#but hes in every memory you have of your childhood and he shaped the person youve become since adolescence

[hallawayheart-moved]

do you feel ashamed when you hear my name? 

[thebiggerbear]

"What do you see in him?" "Everything you don't." - Soldier Boy Prompt Response

Summary: Hughie and everyone don't understand what you see in Soldier Boy but they also haven't seen what you've seen: Ben.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Female!Supe!Reader

A/N: This is part of the Soldier Boy/Beau Arlen/Dean Winchester/CJ Braxton/Alec McDowell/Jason Teague/Tom Hanniger/Russell Shaw/Boaz Priestly/Jake Gray/Jensen Ackles RPF prompt response project I've been working on the last month (previewed here). This idea immediately popped into my head for it.

All unbeta'd.

Warnings: language; implied past sexual assault (not SB); mentions of implied drug use; mentions of violence; mentions of death

Word Count: 2199

Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187; @rieleatiel; @hobby27; @impala67rollingthroughtown

Soldier Boy Taglist: @birdiellie; @heartlessdelusions; @brightlilith; @muhahaha303; @just-levyy

@solacedthistest; @deansimpala; @foxyjwls007; @onlyangel-444; @faephoria

@believeinthefireflies95

Jensen Taglist: @samanddeaninatrenchcoat; @deansbbyx; @lyarr24; @bts24; @deans-spinster-witch

@rebel-paladin; @nancymcl

You can also read on AO3

Beau Arlen | Dean Winchester | CJ Braxton | Jake Gray | Jason Teague | Boaz Priestly | Russell Shaw | Tom Hanniger | Jensen Ackles RPF | Alec McDowell

Once MM stormed out of the room, followed by a glaring Butcher, Annie, Kimiko, and Hughie descended on you. Frenchie stayed in the corner, beyond shocked — so shocked he forgot to puff away at his still burning cigarette.

“Seriously?” Annie spat angrily.

Hughie looked more disappointed than pissed off at you, and that somehow bothered you more than Annie’s fury ever could have. “Y/N, you’ve got to explain this one to me. I don’t…” He took a deep breath and began again. “The guy’s a fossil. A racist, homicidal, perverted piece of shit fossil.” Hughie placed his hands on his hips. “What do you even see in the guy?”

Kimiko furiously signed a repeat of the question.

You knew Hughie was right. Soldier Boy had done a lot of fucked up shit — shit that wasn’t forgivable in any way, shape, or form. But you also knew Ben, the man underneath all of that asinine machismo and false bravado. You’d seen glimpses of him here and there when no one else had, when Ben himself hadn’t even known you had. It also didn’t hurt that you’d seen memories of his childhood play in his mind or saw flashes of his strained relationship with his father — the man he could never live up to or gain his approval, no matter how hard he tried. There was a lot swimming underneath the surface of that green suit, under that indestructible skin, that had gotten corrupted and then shaped by easy fame, a greedy corporation, and more drugs than any person should have coursing through their system on a daily basis, even a Supe. All of it was certainly no excuse for the things he’d done, but you knew there was more to him than who he’d been, who he was now even — you’d literally seen it.

So you looked your oldest friend in the eye and spoke as honestly as you could. “Everything you don’t,” you told him quietly before walking out of the room in the opposite direction MM and Butcher had gone in. You came to a stop outside the door when you saw Ben standing there, his green eyes watching you sharply. 

He had obviously heard every word and while it wasn’t exactly something you wanted him to find out, you refused to act embarrassed or caught out. So you stuck your chin up a little higher, daring him to say something he would end up regretting should he piss you off.

“You saw a lot more than you let on when they had you do a read on me after pulling me out of the tube.” Not a question but a statement, one that didn’t contain any traces of surprise.

He was right; you had seen plenty — some things you’d rather forget. But you had meant what you said to Hughie just before, to Butcher and the team before that. There was more to him than the green suit, than the America’s Son bullshit facade, and even the horrible things he had done in his time. There was something there worth trying to extricate, to let see the light of day that hadn’t in a very long time. 

You didn’t respond to what he’d said; you had no need to. You only watched him as he watched you.

Ben took a few wary steps forward until he was right in front of you. He carefully reached out a hand to your cheek, laying his fingers along your skin when he saw that you didn’t immediately pull away from him. 

“So,” he started, his voice a little more gravelly than usual as he spoke quietly to you, only for your ears and his. He tenderly ran his thumb near the corner of your mouth. “I matter to you, huh?”

When you thought he was indeed making fun of you as he thought he might, echoing your words back to you, you noticed a small smile forming on his face as his eyes roamed over yours. You had seen plenty of smiles from the man since you’d first seen him a couple of months ago or so — mostly smug smirks or leering grins, usually aimed at everyone but you — but you had never seen this one before. It caught you off guard so much, you were captivated. “You know you do,” you murmured. 

He stared at you for a moment, glancing between you and your mouth, and then slowly leaned in. When his lips gently connected to yours, you felt an immediate electric shock travel through your system. So much so that you started seeing images playing behind your eyelids that weren’t your own. 

…Him listening to you and Hughie bicker in the next room about which Billy Joel song was the best (We Didn’t Start the Fire for you and Pressure for him) and how he smiled to himself when you told Hughie in a playful tone to suck it when the little whiny bitch tried to show you what the critics helmed the better song. 

…Ben getting angry when some piece of shit Supe had the balls to put his hand on your ass at Herogasm — a hand he immediately crushed.

…Him surreptitiously studying each interaction between you and Butcher, noting the hostility but begrudging respect between you, wondering if there was a story there and if there was, how he planned to convince you that he was the better man for you compared to the backstabbing Brit.

…Him rushing to protect you with his shield when one of Homelander’s team of misfits you didn’t see coming nearly killed you with a massive blow. You felt the rage coursing through his veins when he noticed a small trickle of blood coming from a wound near your scalp as you glanced up at him gratefully. Most of the Supes you had engaged had died that day and now you knew exactly why.

…Ben watching you out of the corner of his eye when you stood at the window, arms crossed and ominously silent, after MM had mentioned The Deep while planning on how to take out Homelander. He waited until everyone had cleared out, even Hughie who had squeezed your shoulder as he passed you by, and Ben carefully approached you from behind, torn between wanting to pull you back into his large frame to cage you protectively in his arms or to ask what was the matter. He had ended up going with the latter and you simply said “Kevin’s not a good person” and walked away, your shoulders a little more sunken down than he’d ever seen them. You felt his resolve from that moment and now knew why he had gone after The Deep with such a laser focus before even bothering with Homelander. 

…You reassuring him when he suddenly woke from a sound sleep, gasping and wide-eyed, as his chest began glowing — a result of him not self-medicating nearly as much as he used to. He had wanted you to feel safe around him so he’d cut back on the Bennies, the reefer, the booze, and even the women. He would never admit it out loud but he cared deeply about what you thought. Unbeknownst to you at the time, when you had first seen inside his head, he had gotten a glimpse inside of yours, too. And what he had seen…he wanted to be a man worthy of you. Or at least try his best. You were everything he hadn’t even known he wanted until that moment. So he had made a valiant effort to kick the drug and alcohol habit to the side but it didn’t come without consequences for him. Ben had dreamt he was back in Russia, stuck in a box as they poked and prodded at him, laughing and telling him he would never be free and he would never see anyone again. When he heard your voice telling him he was safe, he grasped for you and you let him, even though he felt you tense up at his greedy touch. “Sorry,” he gruffed out and immediately released you, worried he had either hurt you without meaning to or had made you uncomfortable in his bid to make sure you were real. “It’s okay,” you whispered, picking up his hand and placing it in between both of yours. “I’m right here. You’re safe.” When he felt your thumb tenderly swiping over his knuckles in reassuring strokes, he rasped out, “Did you see?” Instead of answering, you reached up to lay a hand against his cheek. “You’re home now and you’re never going back.” Your words were a fiery promise enforced by the steely resolve in your eyes. “I won’t let you.” He gently held his hand over yours and the glow in his chest receded; he believed you.

…Him watching you as you slept on the opposite end of the couch. You mumbled and sighed a lot in your sleep and it fascinated him. Earlier, when you had found the show he wanted, he had asked you to sit and watch with him, just in case he didn’t understand any of the references. You had obliged and promptly drifted off two episodes in. To Ben, it was a huge ego boost; you felt safe and comfortable enough around him that you could fall asleep near him. As he watched you, hearing your sounds, he really wanted to know what you were dreaming about, especially when your brows knit together and you let out a terrified whimper. He had picked you up without waking you and held you close to him. “You’re okay, doll,” he promised in a soothing murmur to your hairline. “I’ve got you and nothing is going to happen. I won’t let it.” He heard you inhale deeply and then release a contented sigh a moment later. You relaxed in his arms, curling into him, and he stayed like that the entire night: holding you as he watched episode after episode of Friends, something he had only picked because he thought you might like it enough to agree when he planned to ask you to stay. As much as he enjoyed the sound of your voice when you patiently explained things to him, the night turned out even better than he dared to hope, especially when you subconsciously buried your face into his neck and stayed cocooned there. Only when he heard you beginning to stir back into consciousness hours later did he gently place you back in the spot you fell asleep in, pretending not to notice when you fully woke up, opening one sleepy eye to find him in front of you. He shrugged off your apology and glanced over to find you softly smiling at him, causing a strange twinge to happen inside his chest, something reminiscent of when the nuclear reactor inside of him went off but far less dangerous…and much more pleasant.

The images faded as he slowly pulled back a few inches, his green gaze staring deeply into yours. “Was that okay?”

You slowly nodded, still beyond shocked not only at what you had seen or how gentle the kiss had been, but also the sensations it had caused to sweep through you — things you were pretty sure you’d never feel in your lifetime. Hints of desire and a lightness whispered throughout your body as another stronger emotion gained a foothold and blanketed your entire being. Whereas it might have frightened you before, it didn’t now. You knew you were safe, protected, and after this kiss, you now also knew you were cherished to a certain extent.  

Almost as if he knew what you were thinking, fleeting relief gave way to a small smile on his face and he tenderly placed his thumb on your chin. “Good. Because you matter to me, too.”  

You couldn’t help but smile in return, seeing his eyes light up, and you gently framed his face in your hands. You stood on the tips of your toes and pressed your lips to his again, eager to see more as he willingly put his guard down to let you completely in. You also wanted to experience that rush of sensations again with him and this time when he wrapped his arms around you to carefully hold you against him, you buried your fingers into his hair and only deepened the kiss. It wasn’t Soldier Boy who was kissing you back and whose thumb tenderly brushed against your jawline; it was Ben — the very Ben you’d seen hidden underneath all of the layers of toxic masculinity, simmering rage, and the Supe tamping down the man with years of drug use, womanizing, and an overinflated ego. And from the images and thoughts swimming in your mind that didn’t belong to you, your Ben by all accounts. Something that sadly Hughie and the rest would never understand or even be willing to try. But as Ben soundly kissed you, when he broke away to let you catch your breath and placed his forehead against yours, tenderly rubbing strands of your hair that had come loose between his fingertips, you found that part didn’t really bother you all that much.

dividers by @firefly-graphics

[shjsnjkj]

Kinktober Masterlist '24

-`♡´- This masterlist is made by me and @luviwon, the sweetest girlie I know. We decided to split the list in half but you can also find some episodes we wrote together! I will post on the odd days while she will on the even ones. ♡ You can find @luviwon's masterlist here! -taglist is open I hope that everyone will love our work as we put a lot of effort into it. Make sure to reblog and leave feedback if you liked it! Sending lots of love! ૮₍ • ˕ - ₎ა♡₊˚ -link to my masterlist!

OCTOBER 1 --- LEE HEESEUNG' COME 2 ME

☆ boyfriend!heeseung x girlfriend!reader ; After a rough day at work, you finally stepped out of the office building, only to find yourself caught in a sudden downpour. That would've been no problem because you love rainy days, but you didn't have an umbrella, and your phone's battery died as well. You prayed that your boyfriend, Heeseung would pass by your workplace and pick you up, but you knew he was working late. But not today, he came to you with his new car. You were so happy to see him and couldn't wait to thank him for saving you tonight. “You know, I’m ready. Waiting for you every night. Entrusting myself to your touch”

OCTOBER 2 --- YANG JUNGWON' MY PERSONAL STYLIST

☆ stylist!jungwon x model!reader ; Jungwon always finds the most fashionable pieces of clothing for you to try out, but when one day he decides to wrap you up in his own hands, well that becomes your new favourite fit.

OCTOBER 3 --- PARK JONGSEONG' THE BOY NEXT DOOR

☆ bnd!jay x reader ; Thunderstorms, no electricity, no key to your apartment. The only thing you could do was to stay for the night at your neighbor, Jay's apartment.

OCTOBER 4 --- SIM JAEYUN' ANNIVERSARY BREEDING

☆ boyfriend!jake x girlfriend!reader ; Before you know it, you reach your 5th anniversary with your boyfriend, and before you feel it, he is 8inch deep inside you. but this time, he will leave a special present there for you.

OCTOBER 5 --- PARK SUNGHOON' MY SUMMER LOVE

☆ sunghoon x reader ; It was August 31st, and you were heading back home tomorrow because of school. Unfortunately, sleep didn't come easily. Your mind kept replaying all the memories you had with Sunghoon this summer, except for one. The one you'll be making tonight with the help of his camera. “Fly through the deep night to you. In the thick darkness, I will hold you again”

OCTOBER 6 --- KIM SUNOO' MUTUAL TOUCHING

☆ bestfriend!sunoo x reader ; Someone once said that having a sleepover with your boy best friend is not the smartest idea. you wondered why, until you returned to your bedroom to find Sunoo touching himself and ultimately agreeing to pleasure each other.

OCTOBER 7 --- PARK SUNGHOON' BEST FRIENDS, RIGHT?

☆ bestfriend!sunghoon x reader ; Jealousy. This was the first time you felt that emotion while seeing your childhood best friend, Sunghoon around girls except you. You hated to admit it, but you found out yourself craving his touch every time you saw him. Maybe today is the day, to be honest and open up to him.

OCTOBER 8 --- NISHIMURA RIKI' CLASSROOM HOOK UP

☆ classmate!niki x reader ; You really hated the physical education class, and so did your classmate niki. but skipping it together didn’t keep you from finding another way to burn some calories.

OCTOBER 9 --- SIM JAEYUN' MIDNIGHT FICTION

☆ roommate!jake x reader ; You have this little habit, of reading fanfictions before going to bed. Every night you'd dream about him touching you, heavily making out at the wall. But you never thought that this would come true tonight with your roommate Jake.

OCTOBER 10 --- PARK JONGSEONG' MY FITNESS INSTRUCTOR

☆ fitness instructor!jay x reader ; Wishing to get in shape for summer, you hired your own instructor to help you reach your goal. yet later one, your only fitness target turned into feeling him press hard against your ass while bending down to stretch your body.

OCTOBER 11 --- LEE HEESEUNG' FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS

☆ fwb!heeseung x reader ; “I’ll be alone tonight, do you wanna come over?” This was Heeseung's first time at your place. You were on your own at home, and he couldn't wait to touch you again after agreeing to this relationship. It was snowy outside, but inside your home all the windows became foggy that night due to the hot air between you two.

OCTOBER 12 --- KIM SUNOO' PHONE SEX

☆ dating app stranger!sunoo x dating app user!reader

; “lonely at night? don’t worry, ‘call a lover’ will bring you the company you need in just a couple of seconds”. out of curiosity, you downloaded the dating app mentioned in the ad, just to say goodbye to boredom. I mean, it’s not like you’ll end up moaning a stranger’s name tonight, right?

OCTOBER 13 --- SIM JAEYUN' STARRY NIGHT

☆ chrucrchboy!jake x reader ; “You and I under the moonlight. We bloom at night.” Jake and you have been friends since you relocated to the same area. You never imagined that this sweet guy you go to church with every Sunday would have these naughty fantasies about you, and no one else. After your birthday, he took you to a beautiful garden far from your home, where you could make love in secret, unheard.

OCTOBER 14 --- YANG JUNGWON' PORNSTAR COLLAB

☆ pornstar!jungwon x pornstar!reader

; Having been in the adult industry for only a year, you’re constantly surprised by what the directors come up with next. but who would have guessed that their latest surprise would be filming a scene with your favorite actor?

OCTOBER 15 --- LEE HEESEUNG' BIRTHDAY SEX

☆ boyfriend!heeseung x girlfriend!reader ; Heeseung’s 23th birthday. You decided to surprise your boyfriend with the members after their concert. He loved every single minute of it, especially the ones you two shared throughout the night. You didn’t hesitate and relaxed in the indoor jacuzzi with some champagne and strawberries covered in …

OCTOBER 16 --- SIM JAEYUN' POST-MATCH

☆ football captain!jake x cheerleader!reader ; When it comes to football, you know that for Jake a new victory means a following night out with the boys. this time, though, luck is not on their side and Jake’s frustration needs to be buried somewhere else. maybe inside you would be just the great spot for that.

OCTOBER 17 --- PARK JONGSEONG' LULLABY

☆ uncle!jay x niece!reader ; Going on a vacation with your uncle looked like a wonderful idea. But little did you know, you will share a bedroom with him.

OCTOBER 18 --- KIM SUNOO' FAMILY DINNER FINGERING

☆ fiancé!sunoo x reader ; It didn’t take long for everyone in your family to hear about your engagement, so they organised a dinner to celebrate the two of you. but truth be told, can sunoo really keep his hands away from you under the eyes of other people? or will he just not give a damn about it and let his fingers do their trick?

OCTOBER 19 --- PARK SUNGHOON' GLASSES

☆ boss!sunghoon x worker!reader ; “I can’t endure it anymore, come to me. Just a little bit closer.” Stealing glances with your boss wasn't the best idea, especially when you're working on an important project and you're supposed to give it your all. He didn't like the result, it was full of mistakes and you had to get yourself together, as he said. So you had to stay overtime. Nevertheless, you were not alone, Sunghoon stayed with you and helped you get yourself together in every way possible.

OCTOBER 20 --- YANG JUNGWON' BEACH SEX

☆ ex boyfriend!jungwon x ex girlfriend!reader ; Going on a trip with your highschool group of friends sounds all perfect until you find out your ex will be there too. And you feel annoyed about it, that until you end up on top of him with your swimming suit buried somewhere in the sand. “We don’t need to tell your new boyfriend about it, sweetheart”

OCTOBER 21 --- LEE HEESEUNG' DAD'S BEST FRIEND

☆ heesung x reader ; Heeseung was your favorite person when you were a little girl, but after moving to a new country, you slowly started to forget him through the ages. Forget all his beautiful features, the memories you shared with him, and the song he sang to you the last night you saw him. Receiving little kisses and sleeping with him wasn't the same as you remembered either.

OCTOBER 22 --- PARK JONGSEONG' BACKSTAGE SUPPORT

☆ idol!jay x girlfriend!reader ; Performing on stage is indeed stressful, so sometimes Jay just needs his antistress toy to calm down. that’s why you wait for him patiently in the backstage, just in case he needs to recharge in between performances.

OCTOBER 23 --- PARK SUNGHOON' MOONSTRUCK

☆ sunghoon x reader ; Your fiancé, your parents, and your loved ones are waiting for you to show up at the altar in that beautiful white dress. But you are not even in the same place with them. Right now you're with Sunghoon, hand in hand, melting into each other's touch with your engagement ring on the ground.

OCTOBER 24 --- YANG JUNGWON' MIRROR KINK

☆ boyfriend!jungwon x girlfriend!reader ; A new house brings new surprises, and the bedroom ceiling mirror is no exception. at first, you don’t give it too much thought —until you catch your boyfriend’s reflection in it, relentlessly pleasuring you.

OCTOBER 25 --- NISHIMURA RIKI' LIPS

☆ rival!niki x reader ; You and Niki were the best dancers in the whole school, but everyone knew that you were enemies. One day, someone spread a rumor that the two of you were secretly dating. As soon as you heard it, you ran to Niki and asked him what was going on. "I wouldn't mind if the rumors were true." -He said.

OCTOBER 26 --- KIM SUNOO' SHOWER SEX

☆ step brother!sunoo x reader ; “What about we just share this one today?” Sunoo whispers into your ear, slowly taking more of your personal space inside the shower cabin. “let’s just wash these sinful desires of ours away here for now.”

OCTOBER 27 --- NISHIMURA RIKI' ONE PLUS ONE EQUALS ORAL TIME

☆ rich boy!niki x tutor!reader ; as Niki's grades keep considerably going down, you are being in charge of bringing them back to an average score, giving him private lessons at his house. Niki's stubbornness, though, and his constant dirty lines to flirt with you, do not help at all. so coming to an agreement together, you offer a little bit of you to every right answer he gets. it goes without saying now that by the end of the day, he would have mastered the subject just as much as your body.

OCTOBER 28 --- MAKNAE LINE' DRINKING GAME

☆ boyfriend!niki x girlfriend!reader x best friends!sunwon ; One too many drinks lead to the raise of unexpected secret fantasies, and that's how a birthday party for Jungwon turns into a dirty race, fighting for who to fill your holes next. and you would think your boyfriend Niki could never allow that, but the growing bulge in his pants when Sunoo is fucking you from behind, well, says something totally different.

OCTOBER 29 --- HYUNG LINE' ACT LIKE AN ANGEL, DRESS LIKE CRAZY

☆ brother!niki x sister!reader x brother's friend group!hyung line ; You came across as angelic to everyone, but deep down, that wasn't really you. only you know who you truly are, and you were ready to break free from expectations tonight and do all the things with your brother's best friends that you've always dreamed of.

OCTOBER 30 --- PARK SUNGHOON & KIM SUNOO' PANORAMA

☆ ambassador!sunsun x photographer!reader ; You always captured the models and the million-dollar products from afar. To be honest, you always wanted to try on some jewelry or something luxurious after being done with your work. Tonight you not just tried on the gems, you felt them as close as possible. Not to mention you got the chance to admire the streets of Tokyo from above with the help of the two ambassadors of Cartier taking turns behind your back.

OCTOBER 31 --- ENHYPEN' DARK MOON

☆ enhypen x reader ; Holding a halloween party on an abandoned island does not sound like the greatest idea at first, but it gets so much better when you get the best prizes for simply being there. as they wish to fulfill your dirty desires, enhypen organises a small game of hide and seek for you. but this one is a little different, as the prize for finding each and everyone is feeling them deep inside you, one by one, taking over your body and treating you just like the sex doll you wished to be. be careful, though, as there might be scary traps on the way to your reward (even though you can confirm that the only scary thing would be chocking on anything else other than their cocks)

[thebibliosphere]

Wait, is Jason in Gotham Knights body horror? Because it doesn't feel like his body even tho he's controlling it? (He died, he came back, it's not the same and never will be)

Or is it more analogous to puberty and feeling like you don't know anything about your body anymore?

Just having thoughts about that boy again

I think Jason in Gotham Knights is very much connected with his physical body. It's his biggest weapon, possibly more so than his guns, given his lasting connection to the Lazarus Pit and the power it gives him.

His backstory talks about building himself up to peak physical condition into the absolute unit he is now, and you can either see that as someone trying to reconnect with their physical self or someone vowing never to be small or weak again.

I tend to think of it as both. It's a reclamation of his physical form but also a transformation into something bigger and stronger that ensures he's the scariest, meanest-looking mother fucker in the room. Basically someone you can't underestimate as a threat.

(Try not to think too hard about the fact that he now largely resembles Bruce in stature, that he is now the group's heavy hitter, the most menacing and the most likely to strike fear into the heart of his opponents, and that Jason molded himself into the person he needed to be rescued by as a child. Don't do it. Do not. I am normal about this.)

But he obviously struggles with feeling present mentally sometimes.

You'll see him zoning out occasionally, touching the J-shaped scar on his face before violently shaking himself back into the present.

He has panic attacks while playing a dance video game with a coffin in it—a coffin his character becomes trapped in because he's not moving fast enough. (hello, trauma)

He's angry all the time and so relieved when Barbra expresses her own rage at something because, yes, finally, someone else is letting their emotions out instead of bottling it up (Dick).

His emails are littered with orders for self-help books, emails from his therapist moving his sessions around, and concerned messages from his friends (Roy comes to mind) saying if he needs to get out of Gotham, they'll make it happen.

Alfred holding him while he sobs over losing Bruce still breaks me every time. I have to pause the game and walk around my house until I feel normal again.

And then there's the cut scene where Dick asks, "Hey, remember that time we all [insert funny thing here]," and Jason admits, somewhat angrily, that no, he doesn't because Lazarus took entire swaths of memories from him and he hates how he can't connect with people the way he used to and he hates the way they all look at him (the way Dick is looking at him now) when he admits he doesn't remember something they clearly loved about the old him: the version of him who didn't have volatile mood swings or made people flinch when he did something as mundane as handle a kitchen knife -- the undead monster he came back as*.

The fact that Dick then contrives to recreate this memory so Jason can be included in a newer version of it -- while also giving him what is arguably a weapon -- fucks me up every time. Dick just yeets a kitchen knife at him, trusting that Jason will catch it, and then just steamrolls over Jason's rightful 'what the fuck' expression with "Hey, we're making food. Get dicing."

And Jason knows what they're all doing. He's aware of it, and he gets the teeniest, tiniest smile before smothering it out. Except he can't quite. He's still smiling as he chops the vegetables. And yes, they're all hopeless at cooking compared to him, and he knows he's going to end up taking over, but that's okay. Because this is for him. He gets to control it.

And that's how Jason gets to make a new memory, one where he is handed a weapon and gets to turn it into a genuine expression of nurturing and care.

Because he does care about them. He wouldn't conspire with Dick to bake Barbara's favorite childhood cookies if he didn't. He wouldn't try so hard to be gentle with Tim triggering the shit out of him while he's struggling with his grief. He just doesn't always know how to express it because he doesn't always know what he's feeling.

Is his anger valid? Or is this Lazarus Pit Rage? Is he being overly sensitive because of his trauma, or is everyone else underreacting because of their trauma? (Should he sign them all up for therapy, quite probably, yes.)

So, you could perhaps argue that Jason experiences body horror in the sense that he doesn't remember all the pieces of who he used to be. (Speaking as someone with severe memory loss from medical trauma, it's certainly a type of horror.) But I don't think it's because he's detached from it physically or doesn't feel in control of his body. I think it's his mind that worries him.

His body he can control. It's his mind that still sparks green sometimes.

---

*Re the scene with Tim when Tim calls the Talons monsters. "What about me? Do you think I'm a monster?"

No, they don't.

But Jason does. And it scares him shitless.

[songsofadelaide]

Soshiro wasn't a stickler for rules. However, he didn't like seeing officers flout rules, either. He always stood somewhere in between sticking to the rules while not being a strait-laced, by-the-book kind of leader.

With that being said, he really had no qualms about workplace relationships as long as they didn't get in the way of his officers' jobs.

Soshiro couldn't be completely against the whole thing. Not when you were around. If he were being honest, though, he would've been one of his Captain's biggest headaches if not for his great respect for her. Mina liked order, and she always took pride in an orderly Third Division. For her own Vice Captain to become the main source of mayhem would spell trouble for her.

Good thing he liked staying out of trouble. Save for a few exceptions. Involving you, his favourite Platoon Leader. Not that he'd ever outright admit it, too.

He did admit to how you piqued his interest the moment you decided to enlist in the Defense Force. You were a retired fencer, your papers bookmarked with a recommendation by the Japan Fencing Federation— but whatever skill with a sabre you have would prove useless, seeing the force's growing preference for automatic firearms. Fortunately, that wasn't the case for the Third Division. They'll always have room for blade masters, or at least that's what you've been told during the Presentation of Enlistment Certificate Ceremony.

And Soshiro liked how good you looked in your formal uniform. He'd never admit that outright, too, unless he wanted to be accused of favouritism for real. (Or worse: predatory behaviour by a senior officer.)

While you were mostly a reserved and unassuming person off the field, many of your colleagues called you a raging tempest in missions, the kind they'd get swept away in if they ever got in your way. You endeavoured to accomplish every task as swiftly and efficiently as possible— without breaking ranks, of course. Your tenacity was rewarded in the form of a promotion to Platoon Leader, an unexpected but welcomed opportunity. Soshiro seemed to agree with the Captain that you were a worthy investment and that other officers could stand to learn a thing or two from you.

You tried not to pay too much mind at the Vice Captain's growing interest in you, though you had to admit that it was pretty flattering. The second strongest person in the Third Division placed a lot of stock in your ability to get the job done. And though you've had your shortcomings, your accountability endeared yourself to him even more.

(So much so that Mina had to remind him of his position. She had no qualms about workplace relationships as long as they didn't get in the way of her officers' jobs. As long as order was maintained, too.)

Even you couldn't help your curiosity when you caught wind that this year's new recruits were an exceptional bunch— and that one happened to share tremendously intimate history with the Captain. It was a sizzling hot press release you couldn't help but sink your teeth into when Tae started talking your ears off about it.

You tried not to make that much noise as you both made your way back to your personal quarters that evening, but your topic was far too interesting to just stop and drop— it was about your usually pensive Captain...

"Do you think the Captain will start softening up?" You couldn't help but muse as you helped yourself to your canned coffee.

"Doubt it! This is Captain Ashiro we're talking about," your fellow Platoon Leader remarked. "Then again, she's still a woman..."

Pretty much, you thought to yourself. Woman or not, a person's relationships shape the way others view them. Officer Hibino's revelations about his shared childhood memories with Captain Ashiro painted her in a new light, unveiling her as a tender girl in her youth— more human than machine like everyone else thought her to be...

"I heard something interesting about you, too," Tae said, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "One of the rookies said they already knew you from before. When you were still a professional fencer."

There's only one, you sighed to yourself this time. "It must be Haruichi-kun. If you must know, Tae-chan, Izumo Tech sponsored my fencing journey, especially when I was just starting out."

"That's not all, too," she chuckled at your slight change of tone. "Last I heard, the kid might even have a crush on you."

"That is not true at all," you elbowed her and laughed at her statement. "That's probably the most absurd thing I've heard in my entire life. Haruichi-kun is—"

"Why do you think it's absurd? I think it's ridiculously truthful," came the voice of a man from behind you.

"Vice Captain! G-Good evening!" You squeaked and managed a salute as Soshiro made his approach. He didn't look like he was ready to retire for the night just yet, but was just hanging around.

"Kafka's tales have made the rounds, huh?"

"It's hard not to get roped into the gossip when it's so interesting," Tae said with a grin. "And with a Captain like ours who's so well-loved and well-respected, it's pretty tempting to hear what kind of person she was when she was just a kid."

"Yeah, she really went for her goals and succeeded," you nodded in agreement. "She's awe-inspiring."

"We're all aware of how amazing our Captain is," Soshiro stated with the same recognisable cheer in his voice. "But what's that thing about you and one of the rookies again?"

"Y-You mean about me and Haruichi-kun, Vice Captain? I-I mean Officer Izumo—"

The redhead standing right next to you could only purse her lips to prevent herself from laughing out loud, because by the gods, only she and a handful of other superior officers were aware of their Vice Captain's vested interest-turned-infatuation with you. And this was their Vice Captain getting all jealous and territorial with you.

"I'm just gonna go ahead and turn in for the night," Tae said as she nudged you before breaking out into a salute directed at Soshiro. "Good night, Vice Captain!"

"T-Tae-chan?!" You could only call out to your fellow Platoon Leader as she disappeared into the darkened hallway leading to your quarters. A little whimper of defeat left your lips as you turned back in the direction of your Vice Captain. "Vice Captain—"

"Are you two close?"

"Huh?"

"You and the rookie."

Close wasn't exactly the right word for you two. Haruichi was your main sponsor's son. You've met a lot of times before and have nothing but great respect for each other. A silly crush doesn't do him any justice. That rumour was made in poor taste and faith.

You shook your head at your superior. "We're familiar with each other, but not really as close as everyone thinks."

"Is that so?" Soshiro said, not at all sounding convinced. "If I ask him, will he say the same thing?"

"I suppose," you replied to him with another small sigh of resignation. "I'm sorry, Vice Captain. It's not a nice rumour, if you ask me... I feel sorry for... the rookie for being embroiled in this mess."

"Don't apologise because of that," he said as he reached out for your hand. "If you're going to apologise, at least say sorry because I heard it and believed it."

You can confirm now that he wasn't there to reprimand you at all since his hold on you was both tender and solid. There was a storm in his wine-dark gaze— languid but brewing, and the way he looked at you made you want to dive right into the depths of his eyes.

"Hoshina likes you."

It was a thought you pushed at the very back of your mind ever since your Captain first let that slip when you took a bath together once. You thought she was joking at first, but she didn't take it back at all.

"But you didn't hear that from me."

And she even followed it up with, "don't let your personal feelings get in the way of your work"— like hell this revelation won't get in the way of your work!

You didn't want to think about it at all but here it was, staring you right in your face.

"Vice Captain, can we t—"

No, what were you thinking? The moment you say you want to talk about it will change everything. You'll blur the fine line between superior and subordinate. He'll cease being just your Vice Captain and become something else.

Something more.

"If you want to talk, let's do it somewhere more comfortable," he told you as you caught the twinkle of expectation in his eyes. You were likely playing into his hands now, so what else could you do but dance to his rhythm?

"Yes, of course. My personal quarters are nearby," you said, pointing in the direction of the dimly lit hallway that Tae disappeared into moments ago. "If... If it's all right with you..."

Soshiro didn't speak as he eyed your embarrassed face, but his mischievous, victorious cat-like smile did all the talking for him. It was he who opened the door and led you in, his hand warm on the small of your back even though you extended the invitation to him. And though you said you wanted to talk to him— to clear the air and rid yourself of this trepidation and hesitation that you felt— very few and far between words were exchanged that night.

You liked him too, after all. Now all those times your eyes met even though you were just about to look at him made sense. He's had eyes for you ever since.

You drank deep into his wine-coloured eyes while he helped himself to your warmth, the tempest that you were now in his arms as a single beam of sunlight he wanted to keep all to himself.

And keep you he did.

When word got out that the female rookies caught Vice Captain Hoshina leaving your room early the following morning, you already expected to be summoned to the Captain's office that very day.

But instead of being vexed about the situation and her Vice Captain's unusually poor judgment, Mina had a rather amused expression on her otherwise normally calm face as she sat across from you two.

"What happened to not flouting the rules, Hoshina?"

"Hey, it's not like I wanted to get caught!" Soshiro shot back at her, though there was very little he could do in the face of his Captain's evident thrill at his predicament.

"I can turn a blind eye to this, but the rumours are already out there," she continued. "I suppose I'll have to mete out some form of 'punishment' for you both. Just to make an example out of you."

"I-I'll accept whatever punishment you have in mind, C-Captain!" You exclaimed with a stiff and deep bow. You've never been reprimanded by the Captain ever since you first started out in the Third Division. For you to be sanctioned for the very first time... I've really done it this time!

"On second thought, I'll just have you two file this instead," Mina stated as she handed you a single sheet of paper with a header in bold letters that read Workplace Relationship Disclosure Form. "As a formality. It's also a written promise that you won't let your relationship get in the way of your jobs."

"That's it? Piece of cake!" Soshiro said with a smile as he read out the form. "We'll file it now and—"

"You'll file it at headquarters yourselves," she said with a small smile as she stood up from her desk. "Other than that, I hope you two managed to talk things out. You're dismissed."

"Headquarters?! Captain Ashiro! We'll do anything! Just don't make us go there! It's such a pain to get there!" He pleaded with the Captain this time. "We'll tell everyone if we have to! I mean that's not a bad idea, too, so they'll know that we're together! But we're just going to be normal about things, we swear!"

"Just how normal are you two going to be?" The Captain said with a small laugh, just like the one you heard from the rumours. "Just promise me you won't let this affect your work. I have great faith in you both, after all."

"Roger!" You exclaimed in unison, followed by your shared tender laughter.

"Good. Now do 30 laps each before training starts again this afternoon," Mina replied to your enthusiasm with another small smile. "I'm really not letting you guys off the hook that easily."

"Th-That's fine, Captain! We-We'll make a start now!" You stammered before she could change her mind about your choice of consequence, throwing her a salute before eventually jogging out of her office.

"Don't make her run your laps, Hoshina. She'll do it for you without even you asking."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Captain. As if I'd let her do all the heavy lifting herself."

"What do you plan on doing about the rumours?"

"Let them talk. It's even better for us. At least they know now who she belongs to."

[shuenkio]

SECRET GIFT | ˚⋆୨୧˚

Paring: Jungwon x male!reader

Cw: mentioned of dick, masturbate, whimpers, cum in mouth.

Genre: Small nsfw.

Summary: When he surprised you with an unexpected gift.

Read at your own risk.

None- proof read ><

Lack of perfect words.

Your love story with Jungwon began like a gentle whisper. You were the kind of person who preferred to secretly admire from afar, too shy to express your feelings. That all changed when he stumbled upon your life, quite literally. On his first day on campus, he tripped over his own feet and twisted his ankle. As fate would have it, it was you who came to his rescue. Your caring nature and warm personality melted his heart, and in that moment, your connection took flight.

Initially, you saw Jungwon as an innocent soul, a blank canvas brimming with sweetness and charm. The adorable dimples on his face made you want to protect him at all costs. But little did you know that behind that innocent façade, Jungwon was hiding a deeper, more passionate side. On Christmas day, 25th December, you engaged in a playful exchange of gifts. You surprised him with a promise ring, leaving him in tears as he realized the depth of your love. From that moment on, your relationship deepened, shaped by the unique dynamics between you two.

Today, Jungwon was more determined than ever to win the gift exchange, his competitive spirit evident in his confident demeanor. As night fell, you heard a knock on the door of your shared apartment. Opening it revealed Jungwon, a mischievous grin spread across his face. In his hands was a carefully wrapped gift. As your curiosity piqued and your fingers itched to see what was inside, Jungwon only held it out of reach, teasing you playfully. You couldn't help but feel a mix of intrigue and frustration, wondering what surprise awaited within.

*Inside the apartment*

As you sit down with Jungwon in your beautifully decorated apartment, the scent of roses and candlelight fills the air. The Christmas season is in full swing, with the apartment adorned with festive decorations. Enjoying a delicious meal together, you both chat casually about your day, savoring the peaceful atmosphere.

With the main course finished, the true excitement of the gift exchange begins. You hand Jungwon your gift, eagerly waiting for his reaction. He carefully unwraps the present, a mix of curiosity and anticipation on his face.

As Jungwon open the gift, his eyes light up at the sight of the small snow globe inside. A rush of nostalgia washes over him, transporting him back to his childhood years when he first discovered the magic of these trinkets.

He becomes lost in its gentle beauty, his gaze fixed on the swirling snowflakes within. Memories flood his mind, recalling how much joy the snow globe brought him as a child. With a soft smile on his face, he gently holds the snow globe close, cherishing the moment of connection to his past self.

"How- how did you know i love this?" He's stutter, processing how much you about him.

"Your old picture back in the day, i seen every single one of yours, holding this snow globe!" You said. Chuckle at how surprised he's now which give you nothing but a warm feeling.

Jungwon chuckles softly, a tinge of warmth and fondness in his voice. His eyes still fix on the snow globe in his hands.

"Ah, those days..." he muses, a nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I can still picture myself looking at this little snow globe with such glee. I can't believe you still remember that picture. You know me too well, love"

"Now where's my gift darling ~" you asked for the gift. You know that you'll always accept everything he has offer for you, eveb if it's a letter.

You can't help but grin eagerly as Jungwon hands you his gift, your excitement evident on your face. Despite the small size of the package, you know that Jungwon always manages to choose the perfect presents that touch your heart. Taking the tiny box, your hands tremble with anticipation as you carefully remove the wrapping. With a mix of curiosity and joy, you open it to reveal a small letter inside.

"I have nothing other than my love m/n, let's create more memory together i love you 사랑해 >3" You chin turn into a pout, the emotion rush into your face, like you're about to form a tears.

"Babe-- you're so sweet I'm gonna cry"

"I've always love you m/n, but did you read all of my letters?" You tilt your head slightly, before flip the letter to it back and see more words on it.

"The real gift is me?" You read it out loud, furrow your eyebrows slightly, the next thing you know, his half lower body become naked, with a Christmas's bow clenching on his member, only an unbutton shirt clinging on his body.

"What" You face turn into a watermelon color, it's so hot in your point of vew, that you almost get nosebleeds.

He's also shy too, but he shrugged it off let you enjoy the view, waiting for your response.

"Y-you naked and—"

"You like it? I know you always think I'm all cotton candy, but you're wrong babe, I'm as wild as you"

"As wild as who? W-hat?"

"Don't act silly babe, you're masturbate in our bathroom almost everyday aren't you"

The blood rushes to your cheeks, turning them a bright red, How did he found out about you, pleasuring yourself even though you're tried all your best to cover it. Slowly, Jungwon closes the distance between you, gently cupping your cheeks in his palm. He leans in and brushes a soft kiss against the tip of your nose.

"You want me didn't you? Now that I've won, you have to do anything as i say, right?" He said, his eyes full of lust and desire, in a heart shape, Jungwon's natural blush spreads across his face, which turn you on even more.

In a moment of passion, Jungwon presses his lips against yours, claiming your mouth in a fierce kiss. The intense of the moment leaves you breathless, overwhelmed by the taste, wet lip and feel of his kiss as it deepens. while his naughty hand slide down lower and lower to your neck, rubbing your collarbone as he unbuttoned your shirt one by one until your chest got exposed completely.

You surrender to his desires, allowing him to take control in the moment. As the winner of the gift exchange. and you wouldn't lie when you see his dick twitching in pre-cum and being exposed at the sight, touching your stomuch is just click the button, turning you on like crazy, along with the tie bow wrapped around his crotch, make him looks cute and hot at the same time.

Your hand holding on around his shoulder as you dipping his head pressed against yours harder, leaving no space between you two, let him ruinyour lip till it's red swollen.

His snake-like-hand continue to careless your collarbone, making you're tickled Before squeezing your nipples until it's hard, as your groans let out during the make out session.

"I want you m/n and i know you want me too, do you want to do this with me?" Despite the intensity of the moment and the passion you share, Jungwon remains sensitive and thoughtful, he pauses to seek your consent, ensuring that you are comfortable and willing to doing this m together. You are overwhelmed by a wave of admiration and gratitude, knowing that you have found the love of your life who's perfect inside out.

You nodded in eagerness, wanted to continue as he's smirk in satisfied.

"Do you want you to warm up or doing it raw?" He ask, still asking for your opinion. You respond that you want to take things slow before jumping into it, so he fulfill your wish.

He let you kneel down on the floor, pose his hip a lil more to front, while his hand stroking on his own cock, Pulling the foreskin up and down to expose the head of his crotch.

You spare no more time, didn't hold it back, before grabbing on his shaft, stroking him without his instructions. Your other hand move to his balls, play with it, squeezing it in a seductive manner. The sensation of your talents hand on him, send him a jolted inside his body, as he huffs at the pressured you gave him.

Despite how sensitive he is, in just a few minutes of stroking, he feel like he's on the edge already, his uncut foreskin's moving by your palm non stop, drawing him more and more closer to his climax.

To his surprised, you know he's already in mid way of coming, so you slam your lip, taking all his throbbing inside your mouth in one go, starlets him in a flame of ecasty,as his leg began to trembling and shaking, throwing his head up, facing the ceiling at your unpredictable blow job.

"You're so good m/n, who teaches you all of this Ahhh" he cried out, his whine small moaning, giving you an unknown motivated to suck the life out of him.

He whimpers like a lil boy, squirming in pleasure, as his body signaling him, he's almost reaching his perk.

"I'm about to cum — you sure you don't want to let me cum outside your mouth? — NGH" You reply back with your eyes, knowing that he's about to release, you processing to swirling your tongue on the tip of his length inside your mouth, in circles. Leaving him breathless, with his heartbeat become more shudder in arousal.

In one last jerk, his cum splashing out, inside your throat, pushing the back of your head to take him deeper as he's crushing his hip forward pressed harder against your pretty lip, filled you in with his hot orgasm that he has been saving for a week for this moment.

"P-please swallow it" he said in his embarrassed tone, requesting you to take all his semen. You gulp down all his cum licking all the remaining that leaking from your lip.

"Do you want more babe?" You mumble, asking if he wants more, but you hear nothing from the boy, as he dropped himself down on the chair for a support, his body is numb right now with all arousal he had never felt before, this is the first time of masturbating that hit his sweet spot.

"My tip is.... Huff huff... Very much sensitive right now, let's continue later" he answer in his shaking voice, proving that he's pretty worn out.

You smile happily, enjoy what you just did with him, he's one in a million and it's only for you.

🗣️ please mind my English! ><

🗣️ Reblog and like is much appreciated ♥

🗣️ crd to all pics÷rs

🗣️ I'm suck at summary in this work, so I use some help from bot 🫠 that's why when it's smut, it's different pardon me ><

[kaynothanks]

On His Collar | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Wilson!Reader

Warnings: bucky’s one jealous boi, lil bit of violence, no smut which (for me) really is surprising, smooching, being caught

Summary: Bucky can't keep his hands off you and your brother notices

Word-Count: 12.3K

With a nervous gnawing at the inside of your cheek, you were only half-aware of your leg's relentless fidgeting. Your eyes remained affixed to the world beyond the car window, the landscape blurring as the vehicle, courtesy of Zemo's orchestration, sped on. Vague details of the city drawing closer had filtered through to you via documents and whispers; the scant knowledge of its shadowy dealings enough to stir an unsettling churn within your chest. From a distance, Madripoor was breathtaking, its myriad lights flickering through the rain's swift descent, captured momentarily on the glass before you.

This fleeting illumination conjured memories of a night several months prior, when a call in the deep, silent hours had pierced your tranquility. Urged by his voice, laced with an unspoken desperation, you hadn't hesitated. Your car had cut through the sleeping city of New York, a beacon in the dark, drawn to alleviate his turmoil. The lights of that night, though bearing a resemblance to the ones now stretched before you, held a beauty tinged with a personal touch, perhaps making them appear even more enchanting.

You released a breath tinged with anxiety, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the scant dress that, for reasons unknown, Zemo had at his disposal. The material, with its thinness and the overlay of silver glitter, chafed against your skin, a constant reminder of its presence. However, the knowledge of Zemo's opulent wealth lent you the perspective that this barely-there garment might indeed possess a value surpassing the collective worth of your entire wardrobe.

"You good?" came your brother's voice, close enough to stir the air by your ear, pulling your attention sharply towards him.

For a fleeting moment, you found yourself studying him, ensnared in your own whirlpool of anxiety. The furrow of worry etching deep between his brows sent a sharp pang through your heart. Witnessing this, a desperate plea bubbled within you, a silent yearning for him to cease his endless vigil over you—to halt his attempts at shielding you from every conceivable harm, to stop viewing you through the lens of perpetual childhood, to simply cease the worry that seemed to etch itself into his very being. The thought of being the source of such profound distress, such tangible sorrow for him, was more than you could bear. Heaven knows, the troubles you'd landed yourself in, the predicaments from which he'd extricated you time and again, were countless, far beyond what your fingers could tally.

Sam was the epitome of the brother everyone should be blessed with. From the tender years of your childhood, he had been the figure you looked up to, the beacon that guided many of the choices that had shaped your life. And in the wake of your father's passing, his protective instincts didn't just increase; they surged, enveloping you in a steadfast, unwavering care. He was your rock, your constant, in a world that seemed all too ready to shift beneath your feet. Always there, without fail.

Your decisions often found themselves at odds with his views, sparking debates that seemed as endless as they were passionate. A vivid memory that stood out was when you announced your intention to follow in his footsteps and join the Marines. What ensued was a marathon two-hour discourse, laden with reasons he believed painted a vivid picture of why the military was a mismatch for someone like you. You had absorbed every word, every concern, yet your resolve had remained unshaken. In hindsight, the wisdom woven into his admonitions might have merited deeper consideration, a realization that dawned on you with greater clarity once you found yourself deployed to the turbulent south.

It was there, amidst the chaos and the distance from home, that you began to truly comprehend the depth of Sam's anxiety for your well-being—a sentiment that became reciprocal as concern for your family gnawed at you. Sarah, battling to keep the family business afloat while nurturing two young boys in Sam's absence, became a focal point of your worries. Meanwhile, Sam's life, veiled in the secrecy of countless missions, left a chasm between your shared experiences. Often, he returned with stories he couldn't share, silences that spoke louder than words, deepening your understanding of the burdens he carried and the protective shield he tried to extend over you from miles away.

Had you heeded his words, the tapestry of your life might have been woven with different threads, perhaps even brighter hues. Imagine a reality where you had chosen to stand by Sarah's side, absorbing the tranquility of domestic life rather than the chaos of battle. In that alternate existence, your path would never have intersected with the harrowing battlefield against Thanos. Your presence in the thick of that fight was nothing short of serendipitous, a stark coincidence born from a casual visit to him just as the alarm bells of invasion clanged their ominous toll.

The details of your unexpected journey to Wakanda are shrouded in the mists of adrenaline-fueled urgency, a memory blurred at the edges by the sheer intensity of facing an extraterrestrial threat for the first time. It was an initiation by fire into a reality far removed from anything you had ever known or imagined.

Yet, amidst the whirlwind of chaos and the blur of combat, one memory stands etched with crystal clarity—the visceral sensation of teetering on the brink of oblivion. The cold brush with death is an experience that lingers, a stark reminder of mortality that paints every moment with a sharper contrast, a memory that forever shapes your understanding of life, resilience, and the fragility of existence.

You had weathered the storms of human conflict, battles steeped in the folly and hubris of mankind, but never before had you faced a legion from beyond the stars, intent on culling half of all life in the universe. In the shadow of such an unfathomable threat, your own mortality had seemed inconsequential, dwarfed by the incalculable lives teetering on the edge of annihilation. Driven by a newfound recklessness, a fiery resolve to make a difference, you had abandoned the post Sam had painstakingly chosen for you. You had forsaken safety, charging headlong towards Thanos, the architect of doom.

To him, you were but a speck, a mere human too insignificant to warrant attention, and he had dismissed you with the ease of one swatting away an irritating fly. Yet, with your firearm spent, desperation had lent you audacity. You had launched yourself onto his colossal frame, a knife clutched in your fist, the last vestige of your defiance. You were acutely aware of the invincibility that his skin professed, an armor no earthly might had pierced with lasting effect. But ambition—or perhaps the raw edge of survival—drove you to attempt the impossible: to excise one of the gleaming Infinity Stones from its gauntlet perch.

And in that breathless moment, as your blade kissed the surface of the gauntlet, Thanos's fingers curled into a fateful snap.

The universe hung in the balance, suspended on the cusp of his action and your audacious defiance. Time itself seemed to stand still, awaiting the outcome of a confrontation that had spiraled far beyond the realms of imagination.

When consciousness reclaimed you, five years had vanished into the ether, and you awoke to a world that had moved on without you. The sight that greeted you was your own veins, pulsating with an uncanny luminescence, casting a ghostly glow over the skin they webbed. Your body, once a familiar vessel, now refused the basic command to rise, leaving you sprawled and powerless on the ground. If only you had heeded Sam's directive, you mused bitterly, you might have remained untouched by this curse, spared the constant, gnawing anxiety that now made a den in your heart. Fear had become your unwelcome shadow, looming over you with endless "what ifs." The thought of unintentionally unleashing harm, of your very essence becoming a cataclysmic force capable of leveling cities, was a nightmare that played on an endless loop in your mind.

Through it all, Sam had been your anchor in the tempest, steadfast even as you spiraled into a mire of self-distrust. For three agonizing months, he had nursed you through the turmoil of accepting this altered existence, an existence marked by an estrangement from your own being. Comfort in your own skin had become a foreign concept, an elusive state that you feared might elude you indefinitely. Nowadays, every flicker of your fingers was accompanied by a torrent of anxiety, a silent battle waged between mind and heart. With each throb of your pulse, a cacophony of fears whispered the possibility of harming the one constant in your life—your brother. This new reality was a labyrinth with no visible exit, a path you tread with trepidation, haunted by the potential havoc you could wreak with a mere gesture, a thought, a slip of control.

You took a deep breath, your fingers nervously adjusting the sleek black leather gloves that now served as a barrier between your touch and the world, a precaution against the inadvertent destruction your mere contact could cause. For a fleeting moment, your gaze drifted to him, taking in the precise way his ebony locks were coifed, a style so meticulously arranged atop his head. The shortness of his hair, a detail so starkly different from before, still felt alien to your eyes. Catching his gaze already fixed on you, a silent exchange that spoke volumes, you redirected your attention back to your brother, mustering a smile tinged with awkwardness. "Of course. Stop worrying," you whispered, attempting to lace your voice with reassurance, even as your heart wrestled with its own tempest of concerns.

"I'm your big brother," he reminded you, his tone carrying a hint of playfulness as if introducing a fact that might have somehow slipped your mind. "That's my job," he added, a declaration of his unwavering role in your life.

Gotta be a real thankless job, you mused silently, the thought echoing wryly within the confines of your mind. "How haven't I fired you yet?" you quipped back, a teasing lilt in your voice as you nudged him gently with your elbow, inviting a moment of light-hearted banter between the gravity of your shared experiences.

His response was an exaggerated gasp, a playful act that drew a slight, amused smile across your face. Without missing a beat, he turned to the conspicuously silent super-soldier beside him. "Ey, Bucky," he called out, seemingly plucking his next words from thin air with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Did I tell you about that one time, when Y/n was seven and she peed—"

"Oh my god, Sam, stop!" The words flew from your lips as you reached out to silence him, your hand slapping his shoulder before trying to cover his mouth, a futile attempt to stem the flow of embarrassing tales. Your cheeks flushed with a warmth that radiated from the deep-seated embarrassment of the memory, vivid as if it had happened just yesterday, rather than years ago.

"I apologize for interrupting your camaraderie," Zemo's voice, laced with a hint of formality, cut through the air from the front seat. His eyes found yours in the rearview mirror, carrying a mix of apology and inevitability. "Unfortunately, my driver can proceed no further."

Zemo was the first to emerge from the vehicle, setting the tone for a swift exit. Sam was quick on his heels, nearly leaping from the car at the sight of Bucky preparing to disembark. The super-soldier merely rolled his eyes at the urgency, a silent testament to his annoyance, before he too followed suit, stepping into the open air.

Left alone for a brief moment, you lingered in the cocoon of the car's interior, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. The unease knotted in your stomach, a familiar harbinger of doom, seemed to grip tighter with each passing second. Yet, as you prepared to step out into the uncertain world beyond the car's confines, a flicker of hope dared to whisper through your thoughts. Perhaps, just this once, the ominous premonition that twisted your insides would prove false. Maybe, after a stretch of relentless storms, a moment of calm awaited you. With that fragile hope cradled in your chest, you ventured forth, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Navigating the bustling streets of the city, your senses were on high alert, eyes darting left and right in a mix of wariness and awe. Every sound, every blur of movement was cataloged, an overwhelming flood of stimuli as you endeavored to absorb the essence of the place. Ahead of you, the three men moved with a purposeful stride, seemingly indifferent to the sensory overload that ensnared you. Or so it appeared, until a momentary glance to the side caught Bucky mid-observation, his head subtly angled in your direction. The instant he realized he'd been noticed, his gaze snapped forward, a silent admission of his watchfulness.

A small, knowing smile played on your lips as you continued your exploration, your attention now on the eclectic mix of individuals that populated the streets. Their attire was a vivid tapestry of the city's culture and complexity, each person a unique thread woven into the larger fabric. In this context, Zemo's insistence on changing your clothing became crystal clear. Clad in your usual cargo pants and top, you would have stood out starkly, a beacon of foreignness in this richly diverse crowd. It would have been akin to parading around with a neon sign branded "idiot," announcing your outsider status to every discerning eye. His foresight, though begrudgingly acknowledged, spared you that unwitting declaration of naivety.

In the mosaic of your life, Bucky Barnes occupied a space that was both vivid and complex, interwoven with threads of intimacy and shared secrets, away from the prying eyes of your overprotective brother, Sam. Your connection with Bucky had evolved, nurtured by the clandestine moments and deep conversations that unfolded in the quiet corners of New York's bustling cityscape.

It began with chance encounters, two souls adrift in the vastness of the city, finding solace in the understanding gaze of the other. These meetings grew in frequency and depth, transitioning from fleeting to intentional, as you both sought the comfort and understanding that seemed to elude you elsewhere. The shared experience of navigating a world that often felt too constricting, too demanding, became the foundation of your bond.

Your relationship with Bucky was a tapestry of silent understandings and whispered confidences. There were evenings spent in his modest apartment, where the glow of the city lights barely filtered through the curtains, casting the room in a soft luminescence. Here, amidst the shadows, you shared parts of yourselves that had been carefully guarded from the rest of the world. Bucky, with his guarded heart and weary eyes, found in you a kindred spirit, someone who could see beyond the Winter Soldier to the man who was still standing beneath.

These moments of vulnerability were your secret, a world built for two, where words were often unnecessary. You had memorized the layout of his apartment, the contents of each cupboard and drawer, not through any explicit intention but through the natural intimacy that comes from shared spaces and shared silences. It was in the way you could wordlessly hand him a glass of water from his kitchen without having to ask where he kept his glasses, or how the two of you could sit in comfortable silence, each lost in your own thoughts yet together.

Yet, this closeness was kept hidden, a chapter of your life unread by Sam. Not out of deceit but from a desire to protect this fragile connection from external judgments or expectations. With Sam's protective instincts, your relationship with Bucky was a delicate balance, a treasure trove of moments and memories that you both guarded fiercely.

The complexity of your relationship with Bucky was not defined by labels or expectations but by the depth of connection and mutual understanding. It was a testament to the fact that sometimes, the most profound relationships are those that exist in the spaces between words, in the comfort of silence, and in the shared experiences of two souls navigating the world side by side.

The inexplicable flutter in your heart whenever Bucky was near often left you questioning your own sanity, yet there was something undeniably captivating about the way he made you feel. The warmth that crept into your cheeks as you reminisced about a lazy afternoon spent in the park was a testament to this. It was a simple moment, really—Bucky's admission of his aversion to text messaging because he preferred the sound of your voice had somehow managed to send your heart into a delightful somersault. In that instant, you understood the unspoken pact between you two: to keep the depth of your connection hidden from your brother.

This secret camaraderie you shared with Bucky was treasured quietly, a series of moments and feelings kept just between the two of you. Bucky, too, found solace in your presence. The way you looked at him, with eyes filled with genuine affection and understanding, offered him a tranquility he had long thought was beyond his grasp. Your smile was like a beacon to him, urging him to open up about his past, his fears, and his dreams, despite the darkness that shadowed much of his history. Yet, of all the things that drew him closer, it was your laughter that he cherished most.

Your laughter wasn't restrained or demure; it was the kind that bubbled up from deep within, unfiltered and infectious. Those moments when you would laugh so heartily, throwing your head back without a care in the world, were the ones that Bucky held dear. It was in these bursts of genuine joy that he saw the lightness of being, a stark contrast to the battles and burdens he carried. Your laughter, free and unabashed, symbolized a purity of happiness that Bucky admired. It reminded him that amidst the complexities of life, there existed simple, unguarded moments of joy worth cherishing.

In the twilight of Bucky's life, where happiness seemed more a memory than a possibility, the moments he shared with you illuminated his world with an unexpected joy. Time and again, he teetered on the brink of asking you to intertwine your lives officially, to step beyond the unspoken boundaries of your secret affinity and declare it openly. Yet, each time the words perched on the edge of his tongue, ready to leap into the abyss of possibilities, the thought of Sam cast a long shadow over his resolve.

Sam, the steadfast pillar of your family, was a friend to Bucky in every sense except in name, for their camaraderie was too complex and layered for simple labels. Bucky was acutely aware of the fierce love Sam harbored for you, a protective and encompassing love that was both admirable and intimidating. He knew of the cherished photograph Sam carried in his wallet—a tangible reminder of the bond shared between you, your sister, and his beloved nephews, a snapshot of the life Sam fought so valiantly to protect.

And it was the thought of Sam, with his unwavering loyalty and brotherly love, that stayed Bucky's confession. He was painfully aware of the turmoil that would ensue should Sam discover the depth of his feelings for you. Bucky could almost feel the weight of Sam's betrayal and anger, for in his heart, he knew that his affection for you crossed lines that Sam might never forgive. This tension, this fear of fracturing the fragile truce they had built, kept Bucky silent, trapped in a limbo of longing and loyalty, where his desire to claim your heart battled with his respect for the brother who would view such a confession as the ultimate treachery.

As Zemo led the way, weaving through a throng of onlookers whose eyes darted with a mix of curiosity and caution, the air buzzed with hushed whispers that all seemed to echo the same question: "Is that the Winter Soldier?" Yet, if only they could see beyond the infamy and the scars of war, they'd find Bucky. This was the same Bucky who had once called you in a panic, deep into the night, baffled by the modern conundrum of ordering a television online. The same Bucky who shared with you his playlist of favorite songs, tunes you never expected to enjoy, yet found yourself playing on repeat. And this was the Bucky who, in an earnest attempt to teach you to dance, ended up with you standing on his feet, both of you moving in a clumsy but heartwarming harmony across the floor.

Arriving at the bar, you edged closer to Zemo and Bucky, the latter noticing your approach and subtly shifting to grant you more space. "Good evening," greeted the bartender with a nod towards Sam, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Wasn’t expecting you, Smiling Tiger."

The effort to suppress a grin was Herculean as the nickname filled the air. Your brother, Sam, for all his bravery and skill, was many things, but a master thespian he was not. Tonight, he was to embody Conrad Mack, or "Smiling Tiger," a persona draped in notoriety and whispered about in the darkest corners of the criminal underworld. Knowing Sam's theatrical limits, the anticipation of watching him navigate the guise of an African gangster tinged your apprehension with a thread of amusement, painting the night ahead with the promise of unforgettable moments.

"Plans have shifted," Zemo interjected smoothly, answering on behalf of Sam, who tightened his lips in an attempt at solemnity. The sight was almost comical; Sam's expression ventured into the realms of absurdity. "We have business with Selby tonight."

A cloak of skepticism draped over the bartender's demeanor, his eyes—a mix of inquiry and caution—peered from behind the substantial frames of his glasses. His visage, half-obscured by a beard, seemed out of place in this den of shadows and whispered secrets. One could easily mistake him for a tech wizard from the polished corridors of Stark Industries rather than a keeper of this clandestine establishment.

"The usual, then?" the bartender queried. Sam, lips still tightly sealed, offered a single, determined nod, his posture shifting slightly with unease. With practiced ease, the bartender turned to retrieve a jar housing a deceased equatorial spitting cobra, laying it out with a certain reverence on the cutting board before you. He wielded a knife, expertly slicing the serpent open to extract its heart. This he placed in a shot glass, to which he added a dash of Triple sec, a measure of gin, and a squeeze of finger lime, concocting a drink that teetered on the edge of the exotic and the macabre. Sliding the glass towards Sam, the air was momentarily thick with anticipation.

"Ahh," Zemo exhaled, a chuckle threatening to breach his composure. "The Smiling Tiger, your favorite." The room hung in a momentary suspense, the bizarre ritual highlighting the lengths to which one might go to blend into the shadows of this underworld.

As you reluctantly redirected your attention away from the unsavory scene, your eyes found solace in Bucky's gaze. The moment of eye contact with the super-soldier was like a silent pact, conveying volumes in the briefest exchange. “I think the next part’s worth watching.” His suggestion was delivered in a hush, his voice a soft, enticing caress against the delicate skin of your neck, sparking a cascade of warmth that pooled in the pit of your stomach. You darted a quick look around, half-expecting the assembled throng to notice this intimate exchange. Yet, their attention remained steadfastly on the notorious figure of the Winter Soldier, allowing you a sliver of privacy in the crowded space.

Turning back towards your brother, you endeavored to steady your racing heart, to cloak the fluttering butterflies that Bucky's nearness had unfurled within you. But it was akin to trying to calm a storm with whispered words; Bucky's heat enveloped you, a comforting yet unnerving presence. Then, almost imperceptibly, he edged closer, a mere shift that breached the scant distance between you. His chest hovered just shy of touching your back, a whisper of contact that electrified your senses.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up, muscles tensing, heart thundering against your ribcage as if seeking escape. The air seemed to thicken, each breath a labor through the heightened tension that his proximity wrought. The warmth from his body seeped through the fabric of your clothes, branding your skin with a heat that was both foreign and intoxicating. A shiver coursed through you, unbidden, as you fought the urge to lean back into him, to seek solace in the strength of his embrace. His presence, so close and yet so restrained, left you teetering on the edge of something profound, a precipice overlooking a maelstrom of uncharted emotions and desires.

The atmosphere in the dimly lit, cramped space was charged with an uneasy anticipation as Sam steeled himself to down the concoction before him – the alcohol mingling with the snake's heart in a display of grit and resolve. Standing beside him, you could almost taste the bile rising in your own throat at the thought, empathy for Sam's predicament tangling with your own visceral reaction. It was in this moment of vicarious revulsion that you felt it—a touch so light, so fleeting on your arm that it could have been mistaken for a trick of the air, save for the deep, intrinsic knowledge that it was Bucky. His touch, though minimal, carried with it a warmth and a reassurance that seemed to cut through the tension of the moment, grounding you.

This gentle caress, lost to anyone else's perception, was like a beacon to your heightened senses, which seemed to come alive with a fervor that only Bucky's presence could ignite. It was a silent communication, a shared moment amidst the chaos, confirming that his attention was riveted not on the grotesque spectacle unfolding with your brother but on you. And then, without need for visual confirmation, you sensed the subtle shift in his posture, the lean of his body just close enough for you to catch the light inhale as he discreetly breathed in the scent of your hair. The intimacy of the action, hidden in plain sight, had your eyelids fluttering close, teetering on the edge of surrender to the sensation.

But the moment was shattered by the intrusion of a new, deep voice, unfamiliar and brusque, pulling Bucky's gaze away from you for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The voice belonged to a tattooed biker who had sidled up beside Zemo, breaking the spell that had cocooned you and Bucky in your private world. Yet, even as Bucky's eyes momentarily flicked to the newcomer, assessing and then dismissing him as a threat, his hand lingered on your arm, a silent vow of protection and an unwillingness to completely sever the thread of connection between you.

When the biker had disappeared back into the throng of the bar's patrons, Bucky's voice, low and resonant, brushed your cheek, "A Power Broker, really?" His breath was a warm caress, a contrast to the cool air of the bar and the cold reality of their mission.

Zemo's response was a shrug, nonchalant yet laden with the weight of their precarious position within this den of intrigue and danger. "Every kingdom needs its king. Let's just pray we stay under his radar." The words were a stark reminder of the peril that shadowed their every step, yet, for a fleeting moment, the only truth that seemed to matter was the connection between you and Bucky, a silent acknowledgment of a bond that thrived even in the heart of danger.

As your brother subtly leaned in, distancing himself from the ears of the surrounding strangers, his voice carried a note of quiet inquiry, "Do you know him?" His gaze was sharp, the weight of leadership and concern pressing upon his features, a look you knew all too well.

Zemo, ever the enigmatic figure, glanced briefly over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping across the teeming masses of Madripoor's underworld. "Only by reputation," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of wariness. He continued, his tone lowering to match the gravity of his words, "He is judge, jury, and executioner in Madripoor." The way Zemo articulated the roles imbued them with a sense of dread, painting a picture of a figure wielding absolute power over life and death in this lawless land.

As Sam prepared to step back, blending once more into the crowded backdrop of the bar, his gaze inadvertently fell upon Bucky's hand, a subtle yet intimate gesture resting gently on your arm. The silent question was evident in the arch of his brow, a wordless probe into the nature of the connection he had just witnessed. Despite the many shared battles and secrets between you, this particular nuance of your relationship with Bucky remained veiled from Sam's knowledge. He knew of the camaraderie, the shared jokes, and the mutual respect; what he had yet to grasp was the depth that lay beneath those surface interactions.

Caught under the weight of your brother's scrutiny, you felt a compelling urge to divert, to shield the budding complexity of your relationship with Bucky from any further inquiry. With a practiced nonchalance, you reached for the glass that had mysteriously found its way before you—its contents unknown but suddenly invaluable as a means of distraction. The glass felt cool against your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through your chest, fueled by Bucky's proximity and the intensity of your brother's gaze.

Without granting Sam the acknowledgment he sought, you lifted the glass, the liquid inside catching the dim light of the bar in a fleeting dance of shadows. With a resolve born of necessity, you downed the contents in one swift motion, the liquid tracing a burning path down your throat, a physical manifestation of the turmoil swirling within. In that moment, the intricacies of your heart's desires, the silent yearnings, and the whispered dreams shared in the quiet with Bucky were drowned in the sharp bite of the drink. There was no love life to dissect, you reasoned, at least not one that could be neatly explained or openly acknowledged under the watchful eyes of your brother. This was a complexity you were not yet ready to unravel, preferring instead the sanctity of ambiguity and the solace found in the unspoken.

From the periphery of your vision, the subtle yet unmistakable shift of the crowd's focus toward your group sent a ripple of tension through the air. Zemo, breaking the mounting silence, uttered something in Russian, his voice a sharp command that instantly put Bucky, who loomed protectively behind you, on high alert. Your grasp of Russian might have been rudimentary at best, but the gravity carried by the word "attack" pierced through any language barrier, sending a shiver down your spine. Your gaze darted anxiously between Bucky and Zemo, then to the increasingly hostile encirclement of men.

In a moment driven by instinct more than thought, your hand found Bucky's arm, a silent plea for restraint, an acknowledgment of the heavy burdens he bore and the battles you wished he wouldn't have to fight again. Yet, as the hand of an adversary reached for Zemo, intent on aggression, Bucky's protective instincts overrode any hesitations. The mission's success, the preservation of your collective guise, demanded action.

With a fluidity born of countless battles, Bucky intercepted the stranger's hand, wrenching it into a grim contortion of pain before hoisting him by the collar. The air was punctuated by the thud of the man's body crashing to the ground, a clear signal to the onlookers who, rather than stepping in, recoiled to the safety of the crowd's edges. Their initial shock quickly gave way to the modern reflex of capturing chaos on their smartphones, eager to document the return of the Winter Soldier.

Another assailant lunged forward, driven either by bravado or foolishness, only to meet Bucky's calculated fury. A swift strike to the chest paired with a debilitating kick to the shin sent the man staggering, a prelude to the crushing force of Bucky's elbow against his back. But Bucky was far from done; he delivered a final, forceful kick to the assailant's stomach with such power that the man was propelled backward, colliding with another would-be attacker and sending them both sprawling to the ground.

In those tense moments, Bucky transformed the immediate vicinity into a no-man's land, a clear warning to any who still harbored thoughts of joining the fray. The message was unambiguous: the Winter Soldier, though cloaked in the guise of Bucky Barnes, remained a formidable force, his actions a blend of precision and power that left no room for doubt or defiance.

The melee unfolded with relentless ferocity, each blow landing with a chilling finality. Amidst the chaos, Zemo's unexpected touch on your waist snapped your attention sharply to him, an unwelcome distraction amidst the turmoil. His fingers were cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the skirmish that raged a mere breath away. Holding a shot glass, with another stationed invitingly before him on the bar's counter, Zemo seemed almost nonchalant, as if the violent ballet unfolding around you two was mere background noise.

You could only hope that Sam's gaze was entirely consumed by the spectacle of the fight, lest Zemo's audacity earn him a swift and severe reprimand—the kind that involved a painful reconfiguration of his hand's anatomy. And, should Sam's protective instincts flare up, your carefully maintained cover would be shattered in an instant.

"So," Zemo initiated casually, offering you the glass while securing his own. His demeanor was eerily calm, a man unfazed by the chaos, his curiosity piqued by personal intrigues rather than the potential dangers that lurked in your immediate vicinity. "How long have you and James been seeing each other?"

His question caught you off guard, a blunt intrusion that left you momentarily flustered. "Excuse you?" you retorted, the sharpness in your voice mirroring your surprise.

He downed his shot in one fluid motion, a satisfied exhale following the liquid's descent. "Oh," he dismissed with a nonchalant wave of his hand, a gesture that belied the keen observation behind his words. "Your brother might be wearing blinders, but I certainly do not. It's been quite evident that Barnes has scarcely glanced away from you all evening."

You found yourself grappling for a response, the unexpected scrutiny leaving you unsettled. "Well, uh," you stumbled over your words, grappling for composure. "It's just what he does—staring." Your gaze dropped to the shot glass cradled in your palm, its contents suddenly more appealing than the conversation. With a swift tilt of your hand, you emptied the glass, the liquid courage coursing through you. Instinctively, you braced yourself for whatever probing questions Zemo might pose next, bolstered now by a fleeting rush of boldness from the alcohol.

Zemo's attention subtly shifted behind you, a prelude to his hand sneaking once more to your waist. A wry smirk played at the corner of his lips as he leaned closer, his breath brushing against your ear with a whispered directive, "Get ready." Immobilized by a sudden rush of surprise, you found yourself momentarily unable to react, your mind racing to process the unwelcome proximity.

As you regained your composure, indignation fueling your resolve, your hands began to rise, intent on removing his intrusion. Yet, before you could act, a familiar and comforting warmth enveloped your back. A sharp intake of breath caught in your throat as a low, protective growl resonated from behind you, a primal sound that spoke volumes of the tension filling the air.

In the blink of an eye, Zemo's hand was forcibly removed from you, Bucky's intervention swift and silent. The warning in Bucky's eyes was unmistakable, a clear message that brooked no argument. His grip on Zemo's hand tightened, a silent demonstration of his protective instincts. The strain was evident as Zemo's face flushed, a crimson wave ascending his neck in stark contrast to his paling face, a vivid testament to the discomfort and possibly fear induced by Bucky's ironclad hold.

Observing the intensity of the moment, you placed your hand gently atop Bucky's, seeking to diffuse the tension. "It's okay," you whispered soothingly, a plea for peace. "Let him go." Your voice, though soft, carried the weight of your concern, hoping to coax Bucky back from the brink of further conflict.

With a grudging release of pressure, Bucky acquiesced to your request, albeit with a distasteful grunt. He allowed Zemo the mercy of an unbroken hand, a testament to his respect for your wishes. The moment, charged with silent confrontations and unspoken bonds, highlighted the deep connection between you and Bucky, a bond that transcended mere words, resonating with loyalty, protection, and an unyielding sense of unity.

The tension in the air was palpable, a heavy cloud that seemed to weigh down every breath, until the bartender's voice sliced through the silence with the precision of a well-honed blade. "Selby will see you now," he announced, effectively diffusing the charged atmosphere. As you were ushered down the dimly lit corridor by a group of stern-faced men, the arrangement was strategic: Zemo leading, followed by Sam, with you nestled securely in the middle, and Bucky bringing up the rear, his vigilant gaze ensuring no threat would find its way to you unnoticed.

In a fluid motion born of protective instinct, Bucky's fingers found your wrist, gently but firmly pulling you aside into the seclusion of the shadowed alcove. The dim light played across his features, casting deep shadows that sculpted his face with an intensity that was almost breathtaking. His rugged attractiveness, framed in the half-light, struck you with a force that made your heart flutter. "Are you okay?" you found yourself asking, drawn into the complexity of emotions that danced within his eyes. It was clear he was wrestling with his own turmoil, yet his proximity to you, so near that the soft flutter of your eyelashes could have brushed against his cheek, seemed to both unsettle and anchor him.

“Next time he grabs you like that—” He cut himself of, jaw clenching.

As you laid your hand against the solid warmth of his chest in a comforting gesture, a ripple of tension eased from his frame. "It's okay," your whisper broke the intimate silence between you, your gaze lifting to meet his. "I'm okay, promise. He was just trying to get under your skin."

His eyes, a mirror to his soul, roamed over your features with an intensity that felt as though he was memorizing every detail, every curve, and contour, before finally settling back into your gaze. "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?" His voice, soft yet filled with an emotion that resonated deep within your chest, enveloped you in a warmth that went beyond the physical closeness. In that moment, amidst the shadows and whispers of danger, a connection forged in the crucible of shared experiences and unspoken understanding deepened, transcending the chaos of the world outside.

Your smile, blossoming in response to Bucky's unexpected compliment, was abruptly cut short by Zemo's call for the Winter Soldier, reverberating ominously off the walls. A mutual sigh of resignation passed between you and Bucky. With a bite to your lip, signaling the gravity of the interruption, you took a hesitant step back, murmuring, "We should go."

Bucky's response was a tight nod, the muscles along his jawline tensing visibly as he too made the difficult choice to distance himself. The atmosphere shifted palpably as you entered Selby's domain. She was ensconced regally in an armchair, her fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against its worn fabric, embodying the calm before the storm. "You should know, Baron," she began, her voice cool and measured, "people don’t just come into my bar and make demands."

Zemo, unfazed, countered with equal calmness, "Not a demand, an offer."

Selby's demeanor hinted at a mix of curiosity and caution as she observed the changes in her domain and the players within it. "A lot has changed since you were here last," she remarked, her gaze sliding over Bucky with undisguised interest. "By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?"

Zemo, settling himself before Selby with a nonchalance born of confidence, merely shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "People like us always find a way, don’t we? I'm sure you've already figured out what I am here for."

Selby, her attention never straying from Zemo, extended a languid finger toward your brother, her voice taking on a teasing, almost flirtatious tone. "You're taller than I'd heard, Smiling Tiger," she purred, her grin sharp as a knife's edge, before shifting her focus back to Zemo. "What's the offer?"

"Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum." Zemo's command hung in the air, heavy with implication. He rose, his movements deliberate, as he made his way to where Bucky and you stood in a silent vigil. The audacity of his next offer sliced through the tension like a cold blade. "And I give you him," Zemo gestured towards Bucky with a chilling casualness, "along with the code words that control him, of course." His fingers dared to trace a path along Bucky's jawline, a presumptuous gesture that hinted at possession. "He will do anything you want." You moved your hand to brush against his, blocking the view with your body, not wanting your cover to blow, also not wanting Bucky to blow up because of the over-the-top trade Zemo was talking about, which he hadn’t disclosed with you "Now, that’s the Zemo I remember," Selby's voice curled with a mix of admiration and threat, her lips twisting into a grin that was as dangerous as it was pleased. "I'm glad I decided not to kill you immediately." She mused aloud, nodding to herself as if affirming her own wisdom. "Yeah, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right." Zemo, with a nod acknowledging the compliment veiled as a critique, moved back to his chair, rejoining the precarious dance of conversation.

"The super-soldier serum is here in Madripoor," Selby continued, her revelation hanging in the smoky air like a veiled threat. "Doctor Wilfred Nagel is the man you wanna thank, or…" Her voice trailed off as she tilted her head, her gaze sharp, "Or condemn, depending on what side you're on."

"Is Nagel still in Madripoor?" Zemo's question cut through the tension, his inquiry pointed and loaded with unspoken implications.

Selby stood, her movement fluid as a shadow, drifting behind Zemo. She was about to divulge the answer, a secret that could tip the scales, when the moment was shattered by the unexpected vibration of a cell phone. Sam's cell phone, ingeniously hidden within the confines of your bra, the only place deemed secure given the impracticality of the suit's tiny pockets. The room froze, a tableau of anticipation and dread, as all eyes darted towards you. The vibration continued, a silent herald of impending chaos, until, with a steadiness you hardly felt, you retrieved the phone. The caller ID flashed "Mom jr." — a code name for your older sister, Sarah, that now felt like a harbinger of disaster.

"Go on," Selby's voice was a command laced with curiosity and a hint of menace, her henchman already looming ominously behind her. "Answer it. On speaker."

With a nod, terse and devoid of any option but compliance, you swiped the screen, the green circle heralding a connection fraught with risk. Clearing your throat, an attempt to mask the torrent of nerves, you answered with a voice feigning confidence, "Smiling Tiger."

"...Okay." The brief silence that followed was thick with confusion, Sarah's voice betraying her bewilderment. "Why do you have his phone? Is he there?"

"Uh, yeah, yes, he is."

"Could I speak to him? It's urgent."

"Sure." You navigated the tense atmosphere with caution, aware of the danger that lurked in every corner. Approaching Sam, you offered the phone with a discreet, "Sir."

Sam accepted the phone, his throat clearing a precursor to the conversation. "Hello?"

"Hey, uhm, we need to talk about this situation. It's been driving me nuts."

"What situation are you talking about exactly?"

"Are you high? You know the situation. It’s the only situation me and you have."

"What situation, Sarah? Say it."

"The damn boat. And watch your tone, okay? I let you slide at the bank."

Sam's scoff was almost audible, a mixture of disbelief and humor. "The bank, yeah. Laundered so much money," he chuckled. "Yeah, they'll come around."

"If that’s the case, then why'd they dog you out, Big Time?"

"Yeah, you damn right I'm Big Time. You'll see when I have that banker killed." Your gaze flickered to Bucky, dreading the potential fallout from this precarious bluff.

"Cass! What did I tell you about the Cheerios? I don’t have time for this!" Sarah's exasperated outburst was unexpected, yet somehow, it underscored the normalcy of life's chaos — even when worlds apart, Cheerios could cause turmoil. "Sam, I'm sorry, let me call you back."

"Sam?" Selby's voice, sharp with suspicion, cut through the room. "Who's Sam?" Her eyes scanned the room, landing on one of her men as she gave the lethal order, "Kill them!" No sooner had the command left her lips than a bullet from an unseen sniper found its mark, sailing through the window to claim Selby's life with unerring precision.

As Selby's men, jolted by the sudden turn of events, scrambled to retaliate, the trio leapt into action, their movements a blend of desperation and determination, ready to confront the chaos unleashed by a single, ill-timed phone call.

Sam's movements were swift and precise, his elbow connecting with the gut of the assailant beside him with a force that spoke of urgency and desperation. In a fluid motion, he seized the man's weapon, leveraging his strength to send his adversary crumbling to the floor. Nearby, Bucky confronted another threat, an opponent armed with an automatic firearm. The bullets, however, were no match for Bucky's metallic arm. With an almost serene calmness, he raised his arm, the bullets ricocheting off the vibranium and falling harmlessly to the ground, their lethal intent nullified. With a swift, decisive movement, Bucky disarmed the gunman, the heavy thud of the weapon striking the assailant's head a grim punctuation to the confrontation.

Zemo, meanwhile, exhibited a different kind of strategy. He glided to the side, a ballet of avoidance, demonstrating a preference to remain on the fringes of the physical altercation. His demeanor suggested disinterest, a calculated decision to avoid the fray, yet you knew the truth. Zemo possessed skills honed by experience, a dangerous combatant by any measure, choosing discretion over engagement.

As for yourself, standing on the precipice of engagement, you too could have dismantled any adversary with ease, mirroring Zemo's restraint. Yet, it wasn't the fear of the fight that stilled your hand, nor the dread of physical harm. It was a deeper, more insidious kind of fear that gnawed at your resolve — the fear of responsibility. Sam had seen the toll it took on you, the anxiety that came with wielding your powers. He reassured you, time and again, that it was okay to hold back, understanding the weight that came with such immense power.

You had mastered control over your abilities, a feat that was as much for those around you as it was for your peace of mind. But control was a fragile thing, a constant battle against the possibility of a catastrophic slip. The echoes of the past haunted you, a stark reminder of the chaos unleashed during the battle against Thanos. The risk you had posed to your brother's life was a memory etched in the recesses of your mind, a harrowing reminder of the potential consequences of your powers. The burden of that day weighed heavily on your shoulders, a silent vow to never relive that helplessness, that guilt, again. Control could temper the power, but it could never erase the memories, the fears, or the haunting possibility of what could happen should it ever falter.

The moment unfolded before you with a surreal clarity, as if time itself had bent to accommodate the gravity of what was about to transpire. There stood Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme, his figure exuding an aura of solemnity. With a hand stretched towards you, his voice cut through the chaos of your thoughts, delivering the harrowing message that Thanos was on the precipice of ushering in another war.

The ground beneath you felt unsteady, as if it too, shared in your tumult of emotions. Your body was a tempest of sensations, akin to being engulfed in invisible flames, an internal inferno that threatened to consume your very essence. Your hands, held out in front of you, became the focal point of your bewildered gaze. They glowed with an ethereal green luminescence, transforming your eyes into beacons of an otherworldly force. In that moment, you were a stranger even to yourself, your identity obscured by the overwhelming power that surged within you. You feared that even your brother, upon witnessing this transformation, would find himself staring at an unfamiliar figure, your familiar visage masked by an alien force.

It was during this maelstrom of confusion and fear that Stephen Strange recognized the tumultuous energy you were channeling. With a wisdom borne of his experiences with the mystic arts, he extended not just his hand but an offer of guidance and mastery over the forces that now threatened to unravel you.

Amidst this turmoil, a familiar voice pierced the veil of your disorientation. Bucky's voice, imbued with urgency and concern, reached out to you, grounding you back to reality. "We gotta go." His words, simple yet laden with an unspoken promise of safety, beckoned you. As your gaze snapped towards him, you were met with the sight of his outstretched hand, a lifeline in the chaos.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you placed your palm against his, the warmth of his grip a stark contrast to the cold uncertainty that had gripped your heart. Led by Bucky, you began to make your way out of the building, each step away from the epicenter of your crisis a step towards reclaiming the self that had been momentarily lost in the eye of the storm.

As Zemo's directive to abandon their firearms behind echoed in your mind, a profound vulnerability washed over you, intensifying the uncertainty that already clouded your heart. The decision to venture into the unknown without the familiar weight of a weapon at your side left you feeling starkly exposed, each step on the pavement echoing your apprehension.

Amidst the chaos, the glow of countless phone screens caught your attention, their omnipresence a stark reminder of the digital eyes that followed your every move. Your grip on Bucky's hand tightened, a help in centering you amidst the swirling uncertainty, your fingers intertwined with his in a silent plea for reassurance. Bucky, feeling the tremor of your grasp, was confronted with an overwhelming pressure in his chest—a sensation so intense, it seemed as though his heart might shatter through his ribcage. The logical part of his mind suggested that releasing your trembling hand might alleviate some of his distress, disconnecting him from the tangible evidence of your fear. Yet, the thought of pulling you even closer overpowered him, a testament to the protective instinct that surged within him, despite the presence of his partner in crime at his side, equally eager to escape the impending peril and shield you from harm.

Out of the corner of your eye, a figure detached from the crowd caught your attention—a woman, standing apart with her hands mimicking the shape of a gun, playfully ‘shooting’ at your group. This macabre pantomime, juxtaposed against the sea of illuminated screens, shed light on the grim realization that you and your companions had been reduced to mere targets in a deadly game, surrounded by a multitude of unseen adversaries, each one thirsting for blood and the lure of a reward.

In the fraction of a second before you could advance another step, the air was pierced by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. An instinctive fear gripped you, catalyzing a reaction that tore you away from Bucky's grasp. You spun around, just as a barrage of bullets threatened to engulf your group in a lethal storm. Driven by a deep-seated impulse to protect, you extended your hands, your eyes instinctively closing as you tapped into a wellspring of power that had lain dormant within you for far too long. The air around you charged with anticipation, as if the very essence of your being had awakened to confront the danger head-on.

Upon daring to open your eyes, fearing the aftermath of your instinctual reaction, you were confronted with a surreal tableau: bullets suspended mid-air, frozen in time and space, an arm's length away, creating an eerie stillness in the midst of chaos. The sheer number of projectiles, hovering ominously close, sent a shiver down your spine, yet it was the sight of your own fingers, aglow with a radiant green luminance, that truly captivated you. It was a strange juxtaposition—how could something so ethereally beautiful harbor the potential for immense destruction?

Your fascination gave way to action as you turned your palm, the bullets beginning to dissolve into nothingness, disintegrating into a fine mist just before reaching your skin. The urgency to locate your assailant led your eyes to a figure, scant meters away, wielding a machine gun braced against a makeshift stand in the bustling market. With a focused gesture, you manipulated the now-liquefied metal, directing it with lethal precision towards the gunman. He recoiled, anticipating pain or perhaps even death, but instead, you targeted his weapon. The metal swarm enveloped the gun, rendering it inoperable, parts of its mechanism dissolving into oblivion.

The surrounding crowd, momentarily taken aback by the display of power, quickly regrouped, their initial shock transforming into twisted smiles as they once again raised their weapons. It was then that your brother intervened, his hand clasping yours with determined strength, pulling you back into the frenetic escape. The concept of a leisurely retreat was a luxury far removed from reality as you both dashed through the dense throngs of Madripoor, a city now teeming with adversaries drawn by the allure of a bounty. The streets, alive with danger, became a labyrinth as you navigated through the relentless pursuit, the weight of potential violence pressing against you from all sides.

“I can’t run in these heels!” Sam's grumble about his unsuitable footwear for their frenzied escape almost halted you in your tracks, the urge to chastise him for his complaint bubbling up fiercely.

"I'm wearing six-inch heels, you idiot!" you retorted, your voice slicing through the tension as you were half-dragged, half-ran, your form almost seeming to bounce off the pavement with each step.

Just then, the distinct growl of motorbikes escalated behind you, a clear sign that your pursuers were closing in with alarming speed. Instinctively, you twisted around, freeing one arm from your brother's firm grasp. A brilliant emerald glow enveloped your hand as you unleashed a force resembling a sonic boom towards your chasers. Glancing back, you witnessed the bikers caught in a surreal slow-motion, ensnared within the temporal anomaly you'd unwittingly summoned.

The urgency of your flight tapered off as your brother gradually decelerated, releasing your hand to take in the quietude that had enveloped the scene. Zemo, ever the observer, couldn't hide his admiration, stepping closer with a sly grin. "Quite impressive, if I may say so myself."

“You may not.” His commendation was met with a mutter from Bucky, barely audible yet brimming with protectiveness. Bucky positioned himself squarely between you and Zemo, effectively shielding you from the latter's view. Sam, meanwhile, appeared utterly bemused, hands perched on his hips as he oscillated his gaze between you and Bucky, bewildered by the sudden shift in dynamics.

"Okay, what—?" Sam began, only to be cut off as the moment teetered on the brink of unraveling.

"Well, isn’t this just perfect," a voice chimed from the enveloping shadows, laced with a mix of amusement and disbelief. Emerging into the dim light, a blonde woman approached with her gun poised, her stance radiating confidence and danger. Recognition flickered through your mind, delayed by the surreal context. Sharon Carter, the name finally clicked, associated with tales of Steve Rogers and his erstwhile entanglements. Sam's anecdotes, usually shared with a mix of reverence and jest, painted her in the light of a past fraught with complex allegiances, especially during the so-called Civil War—a term you found overly dramatic for what essentially amounted to a highly publicized skirmish among comrades at an airport.

"Sharon?" Bucky's voice cut through your thoughts, tinged with a blend of surprise and uncertainty. The Sharon Carter you'd heard of through scattered stories seemed far removed from the woman who now stood before you, gun in hand, in the underbelly of Madripoor. It was a reflection, perhaps, of how life's unpredictable currents could sweep anyone into unforeseen harbors.

Her gaze, sharp and unyielding, locked onto Zemo, the intensity of her scorn palpable. "You cost me everything," she accused, the words heavy with resentment. Sam attempted to interject, offering explanations that seemed to dissipate before they could reach her, lost in the void of her grievance. "I stole Steve's shield, remember?" she reminded, her resolve steel-hard, the weapon unwavering in her grasp. "I also took the wings for your ass," she directed at Sam, causing a ripple of tension to pass through you. The mention of sacrifices made—her actions for their benefit—underscored the gravity of her fall from grace. Her focus shifted momentarily to Bucky, implicating him in the web of consequences, before returning to Zemo with a disdainful flick. Finally, her eyes found you, registering your presence with a flicker of surprise. "No idea who you are," she stated, an admission that underscored the complexity of alliances and identities in this shadowy world.

With a determined stride, Bucky advanced towards Sharon, his every step a testament to his intent to defuse the tension that crackled in the air. He engaged her with words, his tone both pleading and firm, navigating through the storm of her fury. Eventually, her grip on the gun loosened, the weapon tucked away after an exasperated sigh, a silent concession to his efforts. Sharon then proposed an unexpected truce, inviting you all back to her sanctuary. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on you; moments before, the cold metal of her gun had promised anything but hospitality.

Crossing the threshold into Sharon's abode, you were immediately struck by an array of art that adorned every wall and surface. The collection was staggering, a visual feast of masterpieces that seemed too authentic, too valuable to be merely decorative. You half-joked to yourself about the possibility of the Mona Lisa being tucked away in a corner, marveling at the fortune that surrounded you, captured in oil and canvas.

The offer of a change of attire came next, with Sharon presenting an array of elegant garments that seemed to glide into the room on a valet rod. The promise of shedding your current attire, particularly the torturous heels that had been your nemesis throughout the evening, was a relief. Barefoot, you approached the selection with eagerness, only to have your enthusiasm dimmed by the realization that the options available were far removed from your comfort zone. Accustomed to the simple reliability of sneakers and boots, the sight of such finery felt daunting, alien.

Facing Sharon, a hint of disappointment lacing your expression, you ventured a request, hoping for something more aligned with your sense of style. "Don't you have anything less... that?" The words hung between you, a polite plea for normalcy amidst the opulence that defined her world.

"Like what?" Sharon's question cut through the tension in the room, her gaze drifting momentarily over Bucky and his shirtless state alongside Zemo. The moment made your skin crawl slightly, an unwelcome distraction in the midst of the unfolding scenario.

"Jeans?" you ventured hopefully, trying to steer the conversation back to a more comfortable topic, despite the circumstances.

"We are going to a club in Madripoor," Sharon pointed out, as if the venue demanded a specific dress code that was far from your preference.

"Yes?" you responded, not fully grasping why your suggested attire wouldn't be suitable, your tone a mixture of confusion and mild annoyance.

After a brief pause, during which Sharon seemed to consider her response, she chose to bypass your suggestion entirely, moving past you as if you had become part of the room's extravagant background. Your frustration evident, you rolled your eyes at her dismissive attitude and turned back to the daunting task of selecting an outfit from the array provided. Among the lavish options, you managed to find flared leather leggings and a high-neck crop top with a singular sleeve—a rebellious choice that echoed your own style while avoiding the discomfort of another glitter-infested dress. As you began the awkward dance of changing into the leather pants without first removing your current dress, a subtle commotion caught your attention.

Bucky, ever the protector, had taken it upon himself to ensure your privacy. His large hand found Zemo's neck, not harshly but with enough insistence to pivot the man's attention away from you. However, it wasn't just Zemo's attention he was diverting; his own gaze, filled with an intensity you couldn't quite decipher, kept flickering back to you. Each look seemed to linger a moment too long, filled with an emotion he seemed to struggle to define, let alone express. With a visible effort, Bucky tore his gaze away, a stern resolve setting in as he forced himself to focus on anything but you.

Your brother went to lift his whiskey glass off the table when he spotted what was inside of it. A shiver ran down his as he fished out the little snake part and stood to throw it out the window. The expression on his face made you throw your head back laughing. He raised his brow at you in question. You lifted your hands. "I didn’t do it."

"Then why are you laughing?"

"Because whoever did, is a genius." You were about to pull the top over your head when Sam pinched you in the side. "Ow, what the hell, Sam!" With furrowed brows, and the tight top stuck on your shoulders, you tried to kick him in the shin, though he moved back just in time; a broad grin rested on his face. "Too slow, sista," Sam teased, his playful nudge against your head causing your already precarious balance to falter further. With a grunt of mock indignation, you surged forward, aiming a determined chest-bump at your brother, eager to see him mirror your momentary imbalance. Your efforts were rewarded with a triumphant laugh as Sam was forced to step back, the shared moment of childish glee lighting up your features with a wide grin. This brief interlude of sibling rivalry whisked you back to those carefree days of your youth, where even the simplest acts of brotherly teasing felt like the grandest adventures. Back then, Sam could do no wrong in your eyes, the epitome of an older brother in the most magnificent form.

In the midst of your playful scuffle, you were secretly relieved that Sharon had exited the room. Her presence might have added a layer of self-consciousness to the innocent chaos. Although the antics might seem juvenile to an outsider, to you, they were a rare slice of normalcy—a cherished reminder of a life untouched by cosmic wars or Thanos' dread shadow.

As Sam busied himself with selecting an outfit, your struggle with the unyielding fabric of your top grew increasingly frustrating. The material, devoid of any give, clung stubbornly in all the wrong places. With your back to Bucky, a soft sigh of exasperation escaped you. "Buck?" The quiet call for assistance was barely above a whisper, yet it summoned his attention instantly.

"Need a hand?" His voice was close, filled with a gentle concern that made your heart flutter slightly.

"Yes, please," came your subdued reply, the momentary vulnerability feeling strangely intimate. Then, you felt it—his touch. The slight graze of Bucky's skin against yours as his fingers traced a path up your side, his touch delicate yet assured. He navigated the fabric with a tender precision, his fingers briefly pausing at the edge of your top before guiding it smoothly into place. The fleeting caress that followed lingered just long enough to ignite a shiver of anticipation, a warmth blossoming within you that craved the closeness of his embrace. His breath, a warm whisper against the nape of your neck, sent a thrilling chill down your spine.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, the compliment hanging in the air between you, charged with an unspoken emotion that seemed to draw you even closer, tethering your heart to his with an invisible thread of affection and longing.

"I absolutely agree," Zemo's voice cut through the tension, drawing an involuntary growl of annoyance from Bucky. With a gesture of mock surrender, Zemo backed away, his steps carrying him to the bar where three glasses of whiskey awaited their silent call to be savored. Bucky, feeling the palpable shift in the room's dynamics, reluctantly distanced himself from you, his departure leaving a subtle chill in the wake of his warmth. He reclaimed his seat on the sofa, a move you couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment over.

Sharon chose that moment to grace the room with her presence, her arrival marked by the lively bounce of her blonde waves. She exuded a casual confidence, her tone light, yet probing. "So," she hummed, curiosity lacing her words, "How's the new Cap doing?"

Before Sam had the chance to form a response, Bucky's voice, laced with a mixture of disdain and resignation, filled the room. "Don’t get me started." His hands found each other, intertwining in an awkward dance as his gaze inadvertently met yours. Even in the simplicity of his all-black ensemble, accentuated by a blazer that lent an air of sophistication, Bucky looked effortlessly handsome, commanding the space around him with an understated elegance.

Sharon, undeterred by the tense atmosphere, pressed on, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "Oh, please. You buy into all that stars and striped bullshit." Her pointed gaze shifted to Zemo. "Before you were his pet psychopath, you were Mr. America! Cap's best friend." With a fluid motion, she sank into the space beside Bucky, a deliberate bite of her lip following her words.

The action did not go unnoticed, drawing a frown from you, a silent testament to the unfolding dynamics. Bucky, catching Sam's eye, shared a moment of mutual understanding, tinged with a hint of disbelief. "Wow," he uttered, the word heavy with implication. "She's kind of awful now." His observation, though softly spoken, resonated with a mix of humor and a poignant undercurrent of nostalgia for times and alliances past.

As you momentarily extracted yourself from the animated discussion unfurling within the living room, your attention was ensnared by the relentless buzzing of your phone, a beacon of unchecked notifications. A myriad of messages from your sister painted your screen, a digital mosaic of concern and updates. "I'll be right back," you announced, your voice threading through the dense air of conversation that was currently monopolized by debates over the Flag Smashers. The name itself, a moniker you found both laughably juvenile and misleadingly innocuous, echoed in your thoughts as you distanced yourself from the discourse, finding solace in the quietude of the hallway.

Leaning against the cool, indifferent wall, you began the arduous task of sifting through the digital deluge, your fingers scrolling with practiced ease. It was then, amidst the solitude of your temporary retreat, that the ambiance subtly shifted, heralding the approach of another. The door opened with a hushed creak, and there he was—Bucky, his presence alone commanding your undivided attention.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice a gentle intrusion, as he navigated the space around you to claim his own against the wall opposite. His casual demeanor belied the concern etched into the furrows of his brow.

"Hey," you echoed, a mirror of his own greeting, yet laden with an unspoken acknowledgment of the weight he carried in his gaze.

"You alright?" His inquiry was simple, yet laden with layers of unvoiced thoughts and concerns. There was a palpable hesitation in his words, a reluctance to tread upon the terrain of your powers—a subject he knew stirred a tempest of emotions within you. “You used your powers.”

"I did," came your affirmation, your response punctuated with a grin that sought to mask the undercurrent of apprehension that had long shadowed your relationship with your own abilities. "I'm alright, though, really." Your attempt to reassure him—and perhaps yourself—was sincere. "It felt weirdly freeing to use them. To see how well I can actually keep control. They are still kind of scary, though."

As the words tumbled from your lips, Bucky bridged the gap between you, each step he took charged with an unspoken intensity. Suddenly, the world seemed to narrow down to the space that separated you, every detail of his approach etched into your memory—the way the light danced in his eyes, the barely perceptible tension in his jaw, the silent communication of his body language that spoke volumes of his concern and his undeniable pull towards you.

The proximity between you dwindled to a mere breath, a distance so trivial yet laden with a myriad of unspoken possibilities. The air around you thickened, charged with a palpable tension that sent your heart racing, your breaths shallow. The notion of closing the distance, of yielding to the gravitational pull that seemed to draw you inexorably towards him, flickered through your mind like a tantalizing promise. It was an effort to maintain your composure, to anchor yourself to the moment without succumbing to the overwhelming urge to bridge the final vestiges of space with a kiss that threatened to unravel both of you.

Pressed against the cool, unyielding surface of the wall, the intensity of the moment had magnified as Bucky's hands found their way to your waist, his grip tightening with a hunger that sent waves of anticipation coursing through your veins. His large, calloused hands, battle-hardened yet gentle, conveyed a sense of urgency as they dug into your flesh, pulling you impossibly closer into his embrace. The strength in his touch was paradoxically comforting, each finger imprinting a promise of protection and desire onto your skin.

The world around you had faded into a distant murmur, his presence engulfing you, drowning out everything else. Bucky's body molded against yours, his chest to your chest, his hips locked with yours in a dance as old as time. The pressure of his hands on your waist was both a claim and a caress, a testament to the depth of his longing. It was as if he was trying to merge two separate existences into one, to erase any space that still lingered between you.

As his lips moved with a tender ferocity against yours, you could feel the raw power of his emotions, restrained yet palpable. The sensation of being wholly desired, of being pulled into someone's orbit with such intensity, was both exhilarating and terrifying. His touch spoke volumes, whispered of need and want that had been simmering beneath the surface, now unleashed in the privacy of this shared moment.

The hunger in his grasp was matched only by the passion of your response, your own hands exploring the expanse of his back, tracing the lines of muscle and scars that told the story of his past. Together, you were adrift in a sea of heightened sensations, every caress, every kiss, every breath amplifying the connection that had been quietly growing between you. In that moment, with Bucky's hands anchoring you to him, you weren't just touching; you were speaking a language of longing, of mutual understanding and unspoken promises made in the quietude of hearts beating in unison.

A voice unexpectedly cut through the thick haze of the moment shared between you and Bucky. The abrupt sound of Sam’s voice, laced with surprise and a hint of disbelief, acted like a cold splash of reality.

“Someone care to explain what’s going on here?” he demanded, his tone piercing the bubble that had enveloped you and Bucky. The shock of being discovered, especially by your brother, sent a jolt through you, compelling you to break the kiss.

Oh, no.

[rejectedfables]

While the source material clearly intends Xue Yang to be read as an orphan (perhaps orphaned so young he has no memory of his parents), I think it’s underexplored in fandom that he never ACTUALLY SAYS that his parents DIED, but rather that he was a child without parents. 

"He had neither dad nor mom nor money" (via the official english translation)

I think there's something in here worth exploring about the possibility that Xue Yang was abandoned by his parents. 

Perhaps he remembers one or both of them and/or the event, perhaps he does not but just has a sense of it having happened, perhaps he has no memories of it at all but it still psychologically impacted his development. 

Just about every character in the story can be better understood by looking at how they were raised, and Xue Yang is CERTAINLY not an exception. 

There are myriad ways to interpret his childhood (though none of them stable, safe, or cared for), but I have been thinking a LOT lately about how being abandoned by his parents could have shaped him into who he later became.

His behavior in the Villainous Friends extra (wherein he, seemingly arbitrarily, breaks things and antagonizes people and then specifically challenges Jin Guangyao about paying for damages) COULD be interpreted as acting out in a way that's common for children and teens with a history of abandonment who are testing the waters of just how much their new guardian/s will tolerate. This sort of behavior can be a self fulfilling prophesy as well as an attempt to prove to themselves that their expectations of rejection or punishment are correct.

If Xue Yang has only ever known the world to be a painful place where people reject and abandon him, then that's how he expects the world to continue behaving. If suddenly someone defies this expectation, it is simultaneously a fascinating and wondrous thing, and also a threat to his worldview. After all, if THIS person can be kind and care for him, then why didn't anyone else?

If JGY, who at this point is essentially just his handler, can be unconditionally patient with him... then why couldn't others have been patient with him over much less? And why couldn't his own parents, who had considerably higher responsibility to him, be as patient as JGY?

It's much easier to push and push and push until you break the patience and prove your cynicism correct, than it is to grapple with those painful questions. And after all, Jin Guangyao had an exterior force (Jin Guangshan) requiring him to show patience. And once that force was removed, so was Xue Yang. This, perhaps, felt as much like validation as it did betrayal.

There might be a parallel to be made here, too, about how JGY was and felt betrayed/abandoned by his father. This in common might be something that they bonded over.

And of course, as always, there's Yi City.

Xue Yang expects Xiao Xingchen to abandon him, and his elaborate “revenge” was at least in part in preparation for that anticipated betrayal. He "knows" he will be betrayed and, perhaps unlike what happened with Jin Guangyao, he intends to be ready for it this time. Ready to punish Xiao Xingchen the MOMENT it happens, or ready to convince him not to betray him after all (what is "We're not so different, I'm not uniquely evil, you're ending our life together because you think you're better than me but look! Look! You and I are the same now" if not a deeply misguided and utterly desperate plea?).

At some point he starts hoping it just won't happen, and stops needing the “revenge” plot. When it starts unraveling before him, he tries for understanding first. What is "Hear my story, THEN decide--" if not begging to be understood?

Of course it doesn't work.

Xiao Xingchen doesn't even kill Xue Yang, either; he goes Away. Goes where Xue Yang can't. If Xue Yang is read as having this particular trigger, Xiao Xingchen's suicide may feel like abandonment all over again.

Perhaps Xiao Xingchen NOT killing Xue Yang becomes a parallel to Xue Yang's parents abandoning him to suffer alone instead of keeping him or killing him. Or else maybe Xue Yang's mother DID try to kill him (drown him or left him out in the cold) and he just managed to survive, in which case Xiao Xingchen NOT trying to kill Xue Yang puts him a cut above even Xue Yang's own mother/parents.

Final thought:

While I find Xue Yang's lack of familial connection to the rest of the cast compelling, I also find "what if" scenarios fascinating to explore, and "Xue Yang was abandoned by parents who might still be around during the story" does create some fascinating opportunities for fic.

Such as:

What if Xue Yang was yet another illegitimate son of Jin Guangshan? What if he knew but Jin Guangyao didn't? What if Jin Guangyao knew but Xue Yang didn't? What if Jin Guangshan himself knew? That would really put the insistent protections into a very weird light (is there a heart in there? Or did he think he could string Xue Yang along like he did Jin Guangyao? Or was Xue Yang blackmailing him?)

OR

What if Xue Yang was the illegitimate son of Chang Cian? It certainly puts a spin on that entire scenario. Little Xue Yang has another reason to want to please this man, and a further reason to feel betrayed by the abuse. Chang Cian not even recognizing him. Xue Yang taking revenge on the entire family because they ALL wronged him in a way he can't articulate. Because they got to live the life he could have if he'd been wanted.

Certainly none of this is canon, but it's not TERRIBLY far beyond the bounds of canon either, and makes for some juicy food for fic.

[green-tea-in-absinthe-bottle]

IN GOOD HANDS

Chishiya x gn!reader, headcanons - Chishiya as reader's doctor. WRITTEN WITH MANGA VERSION OF CHISHIYA IN MIND

general masterlist

Being Chishiya's fav patient includes:

♦️ Him trying to be as indifferent about you as he was towards every other patient, but for a reason unknown to him being unable to. He tries his best to not think too hard about what makes you different, to not pay this strange feeling any attention, to pretend it doesn't exist... But one day during check up it just comes to his mind. Your smile... It felt like your face was smiling at him from his childhood memories and then he understood.

You had the exact same smile as the Mona Lisa. This famous painting's replica used to hang over the fireplace in his family home. As a lonely and neglected child he used to look at it for hours, drawn to it in special way.

♦️ Since that day he just couldn't help but look for you in hospital corridor and look forwards to your check ups. It annoyed him so much but he simply wished to see you more. Just to make sure once again that you've still got him in a chokehold.

♦️ One time during his night shift he came to check up on you and found you asleep. Such a perfect opportunity to confront this feeling inside his chest without having to confront you. He admired your appearance, the shape of your nose and the way moonlight framed your face. Still asleep, you smiled at him gently. The icy walls around his heart begun to melt. He brushed hair out of your face and came back to his office with a heavy heart.

♦️ Chishiya dreading the day your recovery ends and you will leave the hospital. Don't get me wrong, he does all he can to bring you back to health and he cares about your well-being, but the thought of never seeing you again taunts him. He sometimes wonders, if you would allow him to be the part of your life if he asked you out or proposed to stay friends once you are no longer his patient. Deep down he knows he won't offer you anything like that - he feels like you deserve better people around you than such a cold and selfish soul as him.

♦️Him noticing how you warm up to him. He was not the only one waiting for your next meeting all day long anymore, you were just as excited to talk with your handsome, intelligent and observant doctor. You could feel how much he cares about your health and it made you feel safe under his care. Your welcoming attitude was like a thorn in Chishiya's heart, he was so sure that it would quickly change into disgust if you knew what kind of man he truly was. Seeing you so kind and happy because of him made him feel like a master manipulator. He never cared about being a honest person, but for you he knew he had to try.

♦️In desperate attempt to be sincere, he visited you one evening during his night shift. Everybody else was already asleep or pretending to be. He sat down next to your bed and for the first time in his life he truly opened up. He told you about his lonely childhood, his neglectful, workaholic parent, about the numbness following him wherever he goes, his lack of care for both his own life and everybody else's, even this situation when he threw out dying patient's last letter to his family. You observed him with concerned expression but you didn't interrupt. Once he was done, Chishiya felt a strong wave of relief wash over him, even if he was sure you no longer see him as a good person you want to have anything to do with. Yet, none of the harsh words he expected flew out of your mouth. You let him know you don't want to judge him and his apathy doesn't make him a bad person, only his choices can do so. You were empathetic but rational and calm as you spoke up and he found strange comfort in your attitude.

♦️ You opened up to him about your own past as well, and he wanted to listen about it. He never wanted to know much about his patients, they were just bodies to fix in his eyes, nothing more, but you were different. He wanted to know everything about you, from how you like your eggs in the morning to what do you think is the sense of life. He was intrigued by your thoughts about philosophy and true nature of humanity. You found each other deep and complex, two tired souls seeking for answers in illogical world. This conversation opened up a new chapter in your relationship - one that will last way beyond your stay in this hospital.

[deputyrook]

Impressions- 3/? Mark Hoffman x Psychic!Reader

PART 1. PART 2.

You're a reluctant psychic. He's a detective. And a serial killer.

(Weren't you supposed to be afraid?)

Word count: 4581

WARNINGS: Child abuse, attempted infanticide, corruption, stockholm syndrome, drug use (painkillers), blackmail, power imbalance, abusive dynamics, overt threatening, general Saw-levels of horror & violence.

You dream about the bathroom again.

Your mother is there, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her hair tied back. It's your childhood home, the bathroom on the second floor just beyond the top of the stairway, painted a garish teal that was popular in the late 70s.

You think you are four years old. Your mother is chattering to you as she fills the tub. She's telling you that she's sorry, but it has to be done- that you're sensitive just like her, she can tell, and that this life will ruin you.

She has to save you from it. You deserve better than this, she says to you, smoothing down your hair with wet hands. Life is too bad, too hard. Too filled with pain and bad people. You're not like them.

The water is cold, and dark. The bathtub seems to expand as you're held underwater- you open your eyes, and they burn. Blurry shapes pass across your vision. The darkness seems to go on forever.

(You were dead for three minutes, the doctors said, before they were able to resuscitate you.)

Somewhere in the haze of the dream, you zoom out to a bird's eye view, and the bathroom starts to decay. You see the top of the toilet crack, the mirror shatter and fall. A chain is attached to the radiator, snaking around your ankle. The light flickers. There is a puddle of blood in the centre of the room.

When you wake up, you are drenched in sweat.

You don't text Mark Hoffman about that dream, instead groggily taking a handful of painkillers to ensure a dreamless sleep for the rest of the night.

It had only been after your near death experience that you'd started getting flashes, the images and emotions that your childhood friends didn't. At the time, the doctors chalked up to trauma. Later, you learned to keep it quiet.

Maybe, somewhere in the world- wherever she was now- your mother had woken up after the same dream. You are just about the same age now as she was then, and when you look in the mirror, you see the same tired eyes.

She was right about one thing, you think, your recent visions coming back to you. Life is full of pain.

As you lay back down, your cat Prawn crawls up beside you and starts purring relentlessly. He shoves his face against yours, like he can tell you're feeling down. He smooshes against you, and despite yourself you chuckle, petting him softly.

The last thing you wonder before you fall asleep is what your mother would think of what you're doing now. She may have been right about life, but she was wrong about you.

You are like them. Maybe worse.

---

---

"What do you mean, you haven't had any visions since yesterday morning?" Mark asks as he drives, gloved hands gripping the wheel so tightly that you're surprised he doesn't leave a permanent indent on it.

"I took some painkillers yesterday. They block out the noise, at least for a bit," you answer, sparing a look over at him, "I wanted to be a normal human being for a while."

He shakes his head in what appears to be annoyance, distaste or disappointment- you can't tell which.

"Quit complaining," He says, without even a hint of sympathy. You wonder if sympathy is an emotion he knows how to feel, "Pills aren't going to make you feel normal."

With your senses dulled, you feel cut-off from the world around you, and by extension, Mark Hoffman. Without the bleed of other people's emotions, thoughts, and memories into your mind, you feel more independent, more a person. It comes at the cost of your intuition, but at least you can tell a bit more clearly where Jigsaw ends and you begin.

Still, somewhere along the way, you stopped flinching every time Mark Hoffman looked at you. It's incredible, what the human mind can normalize. How it can change fear to thrill to anticipation.

"It'll come back, it always does. Pretty soon, if my timing is right," You shoot Mark a look, "Wouldn't want to be useless to you."

He sneaks a glance back at you. "I'm sure I could find a use for you."

For a second, it feels like the energy in the car changes. With that insinuation, there's a tension between you that becomes obvious. The air in the car feels tight.

It feels dangerous. Your cheeks flush, and you don't exactly know how to respond to that, so you drum your fingers on your thigh and look out the window.

"It's been affecting me," you admit, finally, changing the subject. "I've been connected to this web of the worst of humanity. I needed a break."

Mark scoffs. "You're telling me that shutting your eyes and pretending it's not happening is going to make you feel better?"

"A little," you lie, before you sigh and stretch. "Maybe when my intuition comes back, I should just go to a dog park, close my eyes, and pet all the dogs."

"You get any hits on the dogs being mistreated, you can send the owners my way," Mark replies, deadpan.

You actually laugh out loud at that, mostly out of surprise. Mark still looks serious- he really doesn't smile all that often. Was that a joke? Probably not entirely, but either way, you can't help but smile as you shake your head at his audacity.

Your suspicion that Mark is at least somewhat serious is confirmed when he continues.

"We could do a lot of good work like that," Mark adds quietly after a moment, "You pick them. I test them. You sense the threats, I deal with them from the inside. A pretty fucking effective team, if you ask me."

"Is that what you want? Us to murder people together?" You ask, voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Yeah," Mark replies simply, seriously. A shiver runs across your skin, and at that single word, your stomach drops. It seems too real a possibility, suddenly. That you could actually do it. That you would actually do it. That you could do it, together, and not get caught.

"Did you forget that I'm here under duress?" You reply uncomfortably. The words sound like a lie even to you as they leave your mouth.

"Really? I don't see a gun to your head." He points out. You shuffle in your seat, and pick at a seam on your jeans. He's right, and the guilt of it hits you square in the chest.

What are you doing here, if it's not because you've been forced to be? The answer just makes you feel more guilty, rising like bile in your throat.

You've enjoyed being needed. He's dangerous, and he's taking you seriously, bringing you along. He needs you, he wants you here.

You've been having fun.

He'd kill you in a second if you threatened him, without an ounce of regret. You still like him. Are you insane? Suicidal?

Fuck. It hurts your head. It takes every image you've ever had of yourself and crumples it into a little paper ball. And sets it on fire. You don't even know who you are anymore.

"How would Jigsaw number one feel about that?" You ask instead, trying to hide the sudden waves of turmoil that crash through you, making you feel sea-sick and confused.

"Pretty soon, it won't matter," Mark's voice is dark, and he looks straight ahead at the road as he drives. Once again, you have no idea where he's taking you, but you've been driven well outside of the city centre. The area is dilapidated, and you pass lawn after lawn filled with detritus and garbage.

It didn't even occur to you to try to remember the route to get here.

"I wasn't sure about it at first either," Mark murmurs after a while, with a cruel twist of the corner of his mouth, "Then I realized. They have a real chance to get out alive. Maybe they learn their lesson. Maybe they don't. Well, then, we can just put them back into the games until they figure it out, or they die. It's housekeeping."

"That's fucked up. These are people you're talking about. With their own lives and hopes and dreams," Is it him you're trying to convince, or yourself? Maybe you're pushing your luck, arguing with him as much as you are. It's weightless, regardless. Here you are, tagging along, no gun in sight.

"Nah. You said it yourself- the worst of humanity. Fuck 'em." Mark pulls into a long driveway of an old abandoned school building, driving his car around the back and parking in the grass, out of sight from the road. You can see broken windows, glass scattered around the entrances, and brick walls splashed with colourful graffiti.

He turns off the engine of his car, and then turns fully to you.

"Come on. You wanna find out what you really think?"

--

Mark has a key to the back door, and the rusted lock opens with an imposing click. Even with the key, it feels like you shouldn't be here. A sense of foreboding edges your awareness, and you can tell the medication is starting to wear off by how deeply you're unsettled in this atmosphere. You seem to be entering through an administration sector of small back offices.

The building smells of mildew and grease, of rust and water damage. As he enters the hallway, Hoffman flips a series of switches just to the left of the entry, which light the narrow back hallways in an uncanny florescence. If not for the light, you would have thought this place was abandoned.

Something bad has happened here, or is happening here.

"Follow me," he murmurs, and with confident strides, he leads you through the administration section and out into the main hallway of the school. You trail behind him quietly, wondering if you would be able to navigate your way out of this building again if you were left here.

He takes you up an old metal stairway, and then into a large room which you can tell used to be a library. Compared to the other parts of the building you've seen, this room is much better kept, clear of rubble and debris. Someone's taken the time to clear it out, at least mostly. Old bookshelves stand empty, and a series of round tables in the room now hold various pieces of equipment.

It's been turned into a workshop, you realize.

Blueprints are spread across the tables, along with a number of cassette tapes and what appears to be recording equipment. A large black television is set up on a TV cart near the front of the room, with wires connecting to a receiver of some kind.

Resting on one of the tables, contrasting so severely with the rest of the equipment on it, there's an old, faded teddy bear.

"See that?" Mark says, pointing to the toy. "I wanna know what kind of a read you get on it."

"Why do I feel like this isn't going to be fun?" You murmur anxiously, but you do as he instructs, approaching the table and picking up the bear. Turning it over in your hands, you close your eyes, and allow the feelings to creep up onto you.

You were right. Something bad happened here.

There was a little boy, no older than six, you think, who had held onto the bear so tightly. You feel his confusion, more than anything else at first. What had he done wrong? Why was his teacher so angry?

Why did it hurt so much?

Pain flashes through you, bright and sharp, from your elbow to your shoulder. You cringe, still holding the bear, trying to piece together what had happened to the boy. You can feel his fear, pure and unrestrained, making you shake.

"Got it?" Mark asks, and you realize he's come up to stand right behind you. He leans over you, his chest nearly touching your back, and speaks low, directly into your ear. It makes you shiver for a different reason. "Now, open your eyes. Watch."

Holding up a remote beside you, you open your eyes to watch as he clicks on the television with it. It crackles to life, and it takes you a second before you register what you're looking at, through the static of what appears to be a live feed.

A man that you would guess is in his mid-60's is restrained to a chair in an abandoned classroom, each of his arms fastened into metal contraptions. Something large is attached to the back of the chair, almost looking like an industrial turtle shell.

"Holy shit," you breathe, your eyes going wide. You drop the teddy bear in shock at what you're seeing, as the man begins to yell for help and writhe in the chair, trying to free his arms

"No, hold onto it," Mark says into your ear, reaching around you. Placing his hands on top of yours, he guides your touch back to the bear, his chest now fully flush against your back.

As you touch the toy again, the impressions come back, stronger this time. Not just the boy, but others as well. Left alone, trapped somewhere, difficult to breathe- suffocating in darkness. Where is my mom, I want my mom-

Anger begins to churn inside of you, so thick and strong it sickens you. You grit your teeth as you stare at the screen.

"Hello, Martin," A distorted voice says. Jigsaw. You can't see the TV from the camera's vantage point, but you can see the person in the chair whip his head toward the sound. "I want to play a game."

The man on the screen whimpers. "No, no, no," he moans.

"You worked at this school for almost three decades before they finally fired you. There were never any charges laid. But there were rumours for years about how you took out your rage on those who couldn't fight back."

You can feel the tears starting to well in your eyes as you stare up at the screen, transfixed in horror. The kids weep and scream in your mind like ghosts, begging to tell you how they suffered.

"You called it your isolation room. A closet hideaway, barely larger than a cardboard box. How many children did you force to stay there, curled up and injured for hours, for the sake of discipline?"

"It was a mistake!" The man yells out, voice breaking, "Please, I'm sorry, I was doing my best-"

"You have two minutes to press down on the peddles under your feet. Doing so will tear away the top layer of skin from your hands, degloving them. Keep your feet pressed down until the process is finished. Once your hands have been degloved, you will be able to pull them from the machine and press the buttons releasing you from the chair."

The man wails in misery. Mark Hoffman rests his chin on your shoulder, and you can feel his eyes watching the footage with you, so intently. The heat of his body pressed against yours, his large, rough hands over yours. The terror and anguish of the children, the shrieking of the man in the trap. It makes you dizzy.

"If you fail to do so before the time runs out, spikes will emerge from the contraption on your back, impaling you. Now we will see how disciplined you are."

The man gasps, and then, as the timer begins to tick down, begins to scream in earnest. You watch as he presses his foot down on the pedal, feeling the reverberation of his panic bounce back onto you.

"I can't do this," you say, squeezing your eyes shut, your nails digging into the fabric of the toy. Your head pounds with the echoes of the children crying, with their shame and embarrassment and panic, and with the howling screams of the man on the screen. It all layers, in a cacophonous symphony of violence and horror that drowns out all other thought.

"It's too much, it's so loud. I can't think, I- I need to shut it out." With one hand letting go of the toy, you dig into your jacket pocket, fishing for your prescription bottle.

"No, no," Mark snaps. He grabs your wrist, tight, and snatches the bottle of painkillers. "No more fucking pills. Watch."

"It's too much," you whisper, wincing. Your mind screams, unable to make sense of all of the information it's taking in. You need to think about this, but all you can do is feel, overstimulated and shaking-

"Detective. I don't think you've introduced me to your friend."

The dry voice cuts through everything else. You realize the screaming has stopped. When you open your eyes again, you see someone has paused the feed on the television.

It isn't live.

Mark freezes, his body immediately going stiff behind you. Although you've never heard this voice before, you recognize it all the same. You drop the teddy bear, as Mark removes his hand from your wrist and steps back away from you. The removal of the warmth of his body leaves yours feeling colder than before.

"Uh oh. You're in trouble," A second voice chimes in, sing-song and clearly elated that you've been caught here, together.

You're hoping Mark will say something on your behalf, but he doesn't. Your head pounds, and your skin feels almost too-sensitive, but if your intuition has ever told you anything, it's that this is not the time to fall apart.

So you turn, looking at the source voices, and muster up all of the courage you can. You are proud that your voice wavers only a little.

"Um. Hello. Jigsaw, and... Amanda Young, I assume." You cast a furtive glance at Mark, who finally seems to have recovered and composed himself, standing up straighter.

John Kramer sits in a wheelchair, wearing a long black and red robe that trails on the ground. Amanda stands behind him with her hands on the handles of the wheelchair, leaning her weight on it

Nothing about John Kramer suggests that he is weak or feeble to you, despite his thin frame and poor health. Instead, you sense a chessmaster, and a conqueror sits before you, a King in a throne. You get the image of a strategist who has been leading his troops through a war, claiming victory after victory through careful battlefield positioning.

"I can explain," Mark says slowly, keeping his voice even and calm.

"Oh, I'm listening," Kramer replies, tilting his head slightly and watching you carefully. His tone is curious and measured, and you sense that he's already re-arranging his plans in his mind, re-evaluating them and trying to determine how you're going to affect things. If he's angry with Hoffman, you can't tell.

"I wanted to test them myself, before I told you, in case it ended up being a waste of time," Hoffman says, shooting a glance at you, "I've never met someone so good at reading people. Except maybe you."

"You've got to be kidding," Amanda says, nearly laughing, "So you took them here, and showed them the footage from our last game? I knew you were an idiot, but this is really next level."

"We already abandoned this place as a workshop," Mark gestures to the TV, sounding irritated, "I sure as hell wasn't going to leave any evidence lying around after I took them home. Place would have been cleared out by tomorrow morning."

"And if they, oh, you know- reported you? Told someone?" Amanda asks. Mark looks like he's about to argue back at her, but John holds up a hand.

"I know you're smart enough not to take unnecessary risks, especially with your identity. But you should have brought this to my attention immediately," John says to Mark. Hoffman actually grimaces, like a kid being scolded.

John turns his attention to you, in cold and calculating interest, "What do you have to say?"

Cherish your life, the wind whispers in your ear. Right now, your life felt pretty fucking cherished, in the it-is-literally-on-the-line sense.

"I guessed that Detective Hoffman was one of your accomplices a few weeks ago," You answer, hoping that you're not going to talk yourself into a corner, "Not that I had any proof, but...he's been keeping a close eye on me, since then."

"And why haven't you gone to the police?" John asks, critical. The big question. Something urges you to just lay all of your cards out on the table.

"I don't... know, to be honest. Sometimes, things just come to me. Pieces of information, like drops of rain before a storm," John looks at you in interest, waiting silently, so you continue. "I feel like... the first one was personal, right? Like tiger stripes across the face, rough, rudimentary, righteous. He took something from you. Like the sun going out," You look at Mark. "The two of you are similar, like that."

Amanda and John stare at you, and you're worried you've said too much. Maybe you shouldn't have called his engineering rudimentary. You clear your throat, and shuffle your weight from one foot to the other.

"Interesting," Jigsaw remains expressionless, tone dispassionate. He looks at Mark's hand, still clenched around your prescription bottle, "...And the pills?"

You swallow. "Dampeners," you answer simply. He nods, like he understands, somehow. Amanda snaps her attention from you, to Mark, to John, like she can't believe what's happening. She makes a noise of clear protest.

"Come here, for a moment," Jigsaw says. You very much do not want to do that, but with Amanda glowering at you, you don't feel like you have much of a choice.

You walk over until you stand in front of him, heart hammering in your chest. With a hand, he beckons you to lean down, closer. Amanda looks just about ready to leap over his chair and strangle you.

As you lean in closer, you feel a prick on your neck. You look down to see John holding a needle, sticking it into your skin. He pushes an unknown liquid into your body.

"Oh," you say simply. Should have seen that coming.

The room goes dark.

---

When you wake up, you have gone from being in a bad situation to a much, much worse situation.

Somehow, you can sense that you were unconscious for a very long time. Now, though, you are wide awake, with adrenaline beginning to flood your body. Good- you're going to need it.

The first thing you register is that your eyes are very dry. The reason for this is immediately clear: your eyelids are being held open by a metal optician's speculum. You glance around your dark surroundings frantically in silent terror, unable to move your head. Some kind of a warehouse? No- a gymnasium. The school.

You can't move your body, either. You seem to be suspended in the air- how high up, you can't say- with your arms and legs locked into some kind of device. The height makes you nervous enough that you don't try to squirm.

Fuck. Stay calm. This is a Jigsaw game, which means there's a way out of it.

As you look back up above you, you can just make out through the darkness large jug of something positioned directly over your head. You catch the scent of something pungent and acidic.

It is becoming significantly harder to stay calm.

Below you, off to the side of the room, a television crackles to life.

"Hello," Jigsaw's voice says, addressing you by name, "I want to play a game." You can't see him, but you can imagine the puppet. Is the voice John's, Mark's or Amanda's through that modulation? You can't tell.

"You have been given a gift. A unique way of seeing the world. But you turn reject this strength. You silence it with painkillers, living in a wilful ignorance when you could know so much more."

So if it's John, someone has told him more about you. You wiggle your fingers. In each of your hands, there is some kind of device with a switch. Never a good sign.

"In your hands are two switches. By flipping each the switches, a single drop of acid will drop into your eyes, blinding you permanently. If you do not do so within two minutes, the restraints on your arms and legs will release, and you will be dropped in a tub of acid. I assure you, you will not survive."

Whimpering softly, the panic bubbles up in your chest, making it hard for you to catch your breath. It's much more difficult to turn inward and rely on your intuition with your eyes pried open- and maybe that was by design. If you could only shut them for a moment, then maybe your intuition could help you find a different way out of this.

"Will you embrace your gifts permanently by blinding yourself? Or will you die in ignorance? This is your test. Make your choice."

As the timer begins to tick, time seems to slow. You think of your mother's hands, holding you under the water, and the last words she said to you before she attempted to drown you.

Life is full of pain and bad people. She was right about that. You think of the kids from the school, forced to wait alone, curled up in the dark by their teacher. You think of Mark Hoffman, who delighted in the teacher's suffering.

You think of your cat Prawn, curled up by your head, and of the last time you grabbed lunch with Allison.

But she was wrong. Life is worth living, regardless.

You aren't going to fucking die here, alone. Not because of Jigsaw.

You flick the switches in your hands.

True to his word, the last thing you see are two drops of liquid, dripping down from above you into your eyes.

You scream as the acid burns you. You scream and you scream, until your voice breaks and your throat aches. You can smell the horrible scent of the acid burning your eyes, and hear something moving beneath you. A machine powers down, and you're slowly and gently lowered to the ground, no pool of acid waiting to swallow you whole.

When the restraints release your hands and feet, you rip the speculum out of your eyes, moaning in pain as you shut them and clutch at them. You curl into yourself, into a ball on the cold ground, and try not to cry.

And then, as you lie there in the dirt, panting and moaning, your awareness explodes. Your sixth sense replaces your fifth and crystallizes, smoothing out and filling in the gaps.

When you hear feet running to you, you already know whose they are. Detective Mark Hoffman, followed by Allyson Kerry. Detective Rigg isn't far behind.

You don't need to see to know.

"Kerry! Get over here, now!" Mark's voice barks out. You feel him lean in close to you, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders and holding you to his chest.

"You did it," he murmurs into your ear, only for you to hear, "You fucking did it. I knew you'd win."

You reach out, clinging to him. It still feels comforting. It still feels protective.

Lies upon lies.

---

yes. I accidentally nuked my blog. 🥲 but thank you for the support on this fic series! I would love to hear what you think- comments help me figure out what people are enjoying about the fics and what people want to see more of 💕

TAG LIST: @icarusinstatic @honimello @haven-is-happy @karmaswitch @the-jester-calamity @teamhawkeye @thebrideofcaliban

NEXT CHAPTER

[iheartchv]

Sunny Day Jack x Reader:

I Never Forgot

What if you were one of the few people who remembered vividly about Sunny Day Jack... even after the whole show seemed to have been forgotten?

☀️Rating: Fluffy

🌈 Part 2 | 🌈 Part 3

❤💛💙❤💛💙❤💛💙❤💛💙❤💛💙❤

As a child growing up, you watched The SunnyTime Crew Show. You were 3 or 4 years old then, and you would watch every episode whenever they came out. Sure, there were plenty of interesting characters, but one that stood out to you was Sunny Day Jack. The blue haired clown was your favorite, the best friend you always wanted, and you wanted to meet him in person. At the time, money was tight, so that was one crushed childhood dream. The other was when there were no more episodes of The SunnyTime Crew Show being released. You had asked but no answers were given. You cried that one night (a few days after the incident); you felt like you had lost a best friend, and all the drawings and paintings you did hurt your little heart that you put them away in a box of memories. Jack was gone, but not forgotten...

❤💛💙❤💛💙❤💛💙❤💛💙❤💛💙

❤💛💙PRESENT DAY ❤💛💙

You're now at a threft shop, looking for clothes that wouldn't remind you of your ex, Ian. As you picked up some random stuff that fell over, you didn't notice a VCR tape that fell in your basket. As you were checking out, you were about to object to buying it, but decided that it wasn't worth 25 cents over. What could've been on the tape?On it was written '84- Incident'. Bells went off in your head seeing the year... A memory or something was trying to resurface... Borrowing a VCR player, you popped in the tape.

The static on the TV continued for a moment until you heard... a voice... saying,"Hello?" Bells went off in your head again as you stared at the static screen. That voice... it sounded familiar. Just then a shape formed through the jagged lines of the TV screen. It looked... human... And it was coming closer.

"Who... are you?" The voice said. Your heart started to beat faster. You felt like you were in a horror movie. You wanted to back up and run away, but you were frozen with fear. Your chest tightened as your flight or fight response kicked in. "You seem nice... Do you want to be my friend?"

The figure then... came through the screen as if it was climbing through a window. You wanted to scream but it was stuck in your throat. You choked on it. The figure then stood... they were tall. The scream then finally made its way out of your lungs as you bumped into the coffee table.

"Oh, gosh. Are you okay? I didn't mean to scare you, Sunspot." the figure said in a concerned tone.

Sunspot? You remembered... him always calling you Sunspot... As your eyes adjusted to the dimness of your living room, you could see that he (you assumed) had... blue hair? You also caught glimpses of his primary colored clothes... A memory was triggered. Everything was put together like a puzzle. No... this couldn't be?

"Jack... Sunny Day Jack?"

"You... know me?" He looked surprised.

"Yeah... I used to watch your show all the time as a kid. But... how... why...?" You had so many questions that you wanted answered. You were a ball of wound up emotions right now. You didn't know what to feel right now.

Jack cleared his throat, trying to change the subject to something simpler. "I'm sorry for bring rude, but I didn't get your name..." he said with a small chuckle and a smile.

"It's... y/n."

"Y/n. That's a nice name. Do you want to be my new best friend, Sunspot?"

He reached his hand out toward you for a handshake. At this moment, you strangely felt like a kid again. You were meeting Sunny Day Jack... in person (or the closest thing, at least). His cheery voice drew you in, like it did those many years ago. You took his hand in a firm handshake. "Sure." That was the last thing you remember before blacking out.

Been working on this idea for a couple of days, and I plan on writing a few more parts to this c: I also don't know if anything like this has already been written, but here it is nonetheless. I really hope you all in the SDJ fandom enjoys~☁️🌈☀️

[lunarw0rks]

TF 141 as Hozier songs

A/N: I love hozier so much. genuinely listen to his songs for inspo while writing quite often. here's some of the sounds that remind me of the 141 boys. I seen others doing this w/ their fav artists/songs, so here's my version. Warning(s): nsfw + sfw, established relationship, trauma mention, fluff/smut/angst, basically. // Word Count: 1.5k

☆ MAIN MASTERLIST ☆ 141 MASTERLIST ☆ ASK BOX

『 PRICE 』

As It Was: And tell me if somehow Some of it remained How long would you wait for me? How long I've been away The shape that I'm in now You're shaping the doorway Make your good love known to me Just tell me about your day

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ A relationship with Price is anything but triumphant. His lovers spend more time waiting for him than with him, yet you've stuck around long enough to savor every waiting moment.

The putter of your heart and foot against the floor as you wait for that door to open. Finally greeted with the rugged man after several months, in various battered states every time.

But there aren't powerful conversations paired with physical leaps of joy; all he wants is someone to wait for him. To love him, despite the state he's in when he comes home. It's the little things.

Eat Your Young: I'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to somethin' Let me wrap my teeth around the world Start carvin', darlin', I want to smell the dinner cookin' I want to feel the edges start to burn Honey, I want to race you to the table If you hesitate, the gettin' is gone

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ All of Price's restraint is out the window once he comes home to you; finding you in your natural stated. Relaxed and waiting for him to arrive.

Forget the filling meal — his hunger is much deeper than any entrée on the stove.

It's become a game of sorts, the race to the finish with every step. To peel your dressings, to fumble through his with haste, to wrap his lips around your warm body and feast.

Movement: When you move I can recall something that's gone from me When you move Honey, I'm put in awe of something so flawed and free So move me, baby Shake like the bough of a willow tree You do it naturally

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Nothing is more natural to him than his love and need to observe. All your flaws, all your frustrations, every little bit of you in his sights — they're savored.

Whether it be your quirks, your qualms for the day, or the way you've come undone from his famished hands.

There's nothing more cherished, either a mundane act or a carnal one. They matter most to him.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

『 SIMON 』

To Be Alone: Honey, when you kill the lights and kiss my eyes I feel like a person for a moment of my life You don't know what hell you put me through To have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ He had to get used to being loved, being touched by another person who didn't want to make him bleed.

The sensations of being human, being present rather than lost in his void of memories — it's foreign.

You've made him feel resuscitated as if the blood finally pumped through his veins once again. Now, he's forced to cope with being a person again, plunged headfirst into the agonizing act of loving another soul unconditionally.

Arsonist's Lullabye: When I was a child I'd sit for hours Staring into open flame Something in it had a power Could barely tear my eyes away // Don't you ever Tame your demon But always keep 'em on a leash

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Spent hours in his childhood disassociating, finding mindless ways to pass his miserable time. Especially as an adolescent, any time away from home was desirable, even if it meant being troublesome.

The military was his only escape, yet the phantoms of his past never left him.

Simon wasn't sure he wanted them to, either. They're such a vibrant portion of his whole being, and he despises it. But he keeps them around to be the soldier he needs to be.

In The Woods Somewhere: I raised myself My legs were weak I prayed my mind be good to me An awful noise filled the air I heard a scream in the woods somewhere

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Simon's flashbacks were always vivid and as agonizing as the moment in time he endured them. The worst of them all, the most suffocating — the day he was buried alive.

Every ounce of his strength to get out of that box, his muscles burning and exhausted.

The screams he's heard haunt him; civilians, hostiles, his family that had been slaughtered. They taunt his ears as if he's suffocating alone all over again.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

『 SOAP 』

Work Song: When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ When Soap is with someone he's whipped.

That's what makes leaving you so hard, especially when there's no guarantee he'll be home by the end of the run. His letters, his tags, and the cherished memories might be all you have left.

But even in death, he's with you; no matter how hard the journey it will be when that inevitable day comes.

Dinner & Diatribes: Honey I laugh when it sinks in A pillar I am of pride Scarcely can speak for my thinking What you'd do to me tonight

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ He's an arrogant lover, oozing pride and vigor with every move he makes on you. Oh, how he loves to have you at his mercy — but how he loves being at yours.

Keep him in the dark, surprise him; let mounds of restraint double the reward, and he's yours. Wrapped around your finger and ravenous for the coquetting you indulge in together — and more.

Moments Silence (Common Tongue): Who views the deed as power's creed, as pure authority This moment's silence when my baby puts the mouth on me // Like a heathen clung to the homily Let the reason come on the common tongue of your loving me So summon on the pearl rosary Let the reason come on the common tongue of your loving me

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ His carnal need for you is never satiated, it's ever-lasting and as ferocious as his mouth. Soap's wicked tongue, either occupied on you or tight against the roof of his mouth when he clenches his jaw.

There's no act lovesome enough, not in comparison to your wicked tongue devouring him in all ways.

Whether spouting back and clashing with his pride or silencing him with lascivious ecstasy in the most biblical form — it's your choice.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

『 GAZ 』

NFWMB: 'Cause the rest of you, the best of you Honey, belongs to me // Nothing fucks with my baby Nothing can get a look in on my baby // If I was born a blackthorn tree I'd wanna be felled by you, held by you Fuel the pyre of your enemies

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ If there's one sure trait of Gaz, it's covetousness. However, only where you're concerned. Though you aren't a possession, nor a warm body to be claimed, and never viewed as one — you're his.

It better be clear, too, and not from your side. It's his job to keep the envious eyes and acquisitive palms far from you.

There's no doubt in his mind that you're devoted, either. It's the sick world around him he lacks trust with — stemming from the depravity he's witness to each day.

Talk: Imagine being loved by me I won't deny I've got in my mind now All the thing I would do // How I'm imaginin' you I'd be the last shred of truth In the lost myth of true love I'd be the sweet feeling of release

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ His hands; calloused and ever-useful to you. The scars that litter them are a patent voucher of all they've been through — all they've done to keep the world clean.

Through his walls, and the subconscious armor that he uses as his protection, he's a whole new man. You seemingly materialized into his life, intertwining yourself with every bit of him — in every way. Your body knew it, too, as did his.

He'll have you yearning for his touch — the sweet release it gives you. It's the least he can do, considering all he asks in return is loyalty, and that's what he's gotten.

Sunlight: Oh, and these colors fade for you only Hold me, carry me slowly, my sunlight // Each day, you'd rise with me Know that I would gladly be The Icarus to your certainty Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Few people see the tenderness deep within his rigid exterior, and for good reason. It's intentional, who does or doesn't get a glimpse of his most merciful portion.

You, devoted and accepting of his demanding lifestyle, have earned that right. No matter how far he is, you know you're both watching the same burning star in the sky.

Kyle was in deep; like all his foes, you become the forefront of his psyche, his reason for getting home — the face he sees when looking at the sunlight.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ Thanks for reading this far! <3

`` ~ ୨୧ ♡ · divider cred. - cafekitsune

[supernaturalscribe67]

Just Like Mama Used to Make

Words: 6,178

POV: 1st & 3rd Person

Pairing: John x Son!Reader - Dean/Sam x Brother!Reader [Platonic]

Warning(s): Language, John Winchester, Fluff, Mention of Childhood Trauma, Mention of Death, I think that's it??

Summary: Taking inspiration from his father, the reader starts his very own journal. For his first entry, he recalls some of the memories that shaped him into the hunter that he has become.

Request:

Hello, hope you are having a good day/night

I was wondering if I could request John/Dean/Sam Winchester reaction to having a brother who looks like their mother and picked up hunting like breathing?

@xweirdo101x

A/N: My very first request! It kind of got away from me, but I really hope that I was able to do your request justice. Hope you like it!~

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Hello

Hey!

Dear Diary

SEPTEMBER 2014

To be honest, I have no idea how to start something like this. I was never one for writing, nor have I been one who can easily express my emotions. I guess I got that trait from the Winchester side of my family. Still, I have thought a lot about Dad’s journal lately. The things that he wrote down. It’s not detailed. It’s nowhere near what it was like growing up with him, but it still provides Dean, Sammy, and me with some information and nostalgia from time to time.

So, I figured ‘Why the Hell not’, I might as well write down some things in my own journal. I’m going to die someday anyway, and I want people to read this and be able to see what my life was like. From the good times that I spent with my family to the bad times when I lost my family. Hell, maybe this journal will get me into a history book someday when someone else discovers the Men of Letters Bunker. Who knows. Maybe I’ll be famous after I die, or perhaps it’s just wishful thinking. 

This journal has already turned into a clusterfuck. I don’t even know what to write about. I can’t even think of things to write about. Should I say things about my life? Should I just write down random things I think of throughout the day? I don’t know how to do it. Even when I look at Dad’s journal for inspiration, there’s nothing to inspire in it. A lot of it is notes on how to kill monsters and other stuff is just a bunch of personal bullshit he was going through. 

Well, we were all going through it.

I guess I’ll start by writing down some of the memories I’ve had. If I don’t like it, then I’ll throw this journal away and start another one. I don’t want future historians to think of me as some scatterbrained moron, despite what Sammy and Dean say at times. If you’re reading this now, I’m actually the smartest Winchester brother. Don’t believe a thing Sam and Dean say. I’m the brains of the operations and our day-to-day lives. I’ve saved them more times than I could count. 

Then again, they’ve probably saved me just as much. 

Alright, I’m getting side-tracked. I guess I’ll just start writing. 

Should I introduce myself first before I do so? 

My name is (Y/N) Winchester. I’m a hunter. 

This is my story (God, that was terrible)

AUGUST 1991

I remember the first time I mentioned to my father that I wanted to be a hunter, just like him. I was six years old. Dad didn’t take it very kindly. He yelled, a lot. Screamed sometimes. I never truly understood why he would always get so upset whenever I would ask him to teach me how to hunt. 

It wasn’t until I was a man that I understood why. 

I look just like my mother. 

I don’t know how I could have been so blind all those years. I have her hair. I have her face. I have her smile. All of these things have been said by my father before. Not necessarily when he was sober. I was always the one person that reminded my Dad of his wife. Of my mother. I think a part of him wanted to keep me safe, just so he could always look at me and remember what she looked like. Even when I was a child, though, I could see the hurt behind his eyes every once in a while when he would look at me. It made me feel guilty. 

Still does. 

I know that none of it is my fault, that he made himself hurt. 

Still… 

For months, I would ask my Dad to teach me about hunting. To teach me about the monsters that crept through the darkness. Each time I asked, he would reject my request and I would get scolded for asking such a stupid question. 

So, one night, around the age of seven or eight (one of the two, I can’t remember exactly), I decided that school wasn’t very important. There were occasions when I snuck out of classes to go to the library of whatever town we were in at the time to search the limited amount of lore books that they had. There were times when I got caught by Dean before I was able to sneak out. Other times it was by Sammy. Sometimes, my father would get a call from the school because I had been reported missing. 

I was a problem child, as you could tell. 

It’s not that I hated school. 

It just wasn’t my favorite. 

And I wanted to hunt. 

So, anyway…from town to town, I would skip class, go to the library, and learn everything that I could learn about hunting if there was anything to learn. Sometimes, I would ask Dean questions. Sometimes he would answer, other times he told me to not worry about it and to mind my own business. It used to hurt whenever Dean would reject any of the questions that I would ask, but I know now that it was so he didn’t get in trouble with Dad. I remember giving him a hard time about it, about not answering me. Dean, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry for being a jerk. 

Then again, Dean, if you’re reading this, you shouldn’t be reading this and expect some glitter to appear in your body wash. 

No one knew about my secret research. No one knew the reason behind my skipping classes. I would constantly make up lies, most of them being about how much I hated moving around and just wanted to rebel against my father. Typical kid stuff. 

It wasn’t until August of 1991, when I was ten years old, that I was finally able to put that research to use.

(Y/N) stared down at the paper that rested on a notebook in his lap. His eyes were wide and filled with stress, fingers tangled in his short hair, his back slouched ever so slightly. Dean sat a couple of inches away from him near the end of the bed, his homework in his lap, while Sam leaned against the headboard, a book in his hands that he had gotten from the school library. Dean looked up from his work, noticing the look of despair on his brother’s face before he glanced down at his worksheet. Dean grimaced and let out a hiss. 

“Multiplying fractions?” He asked, a hint of sympathy in his tone. 

Without looking up, (Y/N) gave a short nod. Dean pressed his lips together in a thin line before he set his pencil down beside him. 

“Do you need help?” Dean offered. 

(Y/N) lifted his head and looked at his older brother, giving a small, soundless nod. Dean offered a smile as he moved closer to him so that they were sitting next to one another. Dean craned his neck to be able to look at the paper, tilting his head as he studied the equations. 

“Which one are you having problems with?” He asked. 

“All of them,” (Y/N) answered. 

Dean snorted. “Okay, so, it’s easy-” 

“Wow, Dean thinks math is easy?” Sam mumbled, a smirk playing on his lips. 

Dean lifted his head and glared at Sam. “Shut up, bitch,” 

Sam shot a bitch-face towards Dean. “You shut up, jerk,” he retorted. 

(Y/N) let out a frustrated grunt. “Will both of you assholes shut up!? I don’t understand this!” His voice was filled with annoyance and desperation. 

Dean and Sam shot their brother a look. Sam rolled his eyes as he returned to the book. Dean looked back down at the paper, mumbling an apology under his breath. He then began to help (Y/N) with his homework, walking him through all of the problems that he had. (Y/N) still felt as if Dean was speaking in a foreign language, but he could understand the homework a little easier. 

When the paper was halfway finished, the door to the motel room suddenly burst open, causing the three brothers to jump, their eyes wide as they turned and looked at the person who had just entered. John stormed into the room, slamming the door behind him. He stomped over to the couch that sat in front of the small television set and plopped down on it. He ran his hands down his face and let a small growl emit from his throat. 

Dean, Sam, and (Y/N) shared a glance, almost as if they were communicating telepathically. After a while, Dean and Sam both turned their attention toward their brother, their eyes locked on his. After looking back and forth between the two, (Y/N) let out a soundless sigh as he set his homework beside him. He moved off of the bed and padded across the aged carpet to the couch. Slowly, he walked around the sofa so that he could see his father. 

John looked tired. Dark circles were prominent underneath his eyes. One of his legs was propped up on the couch while the other lay bent in front of him. His elbow rested on the arm of the sofa, his cheek placed against his right hand as he stared at the television in front of him. Nothing played. When (Y/N) came into view, John glanced at him out of the corner of his eye for a brief moment. He said nothing. 

“Hey, Dad,” (Y/N) greeted. “Um…how were the, uh, interviews with the victims’ families?” 

John shook his head. “Not great, kid,” he grumbled. 

“No?” 

“No.” 

As (Y/N) stared at his father, he timidly moved over to the couch. John hesitantly moved his leg as (Y/N) sat down next to him. 

“Did you…learn anything?” 

“Why aren’t you boys in bed?” John grunted. 

“We’re finishing our homework.” 

“Then shouldn’t you be working on it?”

(Y/N)’s shoulders slouched. “I just…wanted to see how it went is all…” 

“You want to know how it went?” John’s voice got deeper. “You really want to know how it went? Fucking terrible. That’s how it went,” John straightened himself out on the couch before he stood up. He began to pace around the room, his tone of voice getting more and more irritable. “I thought I had a good fucking lead going. All of the victims went to the same fucking bookstore a couple of days before their deaths and got the same book. Seems like a fucking coincidence, right? Then I go to the goddamn bookstore to see what the book was and all it was was something called Aradia or some shit like that. Some type of foreign book bullshit, I don’t fucking know.” 

(Y/N) furrowed his brows as John continued to rant. He looked down and away from his father. He got lost, deep in thought, the words that John was speaking irrelevant to him now. Finally, he turned back to him, kneeling on the couch as he raised his brows. 

“Did you say Aradia?” He questioned in the middle of John’s rant. 

John stopped pacing around the room as he looked back at (Y/N). Dean and Sam’s attention immediately turned to him, their eyes wide. John’s jaw was clenched, the anger and irritation still emanating from him. “Yeah,” he replied deeply. 

“Aradia…” (Y/N) trailed before he shook his head. “That’s not a foreign book, Dad! That’s only the first half of the title. The full title is Aradia or the Gospel of the Witches. It was one of the most influential pieces of literature in the nineteenth century to witches! You’re dealing with a witch!” (Y/N)’s eyes widened as a smile appeared on his face. 

John’s expression went from furious to confusion. He narrowed his eyes. “How do you know about that book?” He questioned. 

“I read about it in a library a little bit ago.” (Y/N) answered quickly. 

John pressed his tongue into his cheek as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at Sam and Dean, who were still staring with wide eyes at their brother, and then back at (Y/N). He ran a hand down his face stressfully. 

“You boys finish your homework,” he mumbled as he walked towards the door. “I have to make a call.” 

Without allowing anyone to respond, John left the motel room, closing the door behind him a little gentler than when he entered. (Y/N)’s smile faded as he watched his father leave, his shoulders dropping. The three brothers sat in silence for a minute before they looked at one another. 

“Come on,” Dean said as he patted the spot on the bed next to him. “Let’s finish these math problems.” 

Even though Dad never told me, I knew I was right. I knew it was a witch that he had dealt with. We didn’t even get to go to school the next day. He had found and killed her before I was able to turn in that math homework. What a waste of time. 

I would like to think that Dad was proud of me in that situation, but he never said anything. He never brought it up again as far as I can remember. It was something that he had put in the past, along with all of the other hunts that we had been on. However, even if he wasn’t proud of me back then, I was proud of myself. Proud that I was able to help my Dad even if I wasn’t beside him when he took that bitch down. 

God, I hate witches. 

MAY 1993

I didn’t touch a gun until I was twelve years old. By that point, I had stopped begging Dad to teach me how to hunt, because it seemed that the only answer I was going to be getting was ‘No’. I figured that I would go to the next best person for the job. 

I had to ask Dean. 

Dean was very protective of Sammy and me when we were younger. He still is super protective of us, even in our ripe old ages. But because of how protective he could get, he was very hesitant about teaching me how to shoot a gun. However, with Dad talking about Dean going on hunts with him more and more by then, I knew that I would be left alone with Sammy. I used the excuse that I needed to learn how to shoot a gun eventually so that I could protect the two of us when we were by ourselves. I couldn’t be expected to be safe when the only two people who knew how to shoot were away. 

That reasoning caught Dean’s attention. 

After the fifth or sixth time asking him, Dean had finally agreed. A couple of days passed and, when Dad was a couple of towns away gathering information for a hunt, Dean and I skipped school. Shocking, right? I think Dean used the excuse that I hadn’t been feeling well and he had to take care of me. He even wrote out a fake doctor’s note and everything. Back then, you could get away with a handwritten note. I’m not too sure if you could now. 

Once Sammy had been dropped off at school that day, Dean and I walked to a creek a couple of miles away from the school. He had set up a couple of cans on a log, some recycled stuff that he had picked up along the way. He had brought one of Dad’s small handguns with him. When he gave it to me, it felt so surreal. So different. 

I never really understood what the big fuss was about, though. 

Shooting a gun was easy. 

“No, you can’t have your hand that low! You have it that low and the gun is going to come out of your hand when you shoot it,” Dean grumbled. 

Dean took (Y/N)’s hand in his and adjusted it so that it fits perfectly onto the grip of the handgun. He then took his other hand and placed it on top of the one that was already on the gun. (Y/N) furrowed his brows as he looked at the way his hands nestled against one another. 

“This doesn’t feel right.” He said. “Why can’t I just hold it with one hand like the cops do in the movies?” 

“Because you’re twelve, dummy. You’re not in your forties and have years of experience under your belt,” Dean rolled his eyes. “And that is exactly how you should hold it if you don’t want to get hit in the face with your weapon after you fire it.” 

(Y/N) listened intently to what his brother was saying, giving him a small nod before he straightened his back up. 

“Stop.” Dean held up a hand. 

(Y/N) shot Dean a confused look. “What?” 

“You’re standing wrong.” 

“I’m standing wrong…” 

“Yeah, here,” Dean walked over, pressing his hand against the top of (Y/N)’s back ever so slightly, leaning him forward. “If you have your back too straight, then you’re more likely to fall backward. You also,” Dean kicked (Y/N)’s feet apart. “Need to have your feet apart. Keeps you more ground.”

(Y/N) looked down at the ground for a moment, taking in the appearance and feel of his stance. The way his back leaned forward and the way his legs were spread. He nodded. 

“Okay, now I shoot?” 

“Is your safety off?” 

“Safety?” 

Dean sighed, moving back over to him. He took the gun from (Y/N)’s grasp and flashed the left side of the gun. “You see this little trigger?” When Dean received a nod from his brother, he continued. “If it’s facing side-to-side, that means the safety is on. That means the gun won’t fire. All you have to do is flick this little switch,” Dean turned the safety off. “Once it’s up and down, then that means it’s ready to fire.” He handed the gun back to (Y/N). “Now, get back into position.” 

(Y/N) glanced down at the safety mechanism on the gun for a moment before he nodded. He got back into the position that he was in, spreading his legs apart the same length Dean had and slouching his back forward ever so slightly. Once he received a nod of approval from Dean, (Y/N) lifted his arms, cocking his head to the side. He aimed at the can farthest to the left. He closed his left eye and placed his finger on the trigger. 

“Stop!” Dean said more abruptly. 

(Y/N) jumped and moved his finger off the trigger, standing up straighter to face Dean. “What!?” He asked exasperatedly. 

Dean shook his head. “You can’t have one eye closed.” 

“Why not? Snipers do it!” 

“Because snipers are far enough away from combat. They need to look through a scope to get a good shot. You, on the other hand, are feet away from whatever monster you’re dealing with. What happens when you’re facing more than one monster? You leave yourself open to being taken out on your left.” Dean’s tone was stern, yet calm. His arms were crossed over his chest. 

Slowly, (Y/N) nodded as he grasped an understanding of Dean’s thinking. “Both eyes open?” 

“Both eyes open.” Dean backed up a bit. “Back into position.” 

(Y/N) let out a shaky breath before resuming his position. Legs spread, back bent, arms up, head tilted, both eyes open. His goal was to hit the used can of peaches that sat on the outside of the log. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest from anxiousness and anticipation. He was surprised the gun wasn’t shaking in his grasp. 

His eyes were on the cartoon peaches that were etched onto the label of the can. More specifically, the pit that sat in the center of the peach. He wanted to hit the pit. He never moved his eyes from the pit as he took a deep breath, his shoulders rising. Finally, as he exhaled, his shoulders dropping, he pulled the trigger. 

The can flew into the air and seemed to dramatically and unceremoniously fall into the creek. A small splash echoed in (Y/N)’s ears, accompanied by the ringing of the gunshot. 

One thing that (Y/N) noted was that his hands ached, both from the vice grip he had on the gun and the recoil that he hadn’t expected. Sure, Dean had informed him about it before, but he wasn’t sure how it would feel. His hands would definitely bruise. 

(Y/N) lowered the gun, looking over at his brother to see that Dean wore a stunned expression on his face. Dean’s mouth hung open as his eyes were glued to the can that lay in the flowing water. (Y/N) watched in silence as Dean walked over to the can. He reached down and picked it up by the opening, wincing from the heat of the bullet hole before he swapped hands. He studied the can. It seemed like too much time had passed before he turned the can so (Y/N) could see. 

(Y/N) had gotten it on his first try. 

The bullet hole? 

Right in the pit. 

(Y/N) raised his brows, a mixture of pride and surprise coursing through him. A wide smile appeared on his face. Similarly, a smirk appeared on Dean’s lips. Dean chuckled before he tossed the can into the water. 

“Beginner’s luck,” he said, brushing his hands onto his jeans. “Let’s see if you can hit the other ones.” 

I shot through the rest of the cans, the same as I had done for that can of peaches. Not to toot my own horn, but I was a natural when it came to a pistol. I don’t mean to sound egotistic about this, but Dean can back up any statement that I’m making about this story. 

I could tell that Dean was proud of me that day. He never said he was, but the way he looked at me and the way he treated me afterward told me things that words couldn’t. It’s hard to describe, but it almost felt like he had gained some respect for me that day. It felt good. Even as I am writing about this story, I can’t keep the smile off my face. I always looked up at Dean, so it feels great to think that I had done something to bring a smile to his stupid face. 

My hands hurt like hell after it was all said and done. I had gotten a couple of bruises near the thumb on my right hand that I brushed off to my Dad as something that I had picked up when I got into a fight at school. Dean had backed me up when Dad got on my ass about it. Dad told me that I had to get along with the other kids so I didn’t give the wrong impression at the schools I went to. It wasn’t like they would remember me anyway. Of course, I didn’t tell him that. I knew when to bite my tongue. 

Dad never found out about the shooting practice. I get a feeling that he had a sneaking suspicion as soon as he took me to practice himself years later, but I never told him about it. I never told him that Dean had been the one to teach me how to stand correctly, or where to find the safety of a gun. I know that he knew it was Dean. A part of me wonders if Dean ever got in trouble for it, or if it was something that Dad even brought up. I would never ask Dean about it now, though. 

Some things are best to be left in the past.

 

NOVEMBER 1999

By the time I turned eighteen, I had already been on several hunts with Dad and Dean. The majority of the time, though, I would stay back and watch Sammy. Even though he was a teenager and had the capability of taking care of himself, Dad expressed that he was still a kid and needed to be looked after. A part of me thought it was bullshit at the time, but another part of me was glad that I was able to spend time with my younger brother. 

Now, I know the real reason behind my staying with Sammy was because some of the hunts that Dad and Dean went on were ‘rough’. A little ‘too hard’ for me. 

Dad didn’t want to lose the son that reminded him of his wife. 

At least, that was what Dean told me, and I believe him. 

It was a blessing and a curse, come to think of it. There were times that I stayed behind and Dad called me up, needing me to do some research for the case that they were working on. He had said it would be faster if someone was working on the research while he and Dean were out taking interviews. In the end, it was more efficient. I would gather the necessary information and hand it off to him and they would be back at the motel a lot quicker than if they had been the ones to look up the information. 

That was the system that we worked with for a while. After a couple of months, Dad informed me that he didn’t want me to do the research anymore. He wanted Sammy to be the one to do it. I remember him saying that Sammy needed to focus more on the hunting aspect of his life. That school was just a waste of time at that point. He was old enough to get into it. 

Sammy hated the idea when I told him. He loved school. He was always such a nerd. Still is. An even bigger nerd if you can believe it. I knew how much school meant to him, and I didn’t want him to be discouraged from doing his schoolwork. He shouldn’t have been forced to do anything that he didn’t want to. So, I decided that I was going to do the research and just tell Dad that he had been the one to do it. Sammy was thankful. 

That was until Dad called. 

Dad wasn't as stupid as I took him for most of the time. He knew that Sammy hadn’t done any of the research, that I was the one that did it all. By the time he and Dean got back, he gave Sammy a verbal lashing. I tried to defend him, but nothing worked. In the end, Sammy gave in. He would do the research for the next hunt. 

Like clockwork, when the next hunt rolled around, with Sammy and I staying back at the motel, Dad had called. He had given Sammy the information that he needed to research and we headed off to the local library. Once we got the necessary books, we took them back to the motel and he began to work. 

I could tell that it wasn’t going well.

Sam sat at the small table near the motel room door, two books placed in front of him. His back was slouched as he looked from one book to another, flipping through pages frantically. He had been going at it for several hours by then, evident by the bags that were present underneath his eyes and the redness around his pupils. (Y/N) sat on the couch, watching some old western show. Now and then he would look at his little brother. He could see how tired and stressed he was about the entire situation. (Y/N) had never seen Sam that stressed out before, even when he was studying for a test in one of his AP classes. 

Eventually, Sam pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, lowering his head, as if accepting defeat. (Y/N) studied his movements, and, after he saw that he had not moved in a while, he decided the best thing to do was to help him out. He picked up the remote and turned off the television before tossing it aside. He stood from his spot on the couch and walked over to the table. He grabbed the spare chair, pulled it beside Sam, and sat down. 

“Having some trouble?” He questioned. 

Sam’s shoulders rose and fell as a sigh escaped his lips. He removed his hands from his face and placed them into his lengthy hair. His eyes were cast down towards the table. He stayed in the same position for some time before he looked up at (Y/N). 

“No,” he answered, pulling the books towards him. “I’m fine.” 

“You don’t look fine.” 

“I said ‘I’m fine’,” Sam repeated through gritted teeth. 

(Y/N) studied him with an expressionless face. Sam kept his eyes down, looking from one book to another. (Y/N) was able to see the stress that was emitted from his brother even better with how close he was sitting. He took one look at the books before he shook his head. 

“I’m sorry Dad’s making you do this.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not. You shouldn’t be doing this alone the first time…” he trailed. “But if Dad found out I helped you-” 

“You’d get in trouble, and so would I. Yeah, I know.” 

(Y/N) pursed his lips. “You know, it took me a little over a year to get comfortable with translating Latin. I sometimes screw up from time to time.” 

“Still?” 

“Yeah, still,” he chuckled. “That’s why I got something that helps me out now and again.” 

With that, (Y/N) stood from his spot on the chair and waltzed over to the bed in the far corner of the room. Beside the bed sat his black duffel bag. He picked it up and placed it on the bed. He began to rummage through it, sorting through clothes and weapons that rested at the bottom. Wedged into the corner of his bag sat a book. He picked it up and brought it over to the table. He took a seat next to Sam once more and placed the book in front of him. 

Sam furrowed his brows as he studied the cover. It was a Latin-English translation book. It looked rather similar to the one that he had picked up at the library. The only difference was the color of the cover was a little faded and, along the outside of the book, between all of the pages, were multi-colored Post-it notes. Each Post-it note had different letter combinations on it, as well as notes written on some of them. Sam opened the cover and he raised his brows when he saw that the first page was replaced by a notebook-sized piece of paper, taped to the front page. There were multiple words in English on the left side with their corresponding Latin translation on the right. 

“What’s this?” Sam asked. 

“It’s a translation book I picked up a couple of years back at a bookstore. I figured since there were going to be a lot of things that needed translating, then I was going to have to make it easier for myself to find the words. The only problem is that most of these translation books are so damn compressed that it’s hard to find certain words without getting blurry vision. So, I took the liberty to mark down all of the times when the letters change in the words. For example, when the words that start with ‘AB’ transfer to words that start with ‘AC’. It always made it easier to find. Plus, I made a page at the beginning about common words that I have found in my research so that it would be easier to translate them.” 

As (Y/N) explained, he gestured with his hand toward the book. Sam listened intently, taking in all of the information that he was given, nodding his head. Once (Y/N) was done talking, Sam looked down at the book and then back up at him. 

“You did all this?” 

“Yeah,” (Y/N) chuckled. “Crazy, right?” 

Sam snorted. “Yeah. Wish you put that much effort into your homework when you were still in school.” 

“Hey,” (Y/N) leaned back in his chair and lifted his hands in mock surrender. “School was fine and all, but this is something I enjoy, and I’m good at it. I’m good at hunting research and you’re good in school.” 

“And what’s Dean good at?” 

“Being a pain in the ass.” 

Sam smiled widely, his dimples more prominent than (Y/N) had seen in a while. After a beat or two of silence, the smile faded as he looked down.

“I wish Dad could see that I’m good at school.” 

The corner of (Y/N)’s mouth curved downward. It was his turn to look down at the table. He reached over and placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder comfortingly. “I know, kiddo,” he mumbled. “But Dean and I both see how much of a nerd you are. Don’t worry.” 

A smile returned to Sam’s face, but it wasn’t as happy as the last one. They sat in silence for a little bit before (Y/N) lowered his hand and Sam moved back to the books. 

“You got it from here?” (Y/N) questioned. 

“Yeah, I got it,” 

“Great,” (Y/N) said as he stood from his seat and patted Sam on the back. “Call me over if you need anything.” 

“Yeah, I’ll make sure to call you over when I get to the part about multiplying fractions.” 

(Y/N) glared at Sam and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” 

“No, no I’m not.” 

Sammy still teases me to this day about not knowing how to multiply fractions. Even though it was decades ago at this point, he still likes to tease me about it. Little shit. 

With my help, Sammy was able to get the translations done a lot faster than he expected. I remember seeing the relief on his face when he had finished. Poor kid was so exhausted. Dad was more than pleased when he called and asked about it. Dad never found out that I had helped him out a bit, and neither Sammy nor I were planning on telling him. I just wanted Sammy to have an easier time than I did when I was first learning about research, specifically translations. 

In the end, I would have to say that Sammy is better than me when it comes to research. He’s taken the reigns on many different hunts because of how proficient he is with technology. I’m good with old-fashioned ways of research, but Sammy’s the nerd when it comes to computers. 

Sammy has told me once or twice, though, that I was the one that helped him the most when it came to his knowledge of research. That, without my help, he wouldn’t have been as good at it as he is now. 

I call bullshit. Sammy has always been a smart kid. 

He could do anything he put his mind to. 

SEPTEMBER 2014

This is all I can write at the moment. Dean called me to the kitchen a couple of minutes ago saying that dinner was ready. I need to wrap this up before he or Sammy comes in here and sees what I’m doing. I know that I would get endlessly teased about keeping a ‘diary’. I need to make sure to hide this in a good enough place where neither of them will find it if they go snooping through my room. 

Sam, Dean, if you guys are reading this, I’ll get you back. 

But if you’re going to read it, I just want to let you know that I love you guys. 

Not that I’m into chick-flick moments or anything. 

I’m just glad that I have you guys as my brothers. No one could ask for a better family than you two. 

Okay, that was cheesy. I wish I wasn’t writing this in pen so I could erase it. 

Dammit. 

I’m not too sure how to end this, so I guess I’ll just write again sometime when I can. Perhaps I could do like Dad did in his journal and write about all of the new monsters we have discovered over the years. Or maybe write more memories down. This journal is going to be so cluttered that no one is going to want to read it. There’s no way I’m going to get famous from this. 

Dean just called me to the kitchen again. 

Until next time. 

Happy hunting. (That was stupid, think of something better).

WE LOVE YOU TOO - SAM + DEAN

[elisadaughtry]

*TW LIAM PAYNE*

DO NOT LEAVE HATE UNDER THIS POST OR ON MY PAGE.

————————————————————————

This is not normally my content, and many of you don’t know me personally. But I was and still am a huge One Direction fan. Liam’s passing has left me heartbroken, truly.

Even as I write this post it still doesn’t feel real. It should never have to feel real in the first place. Mourning one of the people I looked up to is devastating and tragic. Especially a member of the band who did so much for me, this still doesn’t make sense…

How can there be another one direction anniversary, not one for celebrating the boys, but for mourning one? What do you mean there’ll come a time when we say, “It’s been five years since Liam passed” or “It’s been ten”? Just two days ago, he was alive, breathing in this world—he should be alive now. Yet here we are, marking time in shadows, having to count the days that he will never see, and counting the days when we stopped seeing him.

I know this post is selfish as I do not have a personal relationship with Liam Payne, but I don’t care. There’s still that hollow, distant ache from knowing he’s gone. And not just “hiatus” gone, but truly gone.

I hope this post finds the right people, who are also mourning and grieving such a tragic loss.

Yes, I am aware of his situation and the likely allegations against him, but it’s still hard to say goodbye to someone who shaped your childhood. Who is the reason for so many friendships and memories? I will always be thankful for him, not just One Direction. It was Liam who connected me to one of my best friends.

Years ago, One Direction wasn’t just music for me—it was the thread that connected me to my best friend. We bonded over every song, every lyric, every interview, and so much of that joy came from Liam. We used to sit in class, quoting his lines and dance from “Best Song Ever” like it was our little secret, laughing when no one else got it.

I’ll never forget how alive we felt in those moments, reciting his words like they belonged to us. He made us feel like we were part of something bigger like we were in on this beautiful world he helped create. Every note he sang, every lyric he penned, every hour spent shaping sounds in the studio breathed life into One Direction, elevating them to their brightest heights. His voice, his vision—he was woven into the very spirit of what made them unforgettable. He was a constant source of comfort and happiness, something that lifted us when everything else felt so heavy. He was inspiring in a way that few people can be—he showed that vulnerability and strength could exist together and that it’s okay to be real in a world that sometimes demands you to be perfect. But despite it all, Liam was a light—one that would never go out.

So say what you will about him, but I will still grieve over him.

Thank you Leeroy for the best memories a girl could have 🩷 Your absence will be noticed.

May peace and kindness finally find you 💜💔

Praying for his family, especially the son he left behind. I know what a fatherly absence feels like and wouldn’t wish it on anyone, especially such a young child. Can’t imagine his confusion and anger right now.

Also, praying for all the other boys right now and their families.

[antagonisht]

people rightly complain about the whole drugs thing in vento aureo but i think it can actually be kind of interesting if you ignore the anime scene where "man x" gives giorno a reason to be anti-drugs and instead assume that giorno doesn't necessarily care either way, because then it becomes a bruno thing more than a vento aureo thing. that's my interpretation, anyway - i have a very bad memory so i can't exactly say this confidently, but i don't really remember anyone else talking much about drugs very much outside of the bruno scenes, so to me it's always been about him and his specific traumatic backstory. which makes VA kind of funny as a whole because like...it really feels far more driven by bruno than giorno, which makes giorno feel like much more of a vague character within his own story, and difficult to find very interesting without taking liberties with your interpretation of him. you get a similar thing with steel ball run and gyro being such a big personality with a much more vibrant backstory than johnny, but i think that part balances things much better than VA with how johnny develops so much as a person throughout the story. giorno, on the other hand, feels like he loses personality as his story develops...and i don't feel like the bonding moments he goes through really compensate for that.

so interpreting the drugs stuff to be mostly a way of characterising bruno (to be clear, i don't think that was araki's intention) - i think it can become interesting as one of the ways in which his thinking is so...black and white. he's a very extreme person. when i was rewatching the anime one of the things that struck me the most was how much he was agonising about everything he did. every choice, every order, every time he saw someone suffering...there would always be a shot of him looking agonised and sweating. i get the feeling that the members of his team see him as someone who's decisive, quick-thinking, insightful and correct - but you get to see his internality as a viewer, and you can see how much he struggles. to bruno there's one right choice in every situation and as he's forced, continually, to choose "wrongly", to his mind, it places more and more guilt and strain on him. i mean...obviously that thinking is necessary in his position. failure puts the lives of a lot of people at risk. it's natural that giorno doesn't struggle the way bruno does. what's interesting to me is that bruno's extreme thinking existed before he became a team leader, and before he joined passione entirely.

i was thinking about this recently when i was writing a story taking place in his childhood. that scene he has in his backstory where he comes to the decision to stay with his father because he felt that his father would need him more...i think that provides a lot of insight into bruno and the weight of responsibility he assumes, unchallenged, at an early age. he's certainly an insightful person, but there's not really any reason to assume he was correct that his father wouldn't have been able to be happy alone. bruno makes an assumption based on his emotions and confuses it with truth. i think his parents allowing him to shoulder that decision (not that i'm saying they were aware of his thinking) affected him very deeply.

the extreme position on drugs is still absurd. but it's a kind of absurd that makes sense with bruno's character. he's not really aware of himself as someone who's so shaped by his experiences, things are either "right" or they're "wrong", so his strong emotional reaction to the drug trade is something he confuses with pure insight into its "wrongness".

[blingblong55]

Autumn Leaves- Simon 'Ghost' Riley

GN!Reader, angst, character death, platonic!relationship

Another day another life Passes by just like mine It's not complicated

It hasn't been the best year for the task force. Losing someone they knew for years, losing themselves in the process. Missing someone they wish they shared one last word with. Questions cloud their minds, heart aches make this autumn worse than the last. Maybe if their friend stayed longer, maybe if their comrade was not a soldier, maybe, just maybe. Not being there, seeing them become the husbands and fathers they all joked about, the last words they gave the other when they thought they'd die back in those missions, what fools were they to believe their friend would be the first one out.

Who would be there to see their kids grow? Who would be the one to keep them in shape if not their friend. Why must this person leave so soon? The tea wasn't even out yet. Stay a little longer, for the sake of our hearts.

The last mission, what a dick move was it to leave their battle buddy out there alone. If all had gone better, the one person who saw them drink and dance would see them do it once more. The designated driver, the one who looked after them, why couldn't they stay?

"You think I'll make it past 40?"

"Not a chance."

You and him laugh and he nods. "It'd be nice if we both did," you add. He nods and looks back at the smoky night sky, his cigarette being the only reason you can see the scar from his childhood. Your gaze is now on the stars. You always looked at the little detail of the others in the team. The scar Gaz got from a shit driving by the mountains, Soap and the scar on his eyebrow, are the only reason why you took him so seriously. Price and the scar on his shoulder, the one he got when he saved you from the gunfight.

But when you turn back to look at him, you only see him walk away. "Leaving so soon, sir?" you ask and he nods, "Best if I get some beauty sleep." You chuckle, "Better sleep for a century then."

"Oi, I'm not so bad lookin' kid," he smirks, loving the banter between you two.

"Look in a mirror, sir." you chuckle and he flips you off.

Another mind Another soul Another body to grow old It's not complicated

Maybe if one fought for the other that night, the one who is now gone would have at least left leaving some memories for the new recruits. A lie that still keeps four people awake at night. Would the dead come back like the movies say? Would their beloved friend be back if some potion or if Victor Frankenstein were to be real, could their friend be back? Sew them limb for limb, do the most to just hear them say a proper goodbye. Why must this world be cruel to those who try to keep every civilian safe by sacrificing their own sanity? Why must their comrade be gone so soon?

Do you ever wonder if the stars shine out for you? Float down Like autumn leaves Hush now

"When I was a kid, me and my brother Tommy had those glow-in-the-dark stars up on the ceiling. Before my father would barge in the room to scare me, me and him actually bonded." He says as he sits next to you on the cold field. "You think maybe he is somewhere out there?" You look back to the sky. "Yeah, I'm sure he is, always told me he'd be around to bother me." from his lips a chuckle escaped.

If I had stayed, maybe we'd still have these conversations and not me talking to your graves.

"Soap, you snipe, Gaz get those communications going, Ghost, you and R/N get on that field and show them what we are known for." Price orders and then prepares himself for the old field.

Is it that it's over or do birds still sing for you? Float down Like autumn leaves Hush now

----

"Today, we are gathered to celebrate and mourn the life of a friend, comrade and the best goddamn soldier I had the privilege to work with." Price wipes his tears as he looks at the room full of people who know mourn with him.

"To me, Simon Riley was not just another soldier, he was a brother, or as I called him, my son. I met him days after the tragedy of his family and that day I swore I would protect this kid from the shit of the world and I stand here today saying I failed at the one promise I made as his then sergeant." His lips quiver. Soap and Gaz have an arm around you, keeping you or at least trying their best to calm you down.

The day you lost him, is still a blur. But what he said to you, will forever live with you. "R/N, I'm not a strong soldier, I fear so much and right now I fear I'm dying alone." his voice was weak as you heard over the radio. The run to him, the mud and cuts you had to just get to him, also live with you.

"Somewhere, in some place in Manchester, the soul of the greatest man I will ever know now roams the streets," Price pauses to gain composure. His voice breaks every now and then, "Somewhere he is teaching his nephew how to play football, his mother makes tea, to..." he stops again and wipes more tears away, "his mother makes tea, to celebrate the welcome his son. His brother sits on the green grass, watching his older brother bond with his nephew. And somewhere between the lines, he knows peace."

You get up and walk away, needing fresh air. "Simon was known as Ghost, and it pains me to say, that Ghost he will remain. But one thing changed, today, he doesn't reunite with his father, no but today I lost my...my son." Price looks at the coffin. "The men and women he worked with, they know he left a piece of him in each one of us. After 32 years of life, he can finally rest because he is the only one who truly deserves rest." His voice cracks again. "So, as we end this celebration of the man he was, I ask of you to think of him for who Simon was not for who Ghost is."

Ooh how I miss you My symphony played the song that carried you out Ooh how I miss you And I, I miss you and I wish you'd stay

You walked alongside the broken-down pavement, going hysterical. You swear you hear him call for you when the wind blows but all you have now is the dog tags of the man you called family. Hours before you had to pretend you were fine, you screamed and sobbed. "My fault, my fucking fault." you cried on your knees. The home he once brought you and the team to is now empty and haunting you with his smell. The walls with little to no decorations, the coffee stain on the counter, the empty office chair. The home he was Simon in, was now occupied by dust and old memories.

They say life is cruel to those who are nice and today, that saying became a fact in your life. Soap no longer had a battle buddy, Gaz had no mentor, Price had no older son, and R/N had no lifelong friend to turn to when shit hit the fan. And as you watched his coffin get lowered, you once more swore he called for you. One more fear was added when you watched Soap and Gaz hug each other. That fear is now losing them too. Price walked away from that moment, and you feared you would lose him too. No one can fear losing you because with Ghost now gone, you are now lost.

Touch down Like a seven four seven Or stay out and we'll live forever now

Tags: @liyanahelena @warenai @ghostslittlegf (tagged bc I know you live and cry for angst<3