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buttacake80 · 20 hours ago

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To my Asian, European, African, and Canadian friends...do y'all wanna know how the United States found itself under a fascist, Hitler-loving dictator named Donald Trump?

In another post, I started my timeline in 1980. The year I was born. But, it was also a turning point in US politics.

First, let me share my credentials.

- Bachelors of Arts - History

- Juris Doctor - Public Interest Law (Critical Race Theory)

- Masters of Philosophy (research degree) - Sociology (Race, Ethnicity, Conflict)

Just recently, we buried President Jimmy Carter, who was the president, when I was born. Jimmy was from Georgia, like my grandmother, and he came from a Southern Baptist background. Southern Baptists are known for being very conservative Christians who did not support abortion.

Jimmy, despite that background, actually supported LGBTQ rights by lifting a federal ban. He supported Roe v. Wade which protected access to abortion. And, he established the federal Department of Education.

However, Jimmy had an antagonistic relationship with Congress, and that alienated several Democrats, including Ted Kennedy, who was the brother of John F. Kennedy, a president who was assassinated.

The Kennedy family has an established name brand due to JFK and Robert F Kennedy (another brother and JFK's attorney general who was also assassinated). Ted was the younger, drunken brother who caused the accidental death of a college friend.

In 1980, Ted challenged Jimmy for the presidency even though they were both Democrats. Jimmy has the incumbent shouldn't have faced a challenge from his own party, but he had just been that bad.

So, this internal strife weakened the Democratic Party entering the 1980 election. In that same year, Jimmy boycotted the 1980 Olympics in Russia due to Russia's invasion of Afghanistan. Furthermore, there was a recession.

The Republican Party nominee was a former Hollywood actor turned politician named Ronald Reagan. Ronald was the governor of California and was trailing Jimmy in the polls until a presidential debate in which Ronald used his acting skills to make Jimmy seem incompetent.

Ronald believed in "trickle down economics." He believed that if the wealthiest people were taxed less, then they would spend more, thus boosting the economy and allowing prosperity to "trickle down" to the working & Middle class.

He also believed in increased military spending as this was the height of the Cold War with Russia. My own parents voted for Reagan because my dad was in the military.

Instead of trickling down, the wealthy just grew wealthier. Republicans continued to lower taxes for these individuals and businesses, so the money never trickled down. Social services were underfunded & unemployment increased. Reagan's response was to blame Black "welfare mothers" for abusing the system.

Republicans latch onto this. They implement work requirements for government assistance and make it harder for folks to pull out of poverty. As a result, a wealth gap separated white folk from the rest. White folk felt their hard earned money was supporting lazy white & Black folk, so they continued to constrict welfare programs.

[Section added] During Reagan's term, an unknown illness is killing young, gay Black & Latino men. It's AIDs. Reagan deemed it a gay disease that only affects gay people, so no funding is allocated to study this disease. It's viewed as retribution for their homosexua lifestyle. However, overtime, they learn about HIV once non-gay men were infected. Children die from the disease because blood is not tested for it, so some are born from it through their mothers while others were given transfusions.

Under Reagan, the Fairness Doctrine ends. Under this doctrine, news agencies had to report both sides of an issue. Because of this, television stations can now present one side. Fox News opens as a conservative network.

Ronald is well-loved by white folk. He gets elected to two terms. By the end of his term, the economy has recovered, and white folk are prospering. Then, his VP, George H.W. Bush, is elected.

Under George I, the Cold War ends, but we have the Gulf War in Kuwait. He signs trade agreements that result in several American companies, namely the auto industry, to shutter their doors and build factories overseas. This is due to a change in tariffs!

Millions of Americans lose their jobs as factories close. Detroit, as the leading auto manufacturer city, is devastated. Back in the 90s, Detroit was the 4th largest US city after Chicago. These factory closures hit the Midwest, especially hard.

This makes Bush unpopular. He is challenged by a young, charismatic Democrat named Bill Clinton.

Bill was a southerner like Jimmy, but Bill was a very well-known ladies' man. Bill appeals to Black Americans, though, and that allows him to defeat George.

Bill continues expanding trade agreements. He's a fiscal conservative despite being a Democrat, and under Bill, military spending is reduced.

[Section added] The rise of AIDs leads to further hate directed at the LGBTQ. During the 90s, several queer people are murdered. One such kid was Matthew Shepard. A college kid in Wyoming, he is beaten by a gang of white men. His family was terrorized so much, that they couldn't bury him because of fears his grave would be desecrated.

[A white woman Bishop in DC invites Shepard's parents to bury him in their graveyard. That Bishop is Marian Edgar Budde, the same Bishop who gave Trump his inaugural sermon this past week. She pleaded for Trump to have mercy on the queer community because she was the Bishop who buried Shepard!]

Bill is a popular president. The economy is booming, but he's still a lady's man, and he gets in trouble with a college intern.

This scandal adversely impacts the last few years in office so much so that his VP, Al Gore, loses the presidency to George W. Bush.

George Bush won the Electoral College while Al Gore won the popular vote. There was such a tiny margin that there were numerous recounts because of faulty ballots (hanging chads). Eventually, the Supreme Court intervenes and tells them to stop the count and certify George as president.

George II is the son of George I.

George II is a popular Texan with swagger. He wants to build up the military once again.

Clinton left a surplus of money, so what did George II do? He implemented tax cuts for the wealthy. That damned "trickle down economics" again. The wealthy get wealthier, increasing the wealth gap between white folks and everybody else.

They cut taxes while cutting social services. One of his biggest "achievements" was a restructuring of our educational system called "No Child Left Behind."

NCLB emphasizes test scores. School administrations are penalized if they don't meet these standards. They lost funding, so electives such as home economics, art, Music, etc are trimmed to make room for these test standards. By this time, my dad has retired from the military and is a school principal, and I remember the stress of trying to meet these standards.

These standards emphasize STEM at the expense of liberal arts. This is happening just as the internet becomes available to all.

Amazon opens as an online used book store. Facebook is started as a college message board. There's a tech boom, so everyone is being pushed into tech fields. Liberal arts education was devalued.

During his term, 9-11 happens. We declare war on Afghanistan. Islamophobia spikes. Fox News helps drive this narrative. Christianity is now being pushed into schools, whereas schools were previously secular.

[Section added] In 2004, the assault rifle ban was lifted. Now we are seeing a dramatic spike in school shootings. The Far Right embraces the expansion of the 2nd Amendment.

Then, we go to war in Iraq.

We aren't quite sure why we're at war with Iraq. We overthrow Suddam Hussein (from the Gulf War). George declares victory, then terminates the Iraqi Army.

This triggers an insurrection. Massive casualties are coming out of Iraq. The war in Afghanistan is overshadowed.

George serves two terms, but his VP is so unpopular that he doesn't run for president. Instead, the Republican nominee is John McCain.

Two Democrats fight for the nomination. Hillary Clinton, the wife of Bill, and Barack Obama.

Barack was a young, biracial Senator from Illinois. I attended law school in Illinois, and one of my classmates had been his legislative aide. I met Barack twice while a student. The first time, he had come to campus to propose a college-savings account. After his press conference, I latched onto his arm and refused to let go until he heard me, and I explained that his proposal was unrealistic because it assumed that a single mother would have the resources to save for an education when it was more likely her money would go towards groceries & rent or other immediate needs. (Fast forward two-three years, and the dude is repeating my line during the State of the Union! I had changed his mind!)

Barack beats Hillary for the nomination. He defeats McCain and is sworn in as the 1st black (not Black) president.

Obama is popular and well-loved by most Americans. Under his tenure, gay marriage is legalized.

Fox News triples down on their hatred.

Their network booms. They push Islamophobia 24/7. Highlight the fact that Obama's father was Muslim and that his middle name was Hussein.

Older Americans are watching program after program of this negativity. A movement starts called the Tea Party movement, which positions itself as a fiscally conservative movement. A bankrupt slumlord with a reality TV show gains popularity with these folks.

I wrote my master's dissertation on the Tea Party movement. It's called "Jesus and the White Man."

Donald Trump

Donald latches onto the Islamaphobia. He calls Barack by his middle name and questions his birth certificate. Donald grows popular with older Americans.

At the end of Obama's term, the son of VP Biden dies. This devastated Biden. He had lost his infant daughter & first wife in a car accident. He decides not to run for president.

Obama supports Hillary.

It is now Hillary v. Trump.

Trump pushes misogyny and Islamaphobia. Hillary is Bill's wife and a woman. She is the most qualified presidential candidate to ever run (at that time).

During Obama's last year in office, Justice Antonin Scalia* dies. Obama has the privilege to nominate that next Justice, but Mitch McConnell stalls through the election.

But older white Americans were barely okay with a black president. They were not about to let a woman serve as President. At the same time, an organization called Cambridge Analytica began to fine-tune an ultra conservative agenda.

With the help of Russian intelligence, they use Facebook ads to try to persuade voters to support Trump. They succeeded with white folk, but they did not succeed with the Black vote.

Russians used African bot farms in order to try to persuade Black Americans to support Trump. We rejected him at 90%.

Donald wins the Electoral College but not the popular vote.

Donald is a corrupt and ineffectual president. He tried to bribe foreign leaders and shared US intelligence with Russia.

However, as a populist, he latches onto the Christian Right. He nominates 3 Supreme Court Justices who lie during their confirmation hearings. These Justices will ultimately vote to overturn Roe v. Wade.

The Christian Right love this. But then COVID hits and the incompetence of Donald leads to millions of deaths. These Christian folk refuse to get vaccinated or wear masks.

Donald is an unpopular president and ranks as the worst president of all time.

Biden challenges him and wins.

Donald refuses to accept that he lost, so he organized an attempted coup. January 6th.

He's impeached. Twice.

McConnell refuses to take the step to have him permanently barred from office.

Biden takes office when COVID is still rampant. The Christian Right continue to push their agenda, seeking to remove protections for the LGBTQI.

Right wing media generates a lot of money. Podcasters jump on the bandwagon. Red pill content spills into the mainstream.

Kids who were isolated during COVID are now at home watching Joe Rogan & Theo Von. They spend hours upon hours on TikTok.

But unbeknownst to these kids is the history of Russian interference.

Schools emphasize STEM. They don't emphasize liberal arts or social sciences such as history or literature. The literacy rate plummeted to an all-time low. The average white American's reading level is at the 4th grade. They aren't able to engage in critical thinking.

They don't know the history of the Spanish Influenza. They don't know the history of a trade war that triggered the Great Depression. They don't know that our government has imprisoned citizens in internment camps. They don't know Hitler's rise to power.

In fact, Fox News frequently features individuals who deny the Holocaust.

Russia move their troll farms from Facebook to TikTok, where the algorithm serves as an echo chamber. Uneducated, illiterate folks gobble up 30-second videos but can't be arsed to watch anything over 5 minutes so complex issues are stripped down to sound bites.

The algorithm pushed right-wing fascist talking points. They rehabbed Donald while shifting Gen Z to the far right. They do not know how to verify information for themselves, so they gobble up misinformation and disinformation.

If a TikTok creator has millions of followers with thousands of views and likes, these kids assume that that info is factual. They do not vet shit for themselves.

Russia pushed anti-American propaganda that posed as pro-American talking points. Pushed isolationism. Pushed anti-democratic rhetoric. In fact, one of their greatest accomplishments is convincing Gen Z and uneducated, white Millennials into thinking we aren't a democracy.

We are a fucking Democratic Republic. Our constitution begins with: "We the people".

So, because of TikTok, Trump won.

That's why Biden was pushing for it to be banned before the election. The algorithm was being corrupted. But folks couldn't part from their addiction.

Folks who had been anti-Trump just 5 years ago are suddenly Trump supporters. They were brainwashed.

So, how did we get here?

We got here because most Americans are fucking STUPID.

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vidavalor · 1 day ago

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"is, and always has been"

In 1.01, The Voice of God said:

Everyone knows that the best place for a clandestine meeting in London is, and always has been, St. James' Park.

Visually, as she's narrating, we see a lot of indication of the type of clandestine meeting to which she's referring being those between intelligence officers, yes?

St. James' Park in Good Omens is swarmed by background characters of people trying to look casual on park benches with newspapers and briefcases and every type of fun, spy movie cliche there is. Our main characters are also spies on different sides of a conflict so we're definitely getting the surface-level vibe of espionage here pretty easily...

...but that's when it's important to note the inclusion of the "is, and always has been" in her narration.

This gives the audience permission to bring into the story the full history of St. James' Park in London when taking into account her meaning. It's encouraging people who do not know this history to go look it up and apply what they learn to the story. [Many of you likely already know this park's history but I have seen a lot of indication in posts that many do not so that's why I made the post.] The line in The Voice of God's narration is worded in such a way that we don't actually fully understand her meaning unless we know more about the history of St. James' Park.

One does not have to do a ton of digging to get the gist of what's being referenced here, though. It doesn't take long with even just the most cursory of skims-- using only the park's entry on Wikipedia as a source, even-- to find this relevant bit of info:

While Charles II was in exile in France under the Commonwealth of England, he was impressed by the elaborate gardens at French royal palaces, and on his ascension he had the park redesigned in a more formal style, probably by the French landscaper André Mollet. A 775-metre by 38-metre (850 by 42-yard) ornamental canal was created as evidenced in the old plan. The king opened the park to the public and used the area to entertain guests and mistresses, such as Nell Gwyn. The park became notorious at the time as a meeting place for impromptu acts of lechery, as described by John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester in his poem "A Ramble in St James's Park".[12]

Should one wish to, I can attest that one can find some very entertaining reading material regarding this period of English history with a little further additional research. The general idea, though, is that, in much wilder times in its history than the last few decades, St. James' Park was absolutely competing for the prize of being history's most notorious hookup park.

By taking pains to include St. James' Park's history with the "is, and always has been" part of the line, the park's history is then reflected in what types of clandestine meetings we're discussing. It makes it clear that we're not just talking about spycraft but also about sex.

And what of the immortal characters The Voice of God is discussing? The ones who were alive and in England during this more amusingly debauched period of St. James' Park's history?

Are Crowley and Aziraphale new to the park, having just started clandestinely meeting here a couple of months or years ago, while St. James' Park has been in its modern, more genteel, spy era?

Definitely not is what we're specifically, emphatically, told by The Voice of God. 😂 They've been backchanneling in these woods for quite awhile now...

#good omens #good omens meta #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow

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angelstrawbabie420 · 9 hours ago

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some info to hopefully answer some questions ive been asked:

1. a money order is essentially just a check that’s cheaper and easier to obtain than a check, and is generally safer than cash/personal check payments. it’s what our landlord prefers and we’ve paid it this way for the 12 years we lived here- we have never had an issue like this, i don’t think we’ve even been late more than a couple of times.

2. we’re of course doing everything we can to put a stop payment on the order- essentially making the one we filled out void if they are found, then they cannot be cashed- and to be refunded/order a new one, however this can take literal weeks to process and go through. we have 6 DAYS.

i am also unsure, since it has been around a month since the order was bought, if refunds are even an option as there are usually time limits on that sort of thing.

3. we were going to call our landlord’s office this morning but in the panic of it all realized it’s a weekend, therefore the office is closed and no one is ever able to be reached there when it’s closed. we will be calling as soon as they open monday morning to discuss all of this, and to see exactly how we go about the appeal process. at this point we will have 4 more days to put in the appeal (unclear to me if that puts this whole process on hold or??) or to pay this in full.

on top of that our rent for feb is due on the 5th which we will also have to pay just days later.

4. we do not have savings. we’ve been poor and we cannot afford a hit like this especially after our rent increased significantly the past couple months. straight up i have been struggling to even eat and afford basic essentials, everything i had is being sinked directly into this, and truthfully idk how the fuck i am going to make ends meet now or when i’ll eat next, lol.

5. a lot of things are simply going to be left unanswered until my brother calls the provider who issued the money order and we can call housing on monday, unfortunately.

6. i’ve researched this tirelessly and i don’t know who the “blame” would fall on in the eyes of the law- we have receipts for our exact rent amount in money order and we have only ever used money orders for rent, nothing else. as stated we also included these orders in with paperwork that would have been deemed late at this point had they not received them, which as far as we know hasn’t happened, so i can only conclude they received the envelope.

however, idk how exactly we’d prove that they were in the envelope, nor if it can be proved that our landlord misplaced the orders. i know for a fact they were in the envelope, but it’s essentially he said/she said from what i’m understanding as the only concrete proof of anything at all is that we purchased a money order for the rent amount with a receipt.

obviously i will update this as we get more info abt the whole situation but so far this is what i can gather from my research and what my idiot brain is understanding.

sharing is appreciated and even small amounts are extremely helpful, like i said idk when i’ll even get to eat next as we were struggling to the point of having zero food and starving before this fucking disaster.

WHAT RHE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK I AM HAVING A PANIC ATTACK RIGHT NOW

#hopefully this clears some things up???#im so fucking hungry i want to cry lmfao i cannot even think straight.

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quartz-kilsviken · 2 days ago

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Written in the Runes

Chapter 1

➸ Synopsis: Ekko, your mischievous yet endearing local troublemaker, trails a wealthy academy student from the topside. When you end up with the student’s satchel, you find a notebook filled with intriguing magical research. Unable to resist, you embark on a quest to uncover the secrets of this mysterious scholar.

➸ pairing: jayvik x reader

➸ word count: 3,649

➸ tags: Slow Burn, yearning, eventual smut, not canon compliant

➸ notes: This is going to be an eventual Jayce/Viktor/Reader romance. I want a boyfriend and I want my boyfriend to have a boyfriend. The goal is for this to be an incredibly slow burn. Timeline might differ slightly to the show, and I’m making shit up as I go. I don’t understand LOL lore or magic, nor do I want to. You can also find me on AO3 Quarts_Kilsviken :)

➸ Next Chapter Link- Pt.2

For centuries, art has served as a means to capture moments otherwise lost to time. It functions as a time capsule, preserving not only events but the emotions felt by the artist. Families fleeing war, yet pausing long enough to capture the image of a single flower—the delicate curve of its petals, the vivid color stark against an ash-covered ground. A mother, imparting forgotten magic beneath the soft glow of firelight, a pale blue shimmer in the child’s wide eyes. Runes etched into the dirt, knowing they can be erased in an instant. These fragments call to you, urging you to remember moments you’ve never known. Moments your mother never had the chance to share with you.

As your pencil glides across the thin paper, you wonder if, one day, someone will look back at your captured moments. Will they find meaning in the images of waves crashing against the dock and sense the longing that fills them? You doubt it. The flimsy paper will likely disintegrate into dust within a few years. Still, you continue—perched atop a warehouse roof, waiting for the familiar ship to arrive. These moments are yours, the sunrise painting colors across your pages unseen in your home.

With a long stretch, you stuff your sketchbook into your bag and begin the familiar descent down the side of the building. The cool breeze from the water seeps deeper into your jacket as you approach the ship. After a minute of waiting, the cold settles into your bones and you decide it’s far too frigid to remain outside any longer. Avoiding the eyes of the workers, you slip up the ship's ramp, hurrying down into the cabin.

“Got anything good today, Khal?” you call out, trying to suppress a wince as you hear the loud thump and the string of curses that follow. The yordle emerges from behind a stack of crates, rubbing the top of his head.

“Ah, damn it, I told you to stop coming in here. Couldn’t you wait another five minutes?” Khal mutters, continuing to gather various items from the crates, placing them carefully into a large black bag.

“I’m doing you a favor, really. Now you won’t have to make the trip outside. It’s windy today, Khal—you might get blown away,” you tease. He glares up at you, unamused by your joke as you stand over the bag. Realizing he has what you want, you try to smooth things over with your most innocent smile. “Seriously, you don’t have to thank me for going the extra mile. But if you do—”

“Sorry, kid, no magic stuff today.” He shakes his head, zipping the bag shut with a snap. “They’ve been cracking down at the borders. Rumors of a new drug shipment coming to the docks are making it impossible to get anything in.” Khal sighs, sensing your disappointment, though it’s clear he’s frustrated with the situation as well. “Look, I managed to get some paint from Noxus for you and the kid. I know it’s not what you were hoping for, but—”

You cut him off with a tight hug, leaning down to wrap your arms around the furry little man. Though he doesn’t return it, when you pull away, you spot the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, trying to suppress a smile. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Now get out of here before the enforcers start their rounds.” You grab the bag, tossing it over your shoulder. With a quick farewell, you make your way away from the water.

As you enter the Lanes, the cool breeze morphs into warm, acrid smog. Your feet instinctively know the route home, staying in the shadows so no one catches sight of the bag hanging from your back. You push through the door of the familiar shop, relieved to unload the weight of the bag. Benzo looks up at you from behind the counter as you make your way over. With a grunt, you hoist the bag onto the table,

“You know, Benzo, I should get hazard pay for this. My back’s gonna be shot by the time I’m thirty, I swear. Should start saving for an early retirement,” you joke.

“You’re already robbing me blind with what I pay you, little lady. Anyone give you trouble on your way back?” Benzo peers at you over the rim of his glasses.

“Nah, not today,” you say, hopping over the counter and tossing a few items onto the shelves. “With all these new trade precautions, I bet most people don’t think it’s worth the hassle anymore.” You wrinkle your nose at a rusty pocket watch, trying to decide if it’s even worth trying to sell. Benzo sighs and settles back in his chair, apparently leaving the rest to you. You continue sorting through the shelves, but something’s off. No, scratch that—a lot is off. You stop mid-motion, eyes darting to the now-empty display. “Were we robbed?”

It takes him a second to figure out where you’re looking, and when he does, he chuckles, clearly unbothered. “Nah, some academy kid cleared out the display a couple hours ago. Ekko made a killing off him.” You knew you’d never have enough to buy even one of the items, but it still stings to know they’re gone.

“What would an academy kid even want with magic artifacts?” You bite the words out, too sharp, too bitter. You immediately try to reel it back. “He probably doesn’t even know what he’s got—just hoarding them to show off to his rich friends.”

Benzo shrugs like he’s heard it all before. “You know the drill. We don’t question customers.” He takes a beat, then adds, “But if it helps, the kid seemed pretty knowledgeable.” That makes you feel a little better, though not enough to erase the empty, hollow feeling in your chest. The case sits vacant, mocking you.

Suddenly, the door slams open with a crash, followed by a flash of white hair as the little whirlwind zips across the room. Before you can even react, the kid darts through the back door like he’s on a mission.

You can’t help it—you burst out laughing at the sight of Benzo, stone-faced, staring after the boy. With a quick swipe of your hand, you snatch the paint from the now empty bag, slip through the door, and head after him. Listening carefully, you figure he’s made it down the stairs to his room. You knock softly before poking your head inside. Ekko’s in the process of shoving something under his bed, looking incredibly guilty. When he sees you, his face lights up with a giant smile. The kid’s clever, but not great at hiding things.

“I’ve got something for you, little man,” you say, leaning against the bed. You wave the paint palette in front of his face, teasing him, but snatch it away before he can grab it. “If you want it, you’re gonna have to tell me what’s under there.”

Ekko starts pacing, looking like he’s weighing his options, then stops, squints at you, and says, “You have to promise you won’t tell Benzo.”

You put on a mock-serious face, tapping your chin. “Depends. Did you kidnap someone? ‘Cause I’m not sure I wanna be an accomplice to kidnapping.”

“No,” Ekko says, a little too quickly, his eyes darting nervously under the bed.

“Fraud?”

“No.”

“Murder?”

“No.”

You chuckle and shake your head, finally giving in. “Fine. I won’t tell Benzo.”

Ekko resumes his pacing, looking oddly pleased with himself. “Okay, so this guy comes in earlier today. Buys a bunch of fancy stuff—the kind we usually keep behind glass. He’s got a ton of money, I’m talking a lot.” He pauses, grinning. “Obviously, I charged him double.” He snickers to himself, then continues. “Anyway, I was curious, so I followed him.”

You shouldn’t have been surprised, but somehow, you still are. You stare at him, rubbing your forehead. “Ekko, really? Benzo said he’s an academy student. You followed him all the way topside?”

Ekko avoids your eyes, and you already know the answer. “Ekko.”

“No one saw me, I swear!” He glances back at the bed, stalling. After a deep breath, he adds, “Okay, so the guy put his bag down to grab his keys, then went inside—probably too distracted with the rest of his stuff to remember he left it behind.”

You gasp. Without thinking, you dive under the bed and, sure enough, pull out a satchel. You immediately regret your earlier promise. “Ekko, what if there’s something valuable in here? If he gets enforcers involved and this is going to be the first place they look.”

Ekko waves a hand dismissively. “Come on. Think about it. He came in for a bunch of illegal stuff. He’s not going to risk it. Plus, he’s loaded. Whatever’s in that bag, he can buy it again.”

You look at the satchel again, hesitating for a moment. Then, curiosity wins out. You pat the floor next to you, and Ekko eagerly plops down beside you. You pop open the bag and dump its contents onto the floor in one smooth motion. Ekko dives into the mess with excitement, while you start inspecting the items. It’s a mess—books, pens, random junk. Exactly what you’d expect from an academy student.

Ekko picks up a wallet and flips through it before remembering that he already cleaned out the guy’s coin. Losing interest, he starts to toss it aside, but you snatch it up before he can. It’s plain, brown leather with neat stitching—nothing special, but maybe it’s worth a little something. As you dig inside, your fingers catch on a student ID card. It’s scratched up but still in decent condition. You flip it over, and a pair of big eyes stare back at you. The blurry picture shows a young man, maybe in his early twenties, with a wide, gap-toothed grin. Handsome, you think, not at all who I imagined. You slide the card back into place and shove the wallet into your jacket pocket.

Ekko’s rummaging through the rest of the bag, clearly unimpressed by the contents. You laugh at the face he’s making and, still grinning, grab the paint you’d dropped earlier. “Khal said these are from Noxus. Definitely worth a lot. So, don’t let Mylo use them to paint middle fingers on Jericho’s stall.”

Ekko snickers, jumping up to stow the paint away, tossing the pens he grabbed from the bag into a drawer with a careless flick. He starts cramming the rest of the bag’s contents back in, and you look over at him, an eyebrow raised. “Do you mind if I, uh, borrow your stolen bag?”

Without missing a beat, Ekko flashes you a sly grin. “Sure, but just so you know, that officially makes you an accomplice now.”

You can’t help but laugh as you leave Ekko’s room and wander down the hall. By the time you collapse on your bed, the exhaustion hits you like a wave. Dock runs only happen once a month, but they require staying up all night—leaving right after sunset and staying until the ship docks at sunrise. It used to be so much easier—endless nights that never seemed to take a toll. But now, as your joints creak and protest, you feel like a 23-year-old who’s already past their prime. You glance down at the satchel, chewing the inside of your cheek. You’ve already gone through it—hell, you dumped its contents all over Ekko’s floor. So why the sudden wave of guilt?

You decide to be more careful this time, taking things out slowly. The first item is a crumpled piece of paper, which turns out to be a grocery list. You set it aside with a sigh and reach for the next thing: a hardcover book, dark blue canvas, its corners fraying with age. The moment you touch it, you can tell it’s old—the scent of it, the brown tint of the pages. The text is foreign, some language you can’t quite place. Maybe it’s from overseas? Curiosity gnaws at you, but you set the book aside and move to the next.

This one catches your attention immediately. The cover’s worn, but it’s the script inside that makes your heart beat a little faster. You flip through the pages and realize it’s a grimoire. Runes cover every inch, some familiar, others completely alien. How did he get his hands on this? Sure, he’s rich, but something so detailed, so rare? There’s no way it would’ve come from Piltover. The heat of anger burns through you, a deep, familiar ache that’s almost like grief. He’s carrying around a book that details the same magic your family nearly died for. But is it really just anger? No, it’s something else. The pages seem to hum, drawing you in, much like your mother’s paintings once did—pulling you toward something. Your past? No… not this time. It’s something else entirely.

Finally, you pull out the last book from the satchel. It feels heavier, like it’s carrying something more than just weight. You run your fingers over the hammer etched into the cover, studying its details before opening it. Inside, it’s filled with messy notes and diagrams, all jumbled but with a clear purpose. This is it—this is what he’s been working on. He’s trying to harness magic.

Though your body is screaming for rest, you can’t bring yourself to put the book down. When you finally glance at the clock, it’s already 5 AM, but you’re still lost in the pages. You’re hooked—caught in the madness of it all. It’s brilliant. Insane. Revolutionary. And completely, utterly terrifying. His scrawl is all over every page, his signature tucked into the corner of each one. Even though this is clearly just one of many notebooks—a fraction of his larger body of work—it all makes perfect sense. Harnessing arcane energy through crystals. Capturing raw, chaotic magic and transforming it into a usable, practical source.

It’s clear he knows what he’s doing, but there’s something missing in his understanding of the arcane itself. His notes drip with frustration, especially where he’s tried to decode the runes—almost every page filled with scribbles, crossed-out lines, and half-baked theories. It’s as if he’s so close, yet there’s a final piece that eludes him.

And then it hits you. You might be that missing piece.

You’re no scholar, and you certainly aren’t a genius, but you know more than most when it comes to the arcane. You’ve lived it, felt it, and you can see the gaps in his research—things that could be the key to unlocking it all. Maybe you could help him. You feel the weight of the possibility, the urgency of his discovery. It’s world-changing. The visions he’s drawn out on each page show the immense potential for how this technology could revolutionize not just Piltover, but the Undercity, too. His research could bridge the gap between the two worlds, completely reshaping everything in its wake.

But as the minutes slip by and your eyelids grow heavier, you realize your body can no longer keep up with your racing thoughts. The words on the page blur into one long stream, and before you know it, your head tilts to the side. Your hand slips from the notebook as sleep finally pulls you under, the weight of your thoughts fading into the quiet dark.

You’re stirred awake by a quiet knock on your door. “You dead in there?” Benzo’s voice filters through, soft but insistent. As your mind clears, you realize your bed is strewn with the contents of the stolen satchel. Panic flickers for a moment before you shove the books back into the bag, tossing it under the bed just as he softly cracks the door open. Benzo stands in the doorway, glancing over you with a raised brow.

“You look like death,” he says with a tired chuckle. “How long you been sleeping?”

“Uh...” You glance at the clock. It’s already 6 PM. You wince. “About thirteen hours.”

He rubs his temples, sighing. “Get cleaned up, then come watch the shop for a while. I’ve gotta head out with Vander.” The fatigue is clear in his face, the lines around his eyes deepening.

“What happened? Is he okay?” You start picking out clothes, your movements automatic as the weight of the situation begins to settle in.

He exhales sharply, dropping down onto your bed with a heavy sigh. “Vander’s fine. But the kids... well, they’ve stirred up some serious trouble. You missed all the fun. Yesterday there was an explosion and a chase topside. And today? Enforcers barging in here looking for four kids. They tried to rob a rich academy topsider, but things went sideways. I heard the whole side of the building got blasted off, and now the Enforcers are crawling all over the Undercity.”

Your stomach drops. “Was anyone hurt?”

He glances at you, his expression softening. “No, thank the gods. But the building—turns out it was the Kirammans’ place. What was in there? I don’t even want to think about it.” His gaze sharpens. “The kids will be fine. Vander and I will handle it. But they need to lay low for a while. Knowing them, though, that’ll be a battle.”

You nod quietly, though the weight in your chest only grows heavier as he exits your room. After a quick shower, you find yourself behind the shop counter, brown cloak draped loosely around you, trying to mask the weight on your shoulder. The place is eerily still, save for the hum of your own racing thoughts. Your eyes stay fixed on the door as you wait, the uneasy silence pressing in.

When the door finally opens, it’s Ekko who walks in, looking surprised to see you behind the counter instead of Benzo. His usual brash energy is subdued, and he leans against the counter, avoiding your eyes.

“Bet you already heard what happened,” he mutters, picking at some invisible spot on the counter. “Vander’s really upset with us.”

The weight of his words hits harder than you expect. For all the bravado Ekko tries to show, you know how deeply he feels. You reach over, ruffling his hair, offering what little comfort you can. “Hey, little man, it’s gonna be okay. Everyone makes mistakes. I get why you did it. Vander and Benzo, they’ve made their own share of screw-ups, so they have plenty of experience fixing them.” Ekko gives a small, grateful smile at that. “Go get some sleep, alright? Things’ll cool down by tomorrow.”

Just as you finish speaking, the bell rings, and Benzo reappears, starting to lower the shutters. Before he locks the door, you move to slip out. “Get some rest, you two. I’m heading out for the night.”

Ekko gives you a tired wave as he heads for the back. Benzo, however, doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“You know,” he says, arms crossed, voice low, “I can’t stop you, but I’m still gonna tell you—it’s a bad idea. Enforcers are everywhere. There’s fighting on every corner.”

You both hold eye contact for a long beat, but he lets out a resigned sigh. “No arguing with you, is there? Go on, get out of here.” He opens the door for you, and you catch him off guard with a quick hug before slipping out into the night. His grumble follows you as the door clicks shut behind you.

The streets are a war zone. Enforcers litter every corner, and the air is thick with tension. You move through the Undercity carefully, staying in the shadows as much as you can, until you reach Piltover. There, it’s quieter, and for a moment, you feel a strange kind of relief.

There’s no sign of enforcers from atop the large buildings, but as you crouch to catch your breath, the sight in front of you makes your chest tighten. From this angle, calling it an explosion doesn’t even come close. The place looks like it’s been torn apart. A sinking feeling settles in your gut.

It makes sense the building looks abandoned now—who would stick around in a wreck like this? But then you realize it: you came here without a plan. What was your angle? Strut in, say you’ve got stolen research, and hope for the best? Ridiculous. Still, you’ve come this far. You suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get a bit closer.

With a deep breath, you sprint across the gap to the next rooftop, landing lightly and pausing to steady yourself. And there they are. Two figures, barely visible in the wreckage, illuminated only by the faint glow of a lamp. One is scribbling on a chalkboard, broad shoulders following the movements of his writing. The other holding a book in one hand and gripping a cane in the other, standing a step behind him. You squint, trying to make out the messy writing, but the shadows blur everything.

Just then, they turn—though you know they can’t possibly see you. Still, a chill runs down your spine, and you freeze, watching them move through a door, disappearing deeper into the building.

That’s when it hits you—the pull. The whispers, soft in the breeze. The tug in your chest. Every moment, every choice, has led to this. The memories flood back: your mother’s hands glowing with magic, her soft voice teaching you. Benzo, taking your hand as he led you from the ruins of your home, offering you a new place where you could rebuild, and with it, the hope that you could be more.

And now you’re here.

You feel the wind, the pull drawing you forward. Without thinking, you leap.

#viktor arcane #jayce x viktor #viktor x reader #jayce talis #arcane jayce #jayce x reader #jayvik #jayvik x reader

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ionobjectshow · 2 days ago

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Hello granddad!! Really enjoyed the new episode by the way :D I just wanted to ask something, I dont know if you already answered this so I'm sorry for bothering you if you have D:

Do you have a particular interest in nuclear physics? I'm wondering because when I watch ION it seems to me like you must be very passionate about it as well, either that or your just very good at researching (or making stuff up this sounds legit to people who dont know anything about physics, like me! /j), but it sounds like you know a considerable amount! Maybe it just seems like that to me because I don't understand physics at all :P

I really love cracklin!! So much!!! I've felt like I was too naive and childish for most of my life, I felt weak, pathetic, i cried nearly every day and my feelings of self hatred were only solidified by the people around me. And even though I act MUCH differently now and am in fact quite crude (I am much like a bird squawking outside your window that refuses to shut up!!!) and say uncomfortable things, I'm still regarded as naive and dumb sometimes! The thing Sylvia and cracklin have going on feels very similar to MANY friendships I've had with girls my age. I liked school very much and liked to work, so it made them angry that I managed to be "so stupid and so smart at the same time" (quoted directly from something a girl said to me when I was in middle school). I feel very seen.

I also want to ask if you have a particular interest in object shows, or if you just happened to choose to make your show an object show by coincidence? Object shows are my special interest and I LOVE how your show goes against (almost) everything standard for an object show. Your show is absolutely unique and there's nothing like it out there! I'm sure you will inspire many young creators to make their object shows more serious and complex, deviating from just the typical competition show. In my eyes something is qualified as an object show when there are objects (or non human characters) and the creator considers it an object show, so I love how versatile the title can be! Your designs communicate a lot about the characters and that's SO uncommon!!!! I love it!!!!! You inspire ME!!!! The art is also BEAUTIFUL, really abnormal to see in object shows, most of the time very little detail is put into it, but your backgrounds feel so ALIVE

Have a good day! :]

☢️ As soon as I saw this secret message, the words flashed through my mind: “this letter is very autistic, perhaps it was created by an autistic person.” ☢️ I love long opinions with lots of details and sincere emotions, thank you for this text, I was very happy reading it!

☢️ Yes, you guessed it - nuclear physics (especially everything related to the operation of Nuclear Power Plants) has been my special autistic interest for about 5 years now. I love everything about it. In fact, I am absolutely bad at the exact sciences, but the dance of nuclear energies fascinates me and takes my breath away! I order manuals on nuclear reactors for myself and read them with great pleasure, waving my hands. I often go to a coffee shop to read there by the window with a cup of coffee ^^

☢️ I created ION during the most terrible period of my life, and this project was the only thing that held me while anxious depression was rapidly developing and consuming me into some bottomless black abyss. So I put my whole soul, all of myself and what I love into ION, I made this project my mirror. ☢️ It is very important for me to see how this story touches the hearts of other people, I scream with delight if some neurodivergent people recognize themselves in Cracklin! This is extremely important to me.

☢️ Object shows are not my special interest, but I was very surprised and intrigued by this genre of web animation. At first, I did not like the concept of an object show and I could not understand why people were watching it … and then something switched inside me and I really wanted to create my own experimental Object show. To create it entirely myself. To make an author's project that will become a part of me. I didn't even hope that ION would be liked by anyone else, I posted 1 episode with the thought that I was doing it only for myself. And now I am happy as a rainbow in the sky, reading so many kind comments and support! Thank you very much

#ion object show #investigation of object nuclearity #i.o.n.#object shows #ион обджект шоу #и.о.н.#cracklin ion #object show community #special interest #autistic character #osc community #objects #object show #osc

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jollyhunter · 2 days ago

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♡Dean Birthday Prompt-Game♡

Before we dive into the prompt game... Please, take a short 20 minutes break and just sit down in the backseat of Baby. Imagine, it. It's Dean's birthday and it's just you, Dean and Sam. On the road. You sleeping in the backseats, the rain's soothing pitter-patter, Dean's music playing in the background, Baby purring under your feet.

Put those headphones in, close your eyes and just... feel it. ♡

... And when Dean wakes you to sing, I want you to sing. (I'm serious)

youtube

. . .

Now that you are settled in, here's the prompt along the video:

It's just the same damn day like any other, right?

Today Dean turns 31. Finally a good reason to celebrate.

Or so you had it planned out in your head. But, of course you three just had to take up a 2 weeks hunt at the arse-end of the world. And now you're stuck on a 3-days drive back home, doomed to yet again spend this special day, like any other.

On the road. With the sky pissing down on you with no end in sight (Dean's words). Folded into the backseat between instant coffee and greasy takeaway burgers (Sam's words). Cooped up in some weird banana themed motel room with little to no privacy (...your words). Not that any of this would have bothered you any other day. But for you, today wasn't any other day. And for once - just for once - you actually hoped you'd get something... different. Something special.

It was Dean's birthday after all. And that by itself was a miracle, seeing as he'd been in Hell not too long ago.

And although he was physically back, you could sense that parts of him were still downstairs. Still trapped in a never ending nightmare you knew nothing about, because he just. won't. talk.

You just wanted to see Dean smile again. Feel his hearty laughter fill your chest like a hot cocoa that makes your heart flutter and your cheeks burn up. Watch those green pools twinkle with genuine joy as they get nudged up by that Cheshire smile.

But as of right now, things looked anything but.

Worst of all? Dean didn't even seem to mind. It's like he didn't even acknowledge the fact that he was turning a year older today.

The lights of an occasional passer-by vehicle flashes by your shut eyes and then fades back into the darkness. The interior of Baby is dimly lit and only the soft glow of the street lights from passing towns and the dashboard illumination light the silhouette of the two brothers in the front seats.

Dean's sipping lazily from his coffee mug while driving, his fingers on the steering wheel idly tapping along the beats of the song of Zep's Ramble On that's competing against the rhythmic drumming of the droplets on the roof. Meanwhile the sound of rustling newspapers comes from the passenger seat.

Sam sighs, occasionally adding to the oddly comfortable atmosphere with his pen jotting down notes and shuffling through papers.

When Dean spots a motel sign, he quickly pulls the car over and parks it right in front of the main entrance. Green eyes dart up at the rear view mirror, checking on your sleeping form in the backseat before he turns to head out, his voice a low mutter to not wake you. „I‘ll check it out.“

Minutes later, the door opens and Dean climbs back in, letting out a deep sigh before quickly shutting it closed again behind him and shaking off some of the wetness from his jacket and hair. Sam's still engrossed in his research, barely looking up when his brother starts up the car again and grunts, “The place is full.”

“Damn it.” Sam mutters, putting down the notebook he was writing in, “Not even a single other motel for miles. Guess that means we’re stuck in the car for the night.”

"All three of us? That's gonna be cramped as hell." Dean mutters in annoyance while the wheels screech in protest from being manoeuvred back to the road.

Dean briefly turns back to face you still being fast asleep in the backseat and his face instantly softens. His lips curl into a soft smile when he reaches over the bench's backrest to pat your knee, "Hey, sleepyhead, wake up. Looks like we need to huddle up for the night."

HERE'S THE IDEA: Continue the story yourself; how would you try to save Dean's birthday? How would you make the best of it? What's your theme? Mostly fluff? Spontaneous birthday-hunt? Or will you dive into the angst? Or get Sam somehow out of the car so you can get a little frisky with Dean? You get the point. Go crazy.

Reblog and add yours, or post your own and tag me!

The prompt is set right after the end of the video. But you may of course jump into the story wherever you want. Have fun sweethearts!

A/N: Not to sound dramatic but creating this ambience / intro sound video, or whatever I shall call it, cost me an arm and a leg. And at some point I had to sell my soul to Crowley to get it done. Additionally, I wanted fitting dividers as well so I did those too, lol I went full in for our boy's birthday. And I wanted to do something fun for everyone!

So please, consider commenting and reblogging if you liked it ♡

Dean Tags:

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester

#dean winchester #happy birthday dean #dean winchester bday #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #supernatural #spn #spn x reader #dean winchester x female!reader #dean x you #spn reader insert #deansbirthdaybash #prompt game #continue the story #spn prompt #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester drabble #spn aesthetic #jensen ackles

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justinspoliticalcorner · 2 days ago

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Bloomberg: The Second Trump Presidency, Brought to You by Right-Leaning Male YouTubers

Davey Alba, Leon Yin, Julia Love, Ashley Carman, Priyanjana Bengani, Rachael Dottle, and Elena Mejía at Bloomberg:

As Donald Trump was sworn in as the 47th US President on Monday, he was surrounded by his family, donors and wealthy tech executives. Just a few feet farther away stood a political newcomer who’s been credited with encouraging lots of votes: Joe Rogan. The fact that Rogan, the host of the world’s most popular podcast, watched from the Capitol Rotunda as Republican luminaries like Florida Governor Ron DeSantis were confined to overflow speaks volumes about the new dynamics at play in Washington and the media writ large. Over the past two years, a set of massively popular podcasters and streamers cemented themselves as the new mainstream source of information for millions of young men, and, according to a new Bloomberg analysis, used their perch to rally these constituents in support of Trump and the political right.

In an effort to understand the media diet of a generation, Bloomberg watched and analyzed over 2,000 videos from nine prominent YouTubers. Reporters reviewed nearly 1,300 hours of footage from their channels, mapped out the podcasters’ guest networks and quantified the frequency of key political messages that they distributed to tens of millions of subscribers each day. To hear them tell it, America is in a desperate place, destabilized by soaring inflation, migrants streaming across the border and the beginnings of a third world war. Gender politics have gotten out of hand while schools and the medical establishment duped the public. The same messages were communicated in Trump’s inaugural address on Monday. Now that Trump is back in power, the broadcasters are well-positioned to help build support for his political agenda, transforming grievances into policy that could have lasting effects even beyond Trump’s term in office.

In the months leading up to election, hosts had more politicians and pundits on their shows and discussed the issues more frequently. Of the broadcasters’ videos that reached over 1 million views on YouTube during the time span Bloomberg reviewed, more than a third of videos mentioned voting or the US elections — often with the host explicitly calling on listeners to vote. None of the broadcasters style themselves as political pundits, and their conservative talking points were sandwiched between free-wheeling discussions of sports, masculinity, internet culture, gambling and pranks — making the rhetoric more palatable to an apolitical audience. Still, their popularity is sparking a “very big sea change in terms of who are the voices that matter,” Mark Zuckerberg, Meta Platforms Inc. chief executive officer, said in a conversation with Rogan published Jan. 10. “There’s this wholesale generational shift in who are the people who are being listened to.”

According to Edison Research, close to 50% of people over the age of 12 listen to a podcast monthly. Rogan’s three-hour interview with Trump in late October drew about 50 million views on YouTube. Zuckerberg, for his part, recently loosened Meta’s policies on Facebook and Instagram to allow more of the type of rhetoric that’s common among the podcasters, such as disparagement of transgender people. He added Ultimate Fighting Championship CEO Dana White, who encouraged Trump to join as a guest on such podcasts, to Meta’s board. Elon Musk, the owner of X, has made product changes to allow longer video streaming, in support of podcasters — and joined several as a guest himself. Google, meanwhile, wants to work through some Republican perceptions of its liberal bias and show that YouTube has already long been popular with conservatives, according to a person familiar with the company’s thinking. Over the weekend before the inauguration, many of the podcasters were coveted guests at parties hosted by YouTube, Spotify and other organizations. YouTube declined to comment. Spotify said “podcasts offer candidates a direct and influential way to engage with their audiences,” noting that both Trump and Democratic rival Kamala Harris took advantage of the medium. With the podcasters’ audiences skewing about 80% male on average, according to people familiar with the shows’ listener demographics, the hosts connected directly to a voting bloc that helped propel Trump back to the White House. Of the 903 podcast guests tracked by Bloomberg in the past two years, only 106 people, or 12 percent, were women. Men, and particularly white men, have long made up Trump’s core support base. But in November’s election, young men swung especially hard to the right. More than half of men under 30 supported Trump, according to the AP VoteCast survey of more than 120,000 voters, though outgoing President Joe Biden won the group in 2020. Exit polls have shown that Trump received more support from young men than any Republican candidate in more than two decades.

“We definitely helped with the young male vote,” Kyle Forgeard, a member of the Nelk Boys, said in an interview. “On the podcast, we just speak our mind, try to be true to ourselves and say what we think.” Above all, the broadcasters described American men as victims of a Democratic campaign to strip them of their power — a comforting message to a disspirited audience. These days, young men are lonelier than ever, with those aged 18 to 23 the least optimistic about their futures, and having the lowest levels of social support, according to Equimundo’s 2023 State of American Men report. Trump and his allies showed up for young men in the places where they were already spending their time — and supplied them with answers.

[...] The male-oriented podcasts tracked by Bloomberg each have their own style of show. Theo Von often discusses substance abuse issues and childhood experiences with his interviewees, while Lex Fridman focuses on expert opinions and tech topics. Shawn Ryan chats with people associated with military and law enforcement, saying he exposes the inner workings of the US government. Logan Paul, the Nelk Boys and Adin Ross tend to focus on humor, sports, pranks and creator drama. Of the programs reviewed, The Joe Rogan Experience, Flagrant by Andrew Schulz and The PBD Podcast by Patrick Bet-David follow the most typical host-and-interview talk show format, discussing news and popular culture, all while challenging political correctness. The hosts largely do not push back against their guests’ ideas. Von, Rogan and Schulz are also comedians, and they often recast controversial content as edgy humor. Yet even as the podcasts have tried to brand themselves uniquely, similar themes and characters appear across the network. Bloomberg’s analysis of 2,002 episodes across the shows reveals how closely interconnected the podcasters’ relationships are, and how much the shows’ talking points overlap. Over the past two years, 152 guests made an appearance on at least two of the shows. Recurring characters are common, not just as guests, but as “friends of the shows,” including the UFC CEO White and comedian Shane Gillis. The effect gives viewers a sense of being inducted into a virtual, close-knit friend group from home.

Read the full story at Bloomberg.

Bloomberg reports on how 9 male YouTubers that have a mostly right-leaning audience, such as Joe Rogan, Logan Paul, Patrick Bet-David, and Nelk Boys, helped push young male voters toward Donald Trump this recent election.

#YouTube #Podcasts #Joe Rogan #Shawn Ryan #Lex Fridman #Patrick Bet David #Theo Von #Logan Paul #Nelk Boys #Adin Ross #Andrew Schulz #The Joe Rogan Experience #PBD Podcast #This Past Weekend #Impaulsive #Full Send Podcast #Flagrant #Donald Trump #2024 Presidential Election

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urween · 3 days ago

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Skittish | Bucky Barnes x ftm!reader | english version

summary: After a long battle and especially hard research, the Avengers finally found the Winter Soldier. To keep everyone safe, they keep him locked in their HQ. In semi-freedom but especially in a trance, Bucky Barnes attracts the attention of the young boy in charge of taking care of him during his stay here.

notes: I prefer to specify it, the temporality is not exactly respected. Let's say that all this takes place just after Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

⚠︎ warnings: mentions of heavy trauma related to the war and the Hydra projects, a form of depressed!Bucky, violence, weapons, incomprehension of transidentity without transphobia, mentions of suicidal thoughts.

English isn't my first language, sorry for the mistakes <3

- 2nd person description

- 5 371 words

You were the little protégé of the group, he had quickly noticed. Even if Natasha didn't have superpowers or a robotic suit either, she was part of the team. She and Clint were kind of the superhumans of the group, with superhuman abilities but nothing that surpassed Thor's lightning or Hulk's muscles. Then, there was you, a fairly normal little human with no particular specificities. High intelligence, extreme kindness and an adorable smile. But no mastery of martial arts. You knew the basics of fighting, Nat had taught you the main thing. You had ended up understanding Bruce's extravagant chemical formulas, and you understood the most important things Tony said in his intense nerd phases. But once again, you were nothing special, and that made Bucky wonder. Why was a basic human here? What were you doing in the middle of the Avengers? Even though he had missed a few decisive years from a social point of view, he didn't understand.

As he stared from his cell, he saw scenes he didn't know how to interpret. You assisting Tony Stark and Jarvis, you laughing with Bruce Banner, you helping Natasha Romanoff train, you carrying Steve Rogers' shield to him, you sorting Clint Barton's arrows, you redoing Thor's braids.

What were you doing there?

You had cheerfully introduced yourself to him. With a friendly smile on your lips, you had stated your name, first name and pronouns – he hadn't really understood this last point –. You had surely been informed of his situation. Don't be offended, he'll need a little time, someone must have whispered to you. He hadn't answered you, and you hadn't seemed offended. You had then left, and he had remained perplexed. If you already knew everything about him, why come and introduce yourself? You must have read his files, you must have all read his files. Steve had to slip away to get some air, Natasha inspected everything in detail, Bruce muttered "it’s awful". You had to read his files. See his life laid out on a large table, foreign hands going over the medical reports. You had to read with anguish the endless list of victims he had killed during his missions, observe the modifications that had been made to him, the treatments inflicted, the pains endured. You had seen all that. Then, why come see him?

"Let's just say I don't really like you hanging around this guy," Tony's voice had been saying for several minutes, "Jarvis copy this plan for me and make a 3D reconstruction with train stations, airports and all the stuff."

The holograms moved before your eyes, but you hadn't paid attention to them. Back then, the first time you saw this virtual world being modeled in Tony's office, you were like a kid. Stars in your eyes, you asked a thousand questions per second, making the creator of this program smile. But now you knew yourself how most of the "Jarvis" system worked, and you weren't so impressed anymore, or at least you weren't with every move Stark made.

"I don't see what's bothering you," you replied, innocently swinging your legs in the air.

Tony turned around with his ever-so-dramatic gestures, making a vague movement with his hand he tried to make you understand things without having to speak. Unfortunately for him telekinesis was not part of your abilities.

"Okay," he admitted to himself, defeated, "to start with his sophisticated robotic arm that could crush you before you could scream," he mimed disinterestedly, “did you look at him? Unstable and completely high."

A non-hidden smile drew a curve across your lips.

"We're still talking about Bucky Barnes?” you had fun, “because I rather have the impression that you're looking at yourself in a mirror"

You glanced at Jarvis, who was finishing your friend's request. Then, your attention went back to the billionaire who was visibly desperate to have this discussion with you – you were getting used to it, a demonstration of love coming from Tony –.

"I prefer to cut you off right now," your voice continued, "I forbid you to give me the traditional excuses like he's dangerous or armed or he's a murderer”. You got down from the table where you were sitting and gestured around the room, “look around Tony, only weapons or future weapons,” you got closer to him and pointed at his forehead, “you have the greatest weapon that humanity has ever known in this skull. Natasha and Clint are professional killers, Steve is a traumatized soldier who makes a denial, Thor is an alien with supernatural powers and Bruce is a scientist haunted by a destructive alter-ego”. You pause to admire the still indecipherable facial expression of the man in front of you, “you are all murderers and dangers to Mankind, the only difference between you and Barnes is that you chose to devote your talents to a cause, and he had no choice".

Tony remained motionless for a few long seconds, a whirlwind surely vibrating his neurons. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and quickly bowed his head in defeat.

"You're right," he declared, "I’ve no more arguments and yours are solid”, he turned and went back to Jarvis, “well done kid"

A year ago you would have been perplexed by this reaction, but time had taught you that you had to take Tony Stark with a grain of salt and observe him as you would with a foreign mushroom. All you could remember from this interaction was that you were tired, that you had won against the great megalomaniac Iron Man and above all that you had to talk to Barnes again.

No one had really agreed with Steve on the idea of bringing a Hydra mercenary back to Avengers HQ. It's the equivalent of serving him our secrets on a silver platter, Clint had rightly said. You had been surprised to see Nat defend Barnes, alongside you and Steve – of course –. There was Bruce who couldn't deliver a distinct judgment, then Tony and Clint who were against. Thor having left, you didn't know where in space, the votes had therefore been closed with a majority of for.

You had helped Captain set up a room that was at least habitable in a protective cell, a bit like the one that had sheltered Loki. While the tall blond carried the fold-out bed, you had taken care of a bag of clothes – approximately Barnes' size – and another with water and sweets, this idea had come from you. You found it unfair to call this man a simple murderer, he had been manipulated and controlled. As you put the cereal bars on a small iron table, you tried not to think about the chaos that must be going on in the Winter Soldier's head at the same time. He must have been just as traumatized as his victims, maybe even more so. And finding himself in such a particular environment overnight must have been disturbing. So a chocolate bar and a soda couldn't hurt him.

Thank you, Steve had murmured, for understanding. You had given him a touching smile, holding back the urge to ask him how he felt. He had just found his best friend, who was supposed to have disappeared for several decades, and on top of that, this friend had suffered inhumane treatment for most of his life now. It was obvious that he didn't feel well, that he was helpless in the face of this situation. Bruce had advised you to give him time, and that if he needed it, he would end up talking to one of you. You had listened to his advice, and focused more on Barnes instead.

You had introduced yourself first, starting with a simple acquaintance. You had then made sure to take care of his needs, slipping in a new bottle of fresh water when the previous one was empty, opening his prison only when night fell so that he could go shower without running into a contemptuous Tony or a depressed Steve.

On this subject, rules had been established to guarantee everyone's safety. If Bucky left his cell it was always in the company of one of you – you were the only ones with the passes –, if he asked for something – which he never did – the object had to pass through several control portals before being given to him, and finally no matter where he went, toilets or showers, someone had to watch over him within the limits of privacy. Bruce had offered to take turns, but judging by the faces of the others you had volunteered to ensure most of his outings. Natasha was supposed to replace you when you weren't available, then Tony if neither of you were present. This way you had avoided conflicts but also and above all Steve wouldn't have to go there.

You didn't know him, Bucky, having only seen the videos in his file, and yet every time you went to visit him your stomach knotted. There was no question of fear, since his robotic arm had been censored to the maximum thanks to a Stark gadget, leaving him only the freedom to use it as a normal limb, without super-strength or integrated weapons. He remains a super soldier, Bruce had warned, his physical faculties are superior to Nat's and he has a serum similar to Steve's in his veins. But you weren't afraid. Unfortunately a goat would have made you shiver more than Barnes when you went to see him. He was always on pause. Never spoke, barely moving his gaze from the ground. You had been reassured to see that he ate the bare minimum, and he had even tasted a chocolate bar one day. But aside from these details, it was as if you were seeing the same robot in the same position, day after day. Your stomach knotted for these reasons, because when you brought him clean sheets he had nothing of the man you had seen on video. The rage that haunted his eyes had disappeared, there was only a nameless emptiness left, and you had never seen anything so sad. You didn't feel like you had a hundred-year-old Hydra soldier in front of you, but a broken orphan.

You spent a lot of time rereading his file, his reports, his exams. You tried to understand him through these papers. Steve was lost, he no longer saw Buck in those eyes, and you were trying to understand what he had become, Buck. According to his personal file, he had been found at the age of twenty-six before undergoing Hydra’s experiments. A photo of him, in 1943, was stuck to the paper. A shy smile on his lips, his infantry hat slightly tilted on his head and his uniform without a crease sitting proudly on his chest. A tear had seriously rolled down your cheek, ending its path in a Russian handwriting: Зимний Солдат, in other words Winter Soldier. Bruce had carried out a complete tradition of all the documents, later corrected by Natasha. Maybe rereading these texts was not good for you, but you needed it. You were the only one here who was interested in Barnes. Steve felt so guilty that he was in a kind of denial, Nat was only coldly studying the soldier’s file and let’s not even talk about the others. Bucky needed time, understanding and gentleness to at least not make his after-effects worse. You most certainly had to make mistakes, not being a psychologist by profession, but you were already doing better than your comrades and than Hydra.

"Nice evening, huh?" Your voice echoed in a leaden silence.

The sun had set for over three hours, most of the Avengers were in their rooms or gone outside, which meant that it was the perfect time for Barnes to take a shower. You had gathered your strength and went to the soldier's cell. When you had passed by, about two hours ago, he had not wanted to eat his meal so you had taken it back and heated it up again for later. With the hot dish in one hand, you carefully closed the armored glass door behind you. As you expected, Barnes had hardly moved since your last visit. Still sitting cross-legged in his bed, he seemed vaguely to notice your presence.

"I know you didn't want to eat earlier," you began, putting the meal down next to him, "but I thought that maybe your appetite had returned in the meantime."

Sometimes you were entitled to a small, hoarse "hum" from the back of his throat as a response, but you wondered if it was intentional since his gestures didn't match this slight sign of life. Unfortunately, tonight wasn't part of that "sometimes." No noise, barely a breath. But you didn't get discouraged.

The first few times you came to talk to him, his complete lack of reaction had made you wonder about his possible understanding of your language. Yet you had read that he read and spoke at least two languages, including yours. You might not understand what I'm telling you, you had mumbled while picking up his used clothes. Your biggest interaction with him had been when he had looked you straight in the eye and said in a pleasantly deep voice: I understand.

“Other than that you can-”

You were surprised to see him stand up on his own, studiously heading towards the exit door while waiting for you to open it. You were usually the one who went first to the exit, waiting two or three seconds for him to get up and join you. But this was a nice surprise, maybe it meant that his condition was improving.

Your electromagnetic pass stuck to the dashboard, a small beep sounded before you pushed the heavy door and let Barnes go first. These security questions were mandatory for you to approach the Winter Soldier. Always making him walk in front of you, making your pass inaccessible – hidden in your sleeve most of the time as Bruce had advised you –, a bladed weapon concealed against your ankle in case of trouble, and you weren't supposed to talk to him about yourself or the team. Clint had wanted to add an additional rule: not to speak to him unless necessary, to prevent any risk of manipulation. Did you look at him carefully? Had you imposed yourself in the discussion, he didn't utter any opposition during the whole process to bring him back here, and then remember his mission reports, he wasn't a spy but a mass murderer, he was programmed to speak as little as possible to his victims. Tony had agreed with you on the subject, recalling the case of Loki – once again – who was very different from Barnes.

Stupid rules, you thought as you watched the silhouette of the man in front of you advance in the long corridor. If the others saw him for more than five minutes, they would realize that he was nothing more than a victim in this cell. They all found you a little naive and they appreciated you for that, a ray of hope in the midst of chaos. Yet you were by far the one with the best perception of the others. Each villain had arguments, good or bad, you listened to them all. You reasoned with the team, making them come out of their superhero bubble to show them the possibility of a little levity.

You did not doubt the abilities of Barnes, you wanted to find yourself face to face with him even less than with Nat – and that was already a lot –. You sometimes looked again at the surveillance videos taken the day Natasha and Steve fought him for the first time. He was hypnotizing, in the way all his movements seemed to come together with such fluidity and speed, the way his body thought for him and acted accordingly. You were dizzy from a roll in comparison, so seeing it all was astounding. Of course, there were horrible explanations behind these gifts, just like most people who could reproduce all this, but you still couldn't help but analyze these videos. And then, there in that hallway, you looked at Barnes' back, his arm gleaming, the red star enthroned there, and you wondered what was going on in his mind. What he could do was inhuman, and seeing it in image reinforced that feeling.Then you had to realize that he was a human being, who had once been like you. His way of functioning had to have been completely disrupted, distorted and destroyed. We had to reduce to crumbs what had been to build what was now, that was how it worked. To adapt to a new environment we were always advised to forget everything we thought we knew, all the movies said it. In the same way that flat-earthers were convinced that the Earth was flat, Barnes no longer saw the world the way you did.

As the rules said, you discreetly put your pass in a pants pocket as you reached the bathroom. Simple locks served as security, and it was more than enough. No one except you had ever mentioned the possibility that Bucky was trying to end his life. If he did, the bathroom was the best place, which is why a simple lock would do the trick so that you or someone else could break down the door if necessary. But you avoided thinking too much about this exit, because through the few interactions you had had with him and the thoughts you had about him, you had become truly attached to him.

You opened the shower curtain, under Barnes' intrigued gaze. Each Avengers had a bathroom with the bare minimum in their room, but there were also three larger bathrooms on the second floor. These were the rooms to clean yourself in an emergency when you came back covered in blood, or Bruce went there in the event of a green alert for example. They were more accessible than the bedrooms, which explained this function. But what made Bucky curious was not that. You always gave him room number two, with a basic shower, a sink and a toilet. But there you were in number one, with a bathtub. He quickly detailed the room, slightly larger and apart from the bathtub there was nothing that differentiated it from number 2. As always, you had previously removed all objects that could be used as weapons. The pile of two clean towels overhung by harsh soap and shampoo – to avoid the risk of swallowing or too aggressive eye attacks – and the washcloth, were still carefully placed on the edge of the sink. So why a bathtub?

As if you were reading his mind, you turned around in a fluid movement. You took the time to appreciate Barnes' expressive gaze – it was so rare – before answering his questions.

"I assumed it must have been years since you had a real bath, you tried to avoid the Hydra subject, so I thought it could be a good idea?”

A good number of emotions passed through the blue of his eyes, only accentuating your apprehension about his reaction. No one had been even friendly to him for a long time, which meant that he was going to take a while before properly reacting. But as you had imagined, his gaze scanned the bathtub behind you at breakneck speed in search of a trap. I'm not like them, you thought with a pang of heart.

"I know what you must be telling yourself, but there is no trap Bucky,” his name resonated more than you would have imagined, “it's going to be long but believe me I'm not trying to kill you or hurt you"

A heavy doubt seemed to weigh, and you could only understand. This kind of sentence, he must have heard far too many before ending up electrocuted or worse. To help his process, you moved away and let him fully observe the place. His eyes locked on the shower head longer than expected, and once again, you felt nauseous as you imagined the traumas that must be replaying in his head. In that moment, you thought back to the first time you had led him into a bathroom. He had refused to get into the shower, his jaw clenched to the point that his teeth must have hurt, he had stared at you with a cocktail of indecipherable emotions in his eyes. You had ended up remembering the treatment reserved for Jews in the showers during the Second World War, and you had immediately apologized. Sorry, I should have thought of that, you had said guiltily, if you want you can just wash yourself with the washcloth and the faucet water, no need for the shower head today if you don't trust it. And the situation seemed to be happening again tonight, he was afraid that you would want to get rid of him during his shower, or bath in this case. Unfortunately, techniques have evolved since 39-45, especially since he was in the HQ of the greatest engineer in the United States, which meant that you could have found many methods to kill him while he was washing.

But you had to find a way to reassure him, because you had no intention of executing him quietly, and you wanted to be sincerely nice.

"Maybe if it reassures you I can-,” you hesitated before telling yourself that it was for a good cause, “I can stay with you? There's a curtain anyway"

Faced with his expression that swayed from surprise to doubt, you felt obliged to justify.

"If there's gas or an explosion, I'll die with you, which wouldn't be very appreciated by the team”, you paused slightly to gauge his reaction, “and if there's anything else threatening you can kill me yourself since I'll be right next to you”. You then brandish the door’s key between your two fingers, “on top of that I lock us in and leave the key on the edge of the bathtub, so I don't run away and lock you behind me"

You had the strong impression that in another time, Barnes would have smiled, maybe even laughed. Then, to your surprise, you saw a semblance of amusement in his eyes. An almost invisible veil that lasted only a second, just long enough for a distant version of him to take over the Winter Soldier. You couldn't help your smile, waiting despite everything for a more concrete reaction before reacting in return.

Bucky tried to get a dominant emotion out of the hubbub that was playing in his mind. You were definitely different, and he was beginning to understand why you had your place in the middle of a band of superhumans. And even if someone who spoke like you had the perfect profile to manipulate people at a high level, he risked taking his chance.

"Can I have twenty seconds alone to undress"

The shiver that electrocuted your entire body surely did not go unnoticed. His voice, his tone, gave a more directive than questioning turn to his question, and you only nodded slightly. In turn, you became as silent as him, too disturbed by the outburst of reactions on his part in such a short time. You left the bathroom, pushed the door behind you without closing it, because despite your shock, your unconscious valued your safety.

While you waited for some signal authorizing you to enter the room, you wandered on new thoughts. Barnes had not spoken to anyone from what you had been told. The cameras had recorded that during the fight to neutralize him he had spoken, a few Hydra men were with him so you had assumed that he was giving them orders in Russian. Natasha had been too busy trying not to die to pay attention to what he had said, but in hindsight, you wanted to know what had come out of his mouth that day. Tony liked to say that Russian was one of the least welcoming languages in the world, but strangely hearing it from Bucky made you want to. Maybe it was his growling voice, maybe because Russian had been his “native” language for years. Besides Russian, he spoke other languages according to reports, but then again he hadn’t shown off his skills to anyone but you. Besides, I’m pretty much the only one he’s seen since he arrived, you thought. But he had still had the opportunity when Bruce had come with you to visit him to check a wiring on the dashboard. He could have done it from his cell too, since it was completely transparent and he could see the hallway where many people passed, he could have talked. But he hadn’t, and without knowing why you had the feeling that he only wanted to talk to you.

The sound of water almost made you jump. You muttered a curse – hoping Bucky hadn’t heard – before slowly turning towards the door.

“Can I?” You rather ask to avoid a drama.

By the time he answered, you let your mind wander again. What if he was just naked in the middle of the room? Hydra had conditioned him to lose all sense of ownership, to make even his body no longer belong to him, which he meant was that nudity was no longer taboo and that on the contrary – given to the horrors these people had done – they could very well have forced him to stay naked to humiliate him further.

"Yes," his voice echoed vaguely.

Preparing yourself for the worst, you took a deep breath and kept your eyes high to avoid any eye contact in the wrong place. But as you opened the door you were relieved to see the curtain halfway drawn and Bucky already in the water. A feeling, which at the time you compared to a parent proud of their child, warmed your heart. It may not have been much in the eyes of the world, but you imagined the man's feelings when he plunged a body that had become almost unknown into warm water prepared for him, and him alone. Comfort, surprise, relief. A lot must have been going on in the Winter Soldier's head.

You closed the door behind you, locking the exit as planned. But as you moved closer to place the key next to him, a second wave of heat passed through your body as you realized something. He had only drawn the curtain halfway, thus hiding the lower part of his body but leaving you all the pleasure of seeing from his torso. Once again, in other measures you would not have found the situation moving, but rather comical. Except that this is the Winter Soldier, and all his communication was done without voice. He had left his arms and face visible so that you too could see that he wasn't a threat. In the same way that you had found a solution to his anxiety, he was taking a step towards you, showing you that you had no reason to fear him at the moment.

"Thank you," you murmured.

As if you were afraid of breaking the moment, you settled down without a sound. There was no chair here, but the floor suited you. You crossed your legs while resting your back against the small extension of the wall attached to the bathtub. This way, you stayed close enough to him while respecting a necessary distance to avoid seeing the rest of his naked body.

You forgot to check the time, no longer counting the minutes of observation that the man in front of you gave you before asking questions.

Bucky stayed in the water for a whole hour before it started to cool down. You spent all your time detailing his relaxed face, his eyes closed as if he was going to fall asleep from one second to the next. Then when he opened his eyelids again, he looked at you in turn for a few seconds, before asking you if he could get out of the bath. In his sentence, reality hit you again.

You had a mad desire to tell him that he was free, that he no longer had to take orders. You wanted to show him the world, to make him taste vanilla ice cream, to make him smell incense in churches, the greasy of triple burgers. You had the need to see him buy with his own money, help him get up from his first falls. When he looked at you with his big blue eyes, waiting for your permission to get out of a bath, you wanted to ask him for forgiveness, in the name of humanity. To promise him that no one would come and hit him, to promise this little boy that nothing would happen to him, that he could live a peaceful and happy life with his friends and family. But looking at the raw skin on his left shoulder, looking at the weapon that was implanted in his body, you felt your stomach turn. No one had been there to protect this child from Brooklyn, none of the people who had done this to him had even felt sorry for this man. And today he was sleeping in a cell capable of resisting the strength of the Hulk.

"You can get out of the bath," your voice broke.

He obeyed, rolling the superhuman muscles of his body to straighten up. You barely moved, being too far away in your thoughts to even think of looking away from him. A new blow was dealt to your heart as you realized that yes, he no longer had any notion of possession over his body. Two drops of water fell against your calf as he grabbed the largest towel and wiped his skin without emotion. The rough sound of the fabric made you shiver, and then you slowly stood up. He was taller than you, but neither that nor his robotic arm stopped you from grabbing his wet towel. His body failed to react when you passed the white fabric against his arm, his face was frozen in an expression of total incomprehension, faced with the softness with which the towel came into contact with his skin.

You finished your task, as if he were just a tiny puppy to wipe. Then, you took three steps back and fixed your eyes on his. You handed him some clean clothes, before taking the key back and heading towards the door.

“I really need some hot chocolate,” your voice still broken with tears declared, “and I’d love to share it with you, Bucky.”

Your slightly trembling hand wiped the moisture from your cheeks, then gradually turned back to the soldier after unlocking the exit. He had already dressed, the black jogging bottoms falling low on his hips. Bucky examined your face, and his eyebrows met in a half-confused, half-sad expression. He got close enough to you for you to feel the warmth he gave off.

“No cinnamon,” he said, “I don’t think I like it.”

You let out a nervous chuckle, telling yourself that only you could find yourself in these situations.

“No cinnamon.”

There was a first time for everything, and when you saw – later that night – whipped cream on the Winter Soldier’s lips, you thought that after all, the child could not be saved but that you could bring the man back to life.

pictures : Pinterest

dividers : @/strangergraphics, @/pommecita et @/thecutestgrotto

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five-rivers · 24 hours ago

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Hmmmm how about his skin tearing open painlessly, to reveal something new beneath? something not muscle and sinew, something else. Is it in his human form, or his ghost one? I'll leave that to you to decide :3

They don't abandon their research, exactly, your parents. You don't think that's something that's possible for them to do, even. Things still change, after the accident. Your accident.

The more questionable inventions and experiments, the more dangerous ones, are removed. Where to, you aren't sure. When you came home, that's all the more Jazz would say about it. Anything with a greater potential to maim than, say, a properly used microwave oven is no longer in the lab and is probably no longer in the house, either.

The weapons vault (still in the early stages of construction when you... left) has allegedly been entirely refurbished. The Fenton Stockades have been child-proofed. The ecto-weenies have been cleared out, and there's a new, clean fridge in the kitchen. There is also a new, clean lock on the lab door.

It's all very strange. Not being down in the lab. Not having inventions up here, in the house. The Ops Center is still there, of course, and the schedule for evac drills is still stuck to the fridge with a magnet, but that's a different genre of thing than the lab, to be honest.

It's unexpected, but it's not... surprising, is the word, you think. You don't need Jazz's new psychology hobby to know that your parents were hit with two devastating psychological blows at once. First, the total failure of the portal. Secondly, your accident in the portal. Their confidence has been crushed, and they're probably overcompensating.

You feel guiltily pleased by that. You hate that they feel bas. You don't want them to feel bad. But the house is cleaner than it has been in years, and not having to worry about ectoplasm contamination in food is amazing. So is having your parents actually present. You didn't realize until now how much their work had taken over all your lives.

(You missed them.)

You feel guiltier when you're glad when they leave with Jazz on a college thing. You aren't sure that what they've been doing should be described as hovering, but...

... It's hovering.

They're worried about you. They feel guilty, too. Jazz's enthusiasm for the trip or not, you don't think they would have gone just a month ago. They still wouldn't have gone if you hadn't gently encouraged them, if you hadn't recovered so quickly.

If they had any idea what you were planning on doing the minute you were alone.

You checked out a book on lockpicking last time you were at the library, so, armed with a couple of Jazz's hairpins, you sit down in front of the lab door.

It isn't a very good lock, but you aren't any good at this, and you didn't expect to be. It's two hours before the lock clicks open.

It is... emptier than you thought it would be, in the lab, and you stare at it stunned, from the stairs. Oh, there's still plenty of clutter, and things like the Ghost Catcher and the Ghost Gabber are sitting out, but there are surprisingly few weapons, and parts of the lab are clearly in the process of being completely reorganized.

The portal - or, what would have been the portal, if it worked - sits in the wall, shrouded, as if your parents can't even bear to look at it.

You can barely bear to look at it.

Even so, it draws you forward, like a magnet. This is what all of this has been about.

You sweep the shroud to the side and examine the machine. There have been some attempts to dismantle it. The powers, certainly, has been disconnected. Vital cables and tubes have been removed. The beam emitter at the end looks like someone took a sledgehammer to it.

None of that matters.

You take a deep breath and step in.

You are-- It isn't like you want to be here. You remember-- And, there's a reason you were at the hospital for so long.

It was bad.

So, this is less want and more need. It's like a compulsion. Like your skin wanting to crawl off your body.

You step in, under the embracing arch.

There is still a power here. An echo, a sympathy. But also, more than that, a sort of hook. Something there that could dig in, that could attach.

It calls to you.

You know-- You feel--

You don't know if you can quantify it.

Ever since you woke up after the accident, you've felt as if there is something inside you. Or, no. That's not quite right. Nothing feels quite right. That's why you're here, hoping that you'll have a release.

There is a smudge on the wall, next to a gutted cable box. You raise your hand and lean towards it until you touch. Blood to blood, the circuit completes. You can hear something deep in the machinery begin to whir, and you pull your fingers back.

The skin of your fingertips is left behind. You look at them, your fingers, and where you might expect blood is instead a swirling green void.

You are-- You are-- You are--

The hook catches. It pulls. That itch you've been feeling, it tugs.

And your skin tears. Not like paper. Not in neat strips. It starts off in a straight enough line from your fingertips to your wrist, but then the tear turns, and it becomes a rounded flake, taking off the back of your hand. It dissolves in green light that floats towards the back of the tunnel.

No matter. You aren't hooked in only one place, and you aren't tearing in only one place. There are green slivers all up and down your other arm, too, light spilling out as you try to unravel.

You think, there is something inside you, too, that is unraveling.

You are--

You are afraid. As afraid as you were the last time you were here.

The emptiness inside you is spilling out, shrugging out of your body shape as if it was a too-tight jacket. It reaches towards the walls of the portal, the metal surface reflecting it back. You, though, you don't shine brightly enough for that.

Speaking of clothes - yours don't fit right, anymore. They lay against emptiness and strain in places where a limb has split and bloomed.

You kneel. Or do something like kneeling. Long curls have drawn back from your feet, and they barely exist anymore.

It doesn't bother you as much as you think it should. If you still had hands, they'd be scratching, pulling your skin even further back.

There is a rift across your chest. Another working its way up your neck. The hooks pull, and you are only a few curls of skin collapsed on the floor, and then you are nothing.

The Fenton portal blooms into being, nestled in the pit that was made for it. It swirls and pulses, like a heart.

And Danny Fenton falls out.

#danny phantom #body horror #ask #answer #prompt #prompt work #prompt fill

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destielaureversebb · 2 days ago

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Coming soon for the @destielaureversebb: “The Spirit of Radio”

Author: sidewinder @hawkland Artist: @mercurialkitty

Rating: Explicit Archive warnings: None Length: 25,000 words Tags: Radio Station AU, Disc Jockey Dean, Angels Are Dicks (Even When They're Not Angels), Angst, Classic Rock Relationships: Dean/Castiel, background Sam/Jess, Benny/Andrea

Summary:

What happens when corporate, satellite radio and a small town disc jockey collide?

Angel Radio needs a new hero. That is, they need a new DJ to anchor their classic rock channel and Dean Winchester of Sioux Falls, South Dakota just might be the man for the job. That's the directive Castiel receives from his boss, Naomi: recruit Dean to leave his small town shift at K.A.R.S. behind and move to the Los Angeles where a more lucrative career in broadcasting could await him.

But Dean's not sure he can leave his friends and found family behind—not even when Castiel shows up looking like someone who could light his fire, and the attraction is entirely mutual.

Excerpt:

Castiel took a deep breath, counted to ten, and knocked on Naomi’s cracked-open door. “Come in,” she called, followed immediately by, “Castiel, you’re late.”

“I know and I apologize. Traffic this morning was—”

“—It doesn’t matter,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand. “In fact, neither does today’s planned agenda.”

“Oh?” His stomach twisted as he put Hannah’s stack of files down on the meeting desk. He wondered if his tardiness was some kind of last straw, and now his job was on the line.

But Naomi didn’t look displeased, for once. If anything there was a glimmer of excitement breaking through her typical cold gaze as she handed him a portfolio and said, “I need you to take the ticket in there and get on a flight to Sioux Falls this evening.”

Castiel blinked in confusion. “Sioux Falls? What for?”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, we need some new talent to boost our failing channels, or else it’s time to pull the plug on them completely. Try something new. Our classic rock station, for instance, has been struggling all year since Raphael was poached by Crowley Media.”

“I know, and none of our temporary replacements have panned out.” Crowley Media was their biggest competitor in the satellite radio industry, and their coup offering Raphael a far better deal than they could ever manage had thrown everything—and everyone—in a tizzy.

“Until now—or at least, that is my hope. Ambriel, over in our research department, tells me she’s been hearing great things about a fresh voice coming out of a small, local station in Sioux Falls South Dakota. A DJ by the name of Dean Winchester. He plays classic rock mixed with—of all things—automobile discussion. Ambriel says it’s like ‘Car Talk’ only with music—and a handsome young face. We could market his face and that midwestern charm into something big.”

Posting date: March 17, 2025

#destiel au reverse big bang #promo post #destiel fic #destiel art #author: sidewinder #artist: mercurialkitty

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dystopianroach · 2 days ago

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Since my zoology posts have recently been gaining traction on my account, I'd like to take a leap and publish an old video that I believe supports my hypothesis that arthropods (and potentially all invertebrates) are capable of entering states of REM sleep, and therefore have the capability to dream. I've had this hypothesis since I've recorded this footage of my old centipede, Tambora Naga (Scolopendra subsinepes) in June of 2023, but was met with skepticism and doubt... until this study was recently popularized by TikTok and Instagram users who are fascinated with jumping spiders.

In this footage, Tambora can be seen asleep twitching and moving several of her appendages: her forcipules (often called the 'jaws'), the tip of her antennae, and even a fierce kick from one of her back legs. This can be compared to behaviors in terrestrial vertebrates - organisms that are capable of REM sleep (and dreaming) - where limbs may move and/or curl.

Now almost two years after this footage was taken, I've finally successfully transferred to a 4-year university where I am completing my bachelors of the sciences and potential masters in environmental biology to study the intelligence and psychology of arthropods and invertebrates. I hope that continued research of my own and others can help prove the theory that these animals have much more going on behind the scenes.

I am also working to study venomous invertebrates and the medical potential of animals such as centipedes and scorpions, but that is besides the point.

Tambora unfortunately passed away of a presumed age-related death, and since then, I have owned a handful of centipedes but have failed to document this exact behavior. I'm currently trying to replicate this behavior in Madagascar hissing roaches (Gromphadorhina portentosa) and Purple pincher hermit crabs (Coenobita clypeatus).

#oc #entomology #zoology #insects #pets #arachnids #arthropods #myriapods #centipede #science #biology #invertebrate #bugblr #insect #bug #arachnid

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losers-clvb · 2 days ago

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i love you, i'm sorry // sam winchester

pairing: sam winchester x bobby's daughter!reader

summary: a teenaged sam left you broken. now he's back and you're not sure what to do.

content: angst, some swearing but it's not overdone, heartache, both reader and sam are in the wrong in a way (but mostly sam), reader is bobby's daughter, big brother figure dean winchester, reader has confusion over her feelings

word count: 4k

note: this was going to be one long fic, but i felt it would be better as two parts seeing how the total word count is nearing 11k. the second part will be out this week and will have smut. the title is from "i love you, i'm sorry" by gracie abrams, but no direct inspiration was taken from the song. i interchange the use of "your father" and "bobby" but keep in mind they are intended to be the same person. enjoy!

masterlist part two

----

It had been years since the Winchester boys had come to stay with the Singers. Life, or hunting more like, had gotten in the way. They knew they had somewhere to come home to, or at least that was what you and Bobby had hoped. Bobby was your father, and you his little girl, no matter how old you got. He hadn’t wanted to be a father growing up, but once he held you in his arms, he knew you had him wrapped around your finger. It had been only months after you were born that your mother died, killed by your father in a desperate attempt to keep you safe. He had begun a life of hunting after that. He knew he needed to find some way for all of this pain to make sense. Somewhere along the way, he had met John and, in turn, Sam and Dean.

You had been sandwiched in between the boys for what seemed like all your life. They were your honorary family, though your relationship with Sam had blossomed into something more. It had been your sixteenth birthday - Sam was 17 - when he had gotten you alone to give you your gift. It was small, just a necklace that he had found at a convenience store on the way to Bobby’s, but you still wore it everyday. Your response to this gift was, naturally, to kiss him. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t thought of doing it before, you just never had the chance to. His response was, naturally, to kiss you back like you were his lifeline.

A whirlwind romance, hidden from your father and Dean, ensued until he had run away to college. Somehow him leaving had meant leaving everything, even you, behind. You had cared, of course, but you couldn’t tell anyone. You cried every night for days. Bobby had noticed something was off. He always noticed when his girl wasn’t herself. He tried to cheer you up with those dad jokes he had been using on you since you were born. He tried chocolates and flowers and every little trinket he saw that reminded him of you. Nothing worked. You had pulled yourself out of the spell of heartbreak at some point. You knew it was silly to cry over a boy. Even if that boy was the love of your life.

Life had been normal for a while. John and Dean would visit once in a while for dinner or lunch. Your heart leaped every time the door opened, hoping Sam would come through it. He never did. You helped Bobby research and sorted papers. You cooked meals and baked desserts, humming while you did so, which pulled at Bobby’s heartstrings in a bittersweet kind of way. You were starting to consider looking for someone else to spend the rest of your life with, someone who could make you feel even half of what you felt for Sam.

Then he appeared in your life again. There he was, standing in the entryway of your house with a shaggy haircut and those puppy dog eyes that hadn’t changed in the five years since you had last seen him.

You knew he had begun hunting again. How could you not? Dean called what seemed like every day to ask for help with a case. You had been happy to help like always until you caught the low sound of a second male voice in the background. You promptly hung the phone up. From that day forward, you waited until your dad confirmed that it was anyone but the Winchester boys calling. Both Bobby and Dean had questioned you, but you knew better than to tell them the true reason for it. You just hoped you would never have to face Sam again.

But here he was. Your hands, holding a stack of books you were returning to their correct home, trembled when he said your name. You could feel tingling in your fingertips, a sure sign you were about to cry. Neither of you moved, as if your feet were cemented to the floor. You both stared at each other, eyes locked and waiting for the other to make the first move.

“Sam, get in here.” The sound of your dad’s voice from his study cured you of your paralysis. Before Sam could get another word in, you dashed to your room. The slam of the door was heard through the house, startling Dean and Bobby.

“What the hell was that?” Dean barked out. When Sam had responded with your name, the looks of confusion on the two men in front of him deepened.

“Why?” Bobby asked, eyeing Sam like he had done something to you. And he had. It just wasn’t something that he had done recently.

“I don’t know.” Sam breathed out. He knew. Of course he knew. How could he not, when for the first two years of college he had spent every night wanting to call you and apologize. He knew he hurt you. He knew he was still in love with you, just as he had been many years before. He also knew that some part of you still loved him. The necklace. The glinting metal was the first thing his eyes caught when he had entered the house. You still wore the necklace he had given you. The sight of it made his heart reach for you.

----

You hadn’t made an appearance for lunch or dinner. You had locked yourself up in your room, only letting your dad inside when he had knocked softly. You made up something about feeling sick. He hadn’t believed you, but knew if you needed something you would go to him. He left your room after giving you a kiss on the forehead.

That had been hours ago. The moonlight shone through your window while you listened with attentive ears to try to decide if it was safe to venture downstairs for some food. The three men had called it a night around 45 minutes ago, and you hoped they were fast sleepers.

Five minutes of pure silence passed before you dared to try to leave. You had changed into your pajamas, a light purple tank top and matching shorts, and your socked feet were quiet on the hardwood flooring. You tiptoed down the stairs, gripping onto the railing.

Once making a sandwich, you took the food to the table to eat. You were quiet with your chewing, stopping occasionally when you heard the noises of the house settling. You were alone, yes, but you needed the time. Your eyes drooped low as you ate, fighting the sleep your brain needed after the emotional day. You had finished eating when you told yourself you could just close your eyes for a few seconds before getting up.

----

Sam had decided, after hours of tossing and turning in an attempt to sleep, that he had to see you. He had to apologize, had to make things right. He had crept up to your door, knocking in the chance that you were awake at that time of night. When you hadn’t answered, he had poked his head inside. He just needed to know you were there, but your empty bed made him stop. You were gone. Not in your room, which meant either you had fallen asleep elsewhere or something had taken you. He hoped for the former, though there was a small chance of the latter. A quick search had led him to the kitchen where you were slumped on the table, eyes closed and breath steady. There you were. The sight pulled a somber sigh from Sam. An image of you from earlier flashed across his mind. Your panicked expression, trembling hands, and wide eyes. You had obviously not been expecting to see him, though he had thought that Bobby would have told you before his arrival.

Sam walked to you, careful to make sure his footsteps were as quiet as possible. He didn’t want to leave you sleeping on the table. It wasn’t right and he knew that you would have regretted it in the morning. So, he scooped you up in his arms and carried you to your room. You seemed to curl into him in your sleep, much like you had all those years ago when he would sneak to your room at night.

The weightlessness of being carried woke you. At first, you believed you were dreaming. Then, the scent of coffee and cedar brought your eyes open. Sam. Sam Winchester was carrying you up the stairs and into your room. Your heartbeat quickened, panicking. What would you say to him? Thank you? Go away? What would he say to you? It was when Sam readjusted his hold on you that you had decided to just pretend you were still sleeping. He was the same as you remembered. The smell, the warmth, the careful but secure hold. All of it was the same.

You felt yourself being lowered onto what you presumed to be your bed. It was the same full sized bed you had since you were a kid. You knew your bed. The chill of night air was swept away by the weight of your blankets. Sam was tucking you in. He was taking the time and effort to tuck you into your bed. You felt a calloused hand brushed hair away from your forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

The words made your heart ache. You felt the honesty in them. It didn’t make what he did any less painful, but it made you remember why you had decided to internally forgive him only a year after he had left. His hand lingered on the side of your head for a few moments before he left you to sleep.

----

The morning came and you woke to the sound of birds chirping. Though you couldn't have gotten more than a few hours of sleep all together, you pulled yourself out of bed to make breakfast for the house. If you didn't do it, Bobby would and it would end up being overcooked scrambled eggs with slightly burnt toast. As you went about getting yourself ready for the day, you couldn't help but think of the last night. Sam, he smelled the same, held the same warmth. Even the way he handled you, like you were his everything, was the same.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. Usually, your dad would be awake and brewing a pot of coffee by this time. Though, he also put himself to bed earlier than he had the night before, so that could account for his absence. You figured someone would have been up by now. Preferably Dean to make your new found mission of ignoring Sam’s presence easier. You had decided this while brushing your teeth. You couldn’t hide away forever. You also couldn’t talk to him without choking on your own words. This was the better option.

While you began the simple breakfast of pancakes and bacon, you hummed to yourself. It was a habit you seemed to have picked up sometime in your teen years. The first few times you had caught your dad watching you with sad eyes, he had refused to tell you why he was so affected by the sound. You pestered him for months, yet the truth only came to light when a long time friend of his had come to visit. He had been sitting at the table while reading a newspaper when the words slipped out.

“You sound just like your mama.” The sentence made you stop in your tracks. The topic of your mother rarely came up between you and Bobby. You knew only the few stories he had let slip through on special occasions and the scraps of memories you could pull from his old friends. You had never told your father about the new information. Instead, you opted to continue on, knowing that the grief he felt initially was outweighed by the love for you having something in common with the mother you had never known.

The sound of footsteps pushed you back into reality. You kept your attention on the food you were making, assuming it would be Bobby finally making an appearance. That was until a figure in a worn down long sleeve and jeans slid into your line of sight. Sam. You tensed up yet continued your cooking. You could feel his eyes on you, flickering between your hands and your face. You both stayed like that for what felt like forever. No words, just Sam watching as you tried not to look at him.

That was until he said your name. He was trying to get you to look at him, to acknowledge he was there. You refused to give in. He didn't deserve your time. You hated him. Well, you didn't actually hate him, though you were sure you should. If you told yourself that you hated him enough times, maybe it would make that love for him go away. He said your name again, this time a bit louder with more effort.

“Please. Just look at me.” Sam was practically begging now. You flexed your jaw as you piled the last pancakes onto the large stack. You scooped up the plates of pancakes and bacon, delivering them to the middle of the dining table. Sam followed you around like a lost puppy, huffing out an irritated breath when you continued to ignore him. He just wanted you to turn your attention to him. He needed to say that he was sorry, needed to explain everything, and he needed to do it while he could get you alone. You just wouldn’t listen. He knew it was you trying to keep your pride, but it didn’t stop the instant frustration from bubbling up.

“I need to explain why I,” he breathed out, “why I did what I did.” Sam’s words were met with a scoff from you. You had moved past sad long ago and the panic you felt last night was simply because you felt like you were being cornered. Now you were angry. You pushed past Sam and grabbed a stack of plates and forks. The coffee you had started in the middle of your cooking had finally finished. You grabbed a mug and moved towards the pot, but Sam beat you to it. He made up a cup of coffee, two sugars and a splash of milk, before offering it to you. Of course he would remember how you liked your coffee. You stared at the cup for a moment before declining the peace offering by pouring coffee in the mug you held. You made it the same, but hoped the message got through to him: you were not interested in being friends.

“Seriously?” Sam asked incredulously. He was about to continue ranting when he heard a whistling growing closer. Bobby entered the kitchen with a smile, oblivious to what he had walked into.

“Morning.” Bobby greeted the two of you. He sat himself at the table, his usual spot that was worn down from years of occupancy. You followed his lead and sat in the chair next to him with a warm smile. Sam, obviously still upset from his failed attempt to speak to you, hadn’t moved from his spot at the counter. Dean, who had been like a bloodhound when he caught a scent of the food, entered the room cheerily. He poured his own coffee before sitting in the chair on your other side.

“Sammy, stop pouting and sit.” Dean ordered while piling pancakes and bacon onto his plate.

“Bring that pot over with ya.” Bobby added. Sam sighed as he did as he was told, grabbing a mug for Bobby on the way over. He took the last chair available. Unfortunately for you it was the one opposite from you. This meant a meal of avoiding catching his eyes with yours while Bobby and Dean spoke of their plans for the day.

----

You should probably apologize to the officer on the other end of the phone. She had called, courtesy of some hunter who needed the assistance, to verify that the FBI had actually been sent to investigate a crime. They hadn’t, of course, but the fact that it was a possible werewolf had led to a hunter being sent. When she questioned your authority, which you had none of but that wasn’t for her to know, you took out your pent up aggravation from Sam on her.

After the line clicked, signaling the end of the call, you swallowed harshly. It wasn’t fair. Why was Sam allowed to waltz back into your life right when you were beginning to move on? Why was he allowed to come and go as he pleased, yet you couldn’t stand to look him in the eyes? You let yourself sink into the office chair that was near the phones.

“What was all that about, sweetheart?” Dean. Of course he would come sniffing around for something to talk about. Your father and Sam had gone into town for something you failed to remember now. You looked up at him and narrowed your eyes at him.

“It was nothing.” You replied, not wanting to get into it all with him. Like your father, he didn’t know about you and Sam’s love affair. Or maybe he did. You couldn’t keep track of what Sam may or may not have said to him, but you knew that you had been silent about the whole thing. It was easier that way, not having to explain exactly what you were feeling.

“Is this about Sam?” Dean continued to push you. The words threw you off. You furrowed your eyebrows.

“What? He told you?” You weren’t angry about it. Well, maybe a little, but that had more to do with the fact that the relationship had been important enough to tell his brother about yet not important enough to keep alive. The spark in Dean’s eyes when you spoke told you that Sam had, in fact, not told him, but you just did. You looked away with burning cheeks.

“What’d he do? Try to get in your pants? Beat up your boyfriend?” Dean was teasing you now. He wanted the details. Despite what he may argue if ever asked, Dean Winchester was one of the biggest gossips you knew.

“No.” Your voice told Dean that you were angry about whatever it was, and you were on the verge of ranting about it.

“C’mon, sweetie, just tell big brother.” The words made you shoot him an annoyed but playful glare. There were many times growing up when Dean had played the big brother you never had. Somehow, you had never picked up on the bond with Sam. Now you kind of wished you had. It would have been much easier than this mess. You took in a breath before speaking.

“He left me.” You told the green eyed man. It was Dean’s turn to scrunch his eyebrows together in question.

“Yeah, join the club. What about it?”

“He kissed me. He called me every night when he wasn’t here. He made me laugh and blush and talked about a future. He told me he loved me. Then he left and I hadn’t heard his voice since.” Your words fell out of your mouth before you could stop them. You watched as Dean’s expression softened.

“Oh.” It was rare for Dean to be speechless but he didn’t know what else to say. He had picked up on something between the two of you when you were teens, but he figured it was just some good old fashioned mutual pining. He couldn’t have imagined Sam would be able to keep something like this from him.

You stood from the chair, certain that you could take a break from watching the phones that rarely rang. Dean stepped into the doorway to stop you from completely leaving the room.

“Listen, you can’t cry over him anymore. He’s not worth it.” Dean spoke, trying his best to console you. You were past that. You didn’t need comfort, you needed anger management.

“I hate him.” You looked into Dean’s eyes and he could see the defiant fire burning in them. He sighed and nodded.

“That works too, I guess.”

----

It was getting harder to ignore Sam. Not because you were tempted to have a conversation with him. You wanted to scream at him if anything. No, it was because your dad was too oblivious to the obvious discomfort between you two and kept assigning tasks for you and Sam to complete. Dean tried his best to replace you when this happened, but eventually Bobby gave him his own chores to complete.

You bounded out the door to your car. Sam followed you, grumbling to himself when you threw the door back into him. You waited for him to climb into the car with a blank expression on your face. The run to the store would hopefully be a quick one with no conversation. The silent drive lasted all of three minutes.

“Are you going to ignore me forever?” Sam asked, a mix of desperation and frustration in his voice. You kept your eyes on the road. The store was coming up soon. You just had to hold out until then.

“It’s my fault. Everything. All of it. Please… just… hear me out.” Apparently Sam no longer needed your direct attention to begin his apologizing. Your grip on the steering wheel tightened, but you still didn’t speak.

“It’s not an excuse, but,” Sam breathed in as if he was weighing the next words in his mind.

“I was going through a lot.” You were parking when you heard him. Thank God you were, because your immediate reaction was to turn your whole body to him. His eyes widened at the fury in your eyes.

“What about me? I was seventeen, dealing with stupid high schoolers and cranky hunters. All I looked forward to was you! I loved you and you decided I wasn’t even worth a call? Bullshit. All of it.” Maybe you were being mean. You knew what John Winchester was like. You had overheard enough phone calls between him and Bobby, had heard some stories from Sam and Dean. You understood his running from his father, but Sam could have at least called once. Or wrote a letter. Or sent a postcard. Anything but leave you in the dark.

Your words made his heart ache. He hated himself for never calling you. Hated himself for hurting you. For anything he had ever done to make you think he felt anything less than love towards you. He had no excuse for why he had done what he had done. His only line of defense against your anger was to respond to it with his own.

“And I was eighteen and running from a life of killing! I hated hunting. I hated my father. You know that! I never called because I needed to completely cut myself off from this world. I needed a normal life.” Sam wasn’t being completely fair. He knew that. His response was a weak attempt at trying to diminish the guilt he felt. Yes, he wanted a normal life. But look how that worked out. All that pain he had caused just to come back to what he was running from. You shook your head and opened your door.

“Fuck you Sam.” The anger seethed through you as you climbed out and made for the entrance of the grocery store. You had missed the way Sam’s own anger had broken with your final words. You had missed the way he physically shrank down. You had missed the way he followed you as he had earlier, but this time with less motivation. He wanted you to come back to him. He had never seen you so angry before. He missed the girl who would place light kisses on the tip of his nose, the one who would let him hold her all night long.

#x reader #sam winchester #spn #dean winchester #supernatural x reader #sam winchester fic #sam winchester x reader #supernatural #sam winchester smut #sam winchester x reader angst #sam winchester x reader smut #sam winchester x bobby's daughter!reader

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