. Eddie Brock. Warner Strucker. Barney Barton. Bobbi Morse. Pietro Maximoff. Logan.

A/N: This is a Bully Romance. High School setting. Mafia Family Life. Woman are on a lower level than males in their world. Just a heads up. This is the third installment of the series. Bad Intentions, Cruel Intentions, and Wicked Intentions.

Credit: Huge shout out to @ml7010 for all the help, pushing, hyping up, putting up with my changes midway through. If it wasn't for this peach, y'all never would have gotten this series or nearly as far as I am now.

Leaning on the counter, pamphlets and catalogs spread out on the counter, between the two of us. Side eyeing the bruises forming on Bucky’s knuckles.

“What did you punch?” I ask innocently.

He chuckles, “nothing,” flipping through a catalog slowly.

My lips pucker, watching him now.

"You didn’t have them this morning.” I point out.

“I know.” Flipping a page.

“Who did you punch?” I huff at him.

He looks up winking at me. “Someone looking at you.”

Nodding slowly, I tip my head to the side. “So, I can do that too.”

“No, you lick me. You made your choice.” He chuckles.

“Because you told me to stop punching people outside of The Ditch.” I remind him with a smirk.

His lips press together slowly. “Baby girl, no.” He points a finger at me. My head tips.

“I thought it was fair, if you do it. I can too.” I grin.

“I don’t go around punching people for fun.” He huffs, shoulders dropping.

Lifting my brow at him, waiting.

“Our breakup was a different story, Y/N and you know that!” He levels me with a look.

I shrug. “Marriage is a different story too.” Whispering softly as I pick up a venue pamphlet flipping it open.

“You’re going to beat someone up, aren’t you?” He sighs.

Shrugging, I tip my head from side to side. Looking through the pamphlet in hand.

“Oh, good you’re both here.” My mother breezes into the room, a little short of breath. Rocking jeans, sneakers, and a black T-shirt. Nothing close to her normal attire she wears. Her hair looks messed, a small cut on her cheek. Her own knuckles look to be bruising.

“Mom?” Bucky speaks up first.

Winni is right behind my mother. Jeans and a dark grey T-shirt. With what look like dark splatter marks on the front of it. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, looking quickly redone. She has handprints on one arm. Her knuckles bruised and a nail broken.

“What the fuck?” I stare at them.

“Oh, good you’re looking over Venues.” Winni smiles.

Ignoring our comments.

“See I think that we should go with this one.” My mother leans over me, grabbing a different one holding it up to me. “And keep this one as a back up if the first doesn’t have available dates.”

“Your father found some charming homes.” Winni joins Bucky pulling home catalogs towards them.

“You’re just ignoring the fact you have blood on your shirt?” He looks to his mother.

Both look down at Winni’s shirt,

“And you have a cut on your face, and both have bruised knuckles. Like James.” I comment.

Each of them look down at the other’s hands.

“Starting to feel real left out here.” Huffing as I flip over the pamphlet.

“You beat up someone and didn’t let her join?” My mother shakes her head at James. “You know that’s going to cost you.”

“I know.” He sighs.

“You’ll learn, or she’ll start beating you up Buck.” Winni snickers.

“Hello!” I throw my hands up, looking at the three of them watching me. “Who did you two beat up and since when did you do dirty work?” Looking between the two.

“Who says we never did dirty work?” My mother lifts a brow at me.

“What?!” I blanch at her.

“Maybe you just didn’t pay attention.” Winni shrugs, flipping pages, tapping on one page showing James something.

I squint at my mother. “That’s a cheap shot on your cheek. You underestimated them.” I pout softly looking at the wedding venue she picked out.

“Maybe I need to join you and Frankie in the ring more.” She comments, grabbing a diet soda from the fridge for her and Winni.

“I got my right hook from dad.” I smirk at her.

“Yes, but I baked the evil into you myself.” She winks at me.

My head tips softly to the side, shrugging. She wasn’t wrong.

“Our children are going to be evil, aren’t they?” Bucky sighs.

“If you have a girl, will she take the table next?” Winni looks from her son to me.

We exchange a look, he shrugs, I smirk at them. “You better hope the boys have boys, she’ll need someone to run the table with.” Going back to the wedding info in front of me.

“A generation of girls, heading the table. Could you imagine?” Winni grins at my mother.

My mom grins, watching me. “Told you, Winni, she was going to change everything she put her mind too.” I smile pretty, filled with cockiness.

“Or her fist.” Bucky snickers.

I stick my tongue out at him. Our mothers laugh.

“Okay wedding details.” My mother turns her attention to the counter.

“Your father has a few opening to let you do walk through, if you want, I can come with.” Winni changes the topic.

“If we do this,” I wave my finger at the counter “will you answer questions, or at least like three after?”

My mother sighs, “if you agree on some details to this wedding, I’ll answer three questions to be exact.” She settles me with a look.

“Fine.” I roll my eyes.

“And you’ll behave at Howie’s wedding.” She adds suddenly.

I gasp. “I was good at Wanda’s!”

“Y/N,” she blinks at me.

“UGH!” I huff loudly. “Fine!” Throwing my hands up. “But if he is 30 seconds late to that wedding, I’m cracking one of his ribs.” Shaking my head, shrugging a shoulder.

“That’s fair.” Bucky nods, agreeing.

Our mothers’ smirks at one another.

“Fine.” They agree.

Around two hours later, we finally agreed on a venue, a color scheme, top three houses and bridal parties. Dropping back in my seat, I look from Winni to my mother.

“Who did you beat up?” I ask.

My mother sighs, pausing for a moment. “Louise Kasady.”

“CK’s mom?” Bucky’s brow jumps up.

I sit up straight.

“What?” I blink at them.

Winni sips from her soda can. “She is leaking information to Eddie. Can’t be allowed.” She spoke casually, looking down at the houses decided on.

Bucky and I exchange a look.

“She fought back?” Lifting a brow.

My mother waves her hand. “She wants revenge for her son. Her husband isn’t the same, I guess.”

“Since my dad broke his hand with his foot?” Bucky smirks.

“And you killed her son. The woman just can’t take a loss and move on.” Winni sighs.

“Her son wasn’t even a high up. I don’t see the need for revenge.” My mother shakes her head.

“She say anything?” Tipping my head.

My mother presses her lips together. Winni inspects her can.

“Mom?” Bucky watches her.

“Nothing we should take serious, honey.” Winni smiles, only it shakes slightly on the edges.

“Shouldn’t we get to decide on that?” His brow dropping down.

“Mom,” I stare at my own. She chews the inside of her cheek for a moment.

“She said you won’t last at the head of the table. That you’ll be the fall of our families.” She watches me, fear in her eyes.

Nodding slowly. I look to Bucky who is watching me.

“They better get through me. And if she falls, I’ll take everyone of them with me.” His blue eyes darken with anger.

“She said you won’t make it to marriage.” Winni whispers.

I grin. “They come for him, and hell better bring it’s biggest army, cause I’ll destroy everything in my path.” Shrugging.

Bucky smirks, nodding softly.

“I am Satan, and hell has nothing on me. Or what I will do to this town, if so, be it.” Looking to my mother.

------------ Everything Peaches 9/21/2024 @mo320 @ml7010 @kmc1989 @babizza @coley0823 @destiel-artemis @royal-sunflower @camelliasblossom @shinycupcakebaker @purpleeclipseeggsland @daughterofthenight117 @hisredheadedgoddess28

Bucky 'Fuck Me Up' Barnes: @jbbarnesgirl @kaylaphantomhive

Series tags: @sebastians-love @otterlycanadian