#legging legs discourse sparked these thoughts

[divinechieko222]

i don't like that so much of the gym content geared towards women and young girls is focused on building your glutes. it's never advertised as a way to stay active and healthy. it's always about making your body more desirable for others. what is the purpose of having a larger ass and how exactly is it beneficial? what makes a smaller ass less beneficial. it's all aesthetics but who exactly are these aesthetics for? you could say it's for yourself but why is that body shape the one you desire? women's bodies continuously go and out of style, but my question is, is my body for me or is it for the viewing pleasure of others?

[kaynothanks]

On His Collar | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Wilson!Reader

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

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

Word-Count: 12.3K

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh, yeah, yes, he is."

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

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

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

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

"What situation are you talking about exactly?"

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

"What situation, Sarah? Say it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then why are you laughing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, no.

[female-malice]

I like multiculturalism in theory. But it's important to remember that every culture is a culture.

"The South remembers..." That's a culture. That's a culture with a long history, language, music, symbolism, art, food, customs, values, folk heroes, rebellion, resistance, religion. There's a national identity that goes with it and anthems and a flag. And there are several million people who feel a spark of pride when they see that flag. And these people privately or publicly observe the anniversaries of days important to their culture.

A lot of people see a glimpse of this and don't realize it's a culture. They think it's just disorganized chaotic hatred. But the people within the culture don't see it that way. They see themselves as a conquered agrarian nation who dared to dream of independence from the industrialized northern elites. They feel they were the underdogs who fought with heart against vicious yanks who committed war crimes. The Union's war strategy is the textbook example of scorched-earth policy that is banned under the Geneva Conventions.

And people who belong to this culture are not dumb. They know history and they know public discourse. They know what to say to who and how to say it. And they could talk your ear off about all of this. They've had a long time to build up their historical narratives and cultural grievances.

Their entire culture is rooted in a lost cause that was lost 160 years ago. But that doesn't change the fact that there's still a flag. And there's still millions of people that flag represents.

And that's not my culture. I live on the other side of the continent. But every culture and nation has people who migrate. And if I drive to certain towns with certain politics, I'll see a few confederate flags. It's a long way from the South so conservative towns here are covered in US flags. But there's always a few families who migrated from the South and brought confederate flags with them.

Multiculturalism says we all have to find a way to tolerate each others' cultures. When I remember that every culture is a culture, I'm not actually as tolerant as I thought I was. I don't care that we did scorched-earth war crimes to these people back in the day. I don't care that most of the people we killed were yeoman and poor whites who never owned slaves. We destroyed everything in sight and left their society in ruins. Oh well.

Those poor whites had a leg up in the Old South because of slavery. Even if they didn't own slaves, they could take comfort in knowing they weren't the lowest caste. They always knew there was a caste beneath them of enslaved black people. Over the last 160 years, the social structure has changed. And now poor whites are much closer to the bottom than they were before. And they feel persecuted because of it. It's one of their grievances. That shift in social order is a reason they don't let it go and move forward and evolve. As long as they can sit there and romanticize the past, that culture lives on. The South remembers.

[gangrenados]

Dick and Jason dating a latina

@lovelyartemisa: Headcanons with Dick and Jason with a Latina girlfriend (not the latina stereotypes, todas lo odiamos)

This was much harder to write than I thought!

Okay, so as we know latino is an ethnicity, not a race and therefore is not so easy to resume since there's a lot of different cultures. That's why I'm gonna focus on a hispanic latina, also I will just focus on the general things here??

I might use some things from my country, like slangs cuz that are the things I'm more familiarized with.

○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○

•This two had dated people from different races, cultures and even planets, so it's less to say that they wouldn't have a problem if you're from Latin america.

•I see them being respectul of your culture and beliefes, also they would try to understand them better to connect more with you.

•Another thing is that they would personally fight whoever racist ass who tries to harm you or insult you. Dick would be more polite than Jason, but he isn't afraid to throw a punch if things get tough.

•They were caught off guard when you called them "gringo" for the first time. They unconsciously started to remember if they said something wrong, but a few more times of being called that they got over it.

• They know that "Sana, sana colita de rana" doesn't do shit, but every time you sang it to them (ironically or not) their heart melts.

°Jason will roll his eyes, trying to hold up his tough face as he stitch one of his many wounds.

Your little song makes him grin,"Really?" He says, not taking his eyes from his bruised leg." I'm not a kid, babe." You roll your eyes at, but you know he's glad you're caring .

°Dick didn't wanted to talk, he was tired and aching, and not even the blood that poured from his wound could bring him to care.

He looked up to you when you started to sing as you cleaned his cut." Now you can stop complaining," you said and he huffed, but either way he was glad you were there for him.

Jason Todd

•Jason loves when you both sit down on the couch and watch La Rosa de Guadalupe ironically, yeah Jason might not understand some of the slang or some of the words would be confusing to him, but that dosen't stop him for laughing at some scenes.

•He does try to learn how to cook some plates of your country, Jason wants to impress you and you can see it in the way he hands you the food with a little grin, waiting impatienlly for you to say something about it.

•Okay but why I see him being into Novelas? He will hold his beer tightly and much slower on any kind of snack he's having at the time as the villain says their discourse, smiling wickedly as they explain how they're gonna make the life of the protagonist a living hell.

"You know novelas are the same shit over and over again, right? You ask, but Jason shush you.

"Yeah, but I can shut my mind with this." He shrugs off." Okay but do you think Soraya will come back? Man, it's the third time that shit happens!"

•Jason isn't the most avid dancer in the world, he even gets really shy when you try to ask him out to dance.

•One of his favorite genres to dance with you is bolero, yeah it seems pretty out fashioned right?, well it's easier to follow your steps when you're pretty fucking close, also the music is relaxing.

•However, he knows the lyrics to some trap music and isn't afraid of gibberish to the beat whenever you're in a car ride.

•Jason does feels himself when those songs come up and you can't deny that he looks good when he does it.

Dick Grayson

•Dick has an undying love for bachata, he loves when you dance close, your hands surrounding his neck as one of his legs are between yours while you sway to the music. Pure bliss, besides he gets to show off.

•"Marchate y pega la vuelta" and "Mientes" has gotten a new meaning with this man, he will sang it to you like if you have cheated on him. Also, he has become a fan of Selena.

•He has educated himself on your culture, in some way it has become a hobby when he just wants to relax. Sometimes Dick comes up with random facts about your country that leaves you like "How do you know that?"

•Dick heart literally melt whenever you call him by a nickname, it doesn't matter if it's "gordo, amor, mi vida, corazón" he just loves it. His eyes sparks when you do it and he can't help but smile to you.

•Dick understands Spanish and he can talk it fluently, so it's not weird that you can talk freely in that language whenever you want to.

"Que paja todo, man tengo que terminar una bocha de papeleo y tengo flojera..." you said as you snuggle closer to him. Dick's hand sneaks up to your hair to caress your scalp." O sea, no menor que ladilla."

"Bueno, pero quédate un rato aquí y después te pones en eso, amor." He suggests, shrugged off as you frown, your pouty lips and hesitation to get yourself to work make him smirk. " You really don't want to do nothing, don't you?"

"Ño" you mutter as you turn the tv on.

•He finds utterly cute when you had spent all day talking in English and at night, when you finally come home, you talk in weird mix of accents. Or when you forget a words and tries your hardest to remember it, just to finally say it in Spanish.

Tag list: @nervousfandom @la-femme-lupita @c0-77 @jasontoddismyhusband @jasonsballsack @violettessuniverse

[1dclicheficfest]

The time has come, my dears! We’ve compiled, organized and sorted your submissions and we’re ready to share them! We’ve had so much fun reading your clichés and we hope it’ll give you a good laugh.

Important disclaimer because it has to be said: we do not endorse any of the clichés submitted and these are not meant to spark Discourse™ . This is all in good fun, to spark your imagination and perhaps inspire some prompts!

Before we get to the fun part, don’t forget that prompt submissions open on February 1st and will run until March 28th. The full schedule can be found here.

And now, without further ado, here are your brilliant clichés.

HARRY

Green eyes

Huge eyes

Dimples

Always smirking

“The flirt”

Jobs: Works in a flower shop/Used to be a baker/Frat boy/LA socialite/Mermaid

“Quirky”

Clumsy/balance issues

Health nut/Workout junkie/Eats a lot of avocado and kale/loves yoga/gross green health smoothies

Very slow speech

Paints his nails

Beautiful long luscious curly hair

Long legs/large hands

Tall/large/big

Nudity/loves walking around starkers

Obsessed with being pregnant/babies

Kind to everyone

Bites his lip a lot

Tells terrible jokes/loves puns

Naive and oblivious

Clothing: Pearl necklace, Chelsea boots/gold boots/boots in general/Gucci everything/Flared, high-waisted trousers/’red and black sheer floral shirt with black skinny jeans’

Always unbuttons his shirt to show off tattoos

Baby seal laugh

Bad at driving

Hipster/takes artsy photos

Acting out for attention/Petty jealousy for no reason or because of a misunderstanding or when anyone comes near Louis

Bad dancer that gives it his all/makes awkward shapes with his limbs when trying to dance

Cat mom/Wine aunt

Resting bitch face

Rides a motorcycle

LIAM

Little clueless

Insecure

Louis is constantly messing with him

Roommates with Louis

Puppy/a lost puppy/puppy in human form/puppy eyes/puppy who doesn’t know how hot and strong he is/loves puppies

Manly muscle man/buff af/loves working out/sweet himbo beefcake

Bullied in the past

Giant heart/incredibly kind/soft/super loyal

Worry-wart/mother hen of the band/gets nervous when things don’t go to plan

Voice of reason/the responsible one/Daddy Direction/level-headed/most serious of the five/keeps the others grounded

Doesn’t know how to let loose and have fun

Lacking in experience/innocent about sex things

Oblivious to his feelings/other people’s feelings for him

Jobs: Firefighter/boxer/athlete

Super soft for Zayn

Protective

“Wants to cry as soon as Louis opens his mouth and doesn’t know if it’s because he’s scared, because it’s too funny, or because he just can’t handle any of it.”

Fear of spoons

Timid/

“being very shy/awkward in the beginning and then getting more confident because of Louis”

Snake habitat turn around!

Can’t spell

His turtle losing a foot

“Smelly pasta house”

Loves batman

Being alpha in ABOs

Unruly curly hair then trimmed to a crisp buzz

LOUIS

Blue eyes: ocean blue/blue as the sky on a sunny winter day/twinkle eyes

Arse and/or tummy as a defining feature

Sassy/sass master/feisty/snarky/cheeky/witty/playful/funny/sarcastic/joker

Flamboyant

Heart of gold/”Louis IS the sun”

“Does not suffer fools gladly (that’s your job you fooking loosah)”/hot-headed to pick fights only in defense of those he loves

Protective/Mama bear/loyal/Daddy of the group

Small/Dainty stature emphasized

Runs fingers through his fringe/hair always styled

Jobs: Footie player, teacher, drama teacher, actor, plays in a band

Loves music and writes songs

Plays footie (even if it’s not his job)

LOUD

Can’t cook/chicken wrapped in parma/”Can’t cook to save his life and if he does the kitchen ends up in flames”

Soft with Harry

School: Studying drama, being the bad boy, pop!punk Louis

Bratty/petty/snappy

Smoking

Zayn’s partner in crime

Rooms with Liam

Calls everyone ‘love’/uses too many terms of endearment

Yorkshire accent emphasized/always talks about Doncaster

Clothing: Vans or Adidas shoes/Toms/trackies/braces/red jeans/dressing in comfortable clothes only/no socks/scarf

Very good with kids/loves kids/family-oriented/looking after siblings/having a huge family

Eats junk food only

“The gay who cannot drive”

NIALL

Drinks a lot/Drinks everyone under the table because he’s Irish/Guinness lover/fun drunk/Will sing Gaelic folk songs when drunk/big social drinker-always making friends via alcohol/will kiss anyone when drunk

Food: Eats all the food/doesn’t season his food/loves Nando’s/”100% will take the last slice of pizza and not feel bad about it”/can and will eat you out of house and home/actually eats and cooks healthy but everyone thinks the opposite

Irish/Irish and proud/Wey Hey lads!/leprechaun Niall

Carefree/nothing bothers him

Romantic: falls fast and hard

Captain Niall!/Captain of the ship(s)

Music: guitar always present/Goes into the zone when he has an instrument in his hands - nothing will distract or get through to him/The Eagles fanboy/Damien Rice fanboy

Funny/always laughing/joking around/head back cackle of a laugh

Single/hooks up with a ton of people but no serious relationships/sleeps around/Serial Ladies man/Friends with benefits with multiple people at once/

Turns up the charm 100% and never half-asses it/”Scrunches his hair in thought and knows he looks cute doing so (like girls that purposefully bite their lip)”

Friends with literally everyone/has a thousand surface-level friends that think they’re close to him but keeps all at arm’s length/the greatest friend but also pickiest about who he becomes friends with

Clothing: Constantly shirtless/shorts over trousers/flip-flops as house shoes/gold chain/coin necklace/hoop earring/”golf dad that tucks in his shirts and unironically wears polos”

Obsessed with golf and football/practices his putt in the hallway with an empty loo roll

A bro

Secretly insightful/Tactless but gives essential advice as a result

Secretive/keeps his shit quiet/Definitely the guy with the most secrets

The blond one

Hairy chest

Worst poker face

Finger guns/peace signs

Blushes when he’s excited

Adores Shawn and Lewis

Cares a lot about what others think

Says no judgment but really judges a lot/judges you based on music taste

Rings in at 0 on the gaydar but could surprise you/the only het one

Tries to avoid conflict by remaining ‘on the fence’ and not picking a side

Always the roommate

Face mask selfies

Emotions rotate between sad, sexy, and fun - combination vary

Never a villain

Close with Harry

“Violent masturbating in the next room”

Constant pet names for everyone/”Even has pet names for his devices (like his vacuum robot”

ZAYN

Super smart/nerd/wise/The Ravenclaw

Smokes a lot

Secretly very soft/gentle/biggest heart/”His confidence and aloofness hide a sensitive heart of gold”/Bad boy secretly soft

Heart-eyes at Liam/Soft with Liam/”Lee-yum”

Mysterious eyes

Best friends with Louis

Jobs: Artist, tattoo artist, English teacher who loves art, works in comic book store,

Shy/withdrawn/mysterious/brooding best friend/quiet/”Seems intimidating until you realize he’s just shy”/bad boy outside, soft boy inside/”not as cool as he seems but way sweeter”

The artistic one/tortured artist/art student/skater/also does graffiti/spray-paint

Marvel fan/comic book fan/superhero fan

Clothing: Wears his clothes like armor/leather jacket/”He’s the only one with good taste and he knows it”

Most ‘devil may care’ about his sexuality

Family-oriented/family man

Involved with his religion

Model figure/carved by gods/vain but not obnoxious about it

Catchprase is ‘sick’

Needs time alone to recharge

Changes his hair a lot/that one strand of hair that falls over his eyes

Thinks Malibu is called Malabami

“Eats candy underwear off of Harry’s crotch”

[kopikokun]

The Ghost Of You༄ n.jm

↳ Sneaking Jaemin into your brother’s house has been all fun and games so far, until an impromptu make-out session leads to something dangerous.

pairing: na jaemin x reader ft. older brother!jaehyun

genre: fluff, suggestive

wordcount: 1.6k words

Request 25: Jaemin + “I swear my house is haunted.” (140) + “Go back to bed.” (145)

— 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧.

The only thing rushing through your veins at this moment is pure adrenaline.

And apparently a lot of blood too since all Jaemin’s been doing for the past five minutes is poke fun at your warm cheeks. Literally, poke fun.

“Aww, pretty girl.” Though Jaemin’s nails are blunt, it still aches as he drills it into your cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll be quiet.”

“Yeah, right,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You almost got us caught just now!”

Jaemins grins slyly, his eyes appear to glint with something akin to mischief under the soft light which pours through your window. The window which was wide open an hour ago, cold gusts of wind filling your room as Jaemin was perched on its sill, a mere silhouette with the moonlight against his back. “You make it sound like we’re doing something erotic.”

You push his face. “We’re not, but sneaking into your girlfriend’s brother’s house in the middle of the night isn’t any better either!”

Jaemin laughs, though not as loudly as he had just now, which coincidentally is very relevant to the discourse occurring at the present moment. That almost gremlin-like laughter is how you two were almost caught red-handed. “Relax a little, princess. I promise we won’t get caught. How many times have we done this?”

More times than you’d like to admit. You flush. “Okay, but our luck’s gonna run out one of these nights. My brother isn’t stupid.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist.” Jaemin pecks your lips, smiling against them. “I bet Jaehyun doesn’t have a clue.”

“Since when did you get so chummy with my brother?”

“Hey, I’ve got to get a headstart in making my future in-laws like me, right?”

The implications behind his remark leave you weak in the knees. Thank God, you’re not standing. “Yeah, well I don’t think your future in-laws would like it if you snuck into their homes.” You hold Jaemin’s face between your hands. “And you didn’t have to sneak in. I told you I’d be back home by the weekend.”

“I know, but I missed you, pretty girl.” Jaemin kisses your thigh as he’s lying flat on his stomach between them. You sit up straighter against your headboard. “Getting shy?”

“No, I’m not. Shut up.”

Jaemin giggles, his thumb absentmindedly tracing shapes on the smooth expanse of your thighs. “Jaehyun’s house isn’t that far from your old place anyway. I don’t mind the extra few minutes if I get to see your cute face.”

“Still… this is risky.” You can’t help but worry. It’s not like you’re not flattered by Jaemin’s presence, but break’s nearly over. You’d be back at your apartment with your roommate in no time. He should’ve just sat patiently instead of risking his life being here in your room, in your brother’s house. And you really do mean his life. If Jaehyun were to stumble upon him, he’d saw off mini Jaemin in the blink of an eye.

You had talked to Jaemin about how you’d be staying with your brother for break since you had wanted to check out his new place anyway. You genuinely hadn’t expected for him to show up, unannounced, with a cheeky smile as his knuckles rapped the glass of your window. He had nearly given you a heart attack. In fact, you were sure he had taken a few years off of your life.

You were peeved at first by his boldness, but how could you get mad at him when he had come all this way to see you with that little twinkle in his eyes and that boyish tussle of his hair? So, he had got off with just a bit of a reprimanding, though evidently, you hadn’t been very stern because he obviously hasn’t repented. Your voice had wavered when Jaemin had nibbled on the skin of your inner thigh and licked a hot stripe up that spot he knew would get you squirming, which is understandable.

You can’t deny that you kind of like this. It feels exhilarating, sneaking around behind your brother’s back like this.

If Jaemin could just walk through the front door of Jaehyun’s house, you don’t think he would be doing this in the first place—well, he might do it for the rush, but at least he wouldn’t be doing it so often. Unfortunately, despite Jaemin’s remark about getting chummy with his in-laws, you know your brother isn’t fond of him. They’ve met once, briefly, and for some reason, Jaehyun seemed pput off by Jaemin. You couldn’t put your finger on ‘why’, and when interrogated, Jaehyun had just shrugged and said that he didn’t mind who you dated and that he liked Jaemin. While for the most part, the former rings true, the latter is most definitely false. You can tell. You’ve known Jaehyun all your life and he seems to have a distaste towards your boyfriend.

“What are you thinking about, princess?”

“Hmm,” you hum, running your hands through Jaemin’s soft hair, relishing in the feel of it between your fingers. “Nothing.” You pause, eyes momentarily flickering to Jaemin’s wet lips before returning to his sharp gaze. “Kiss me?”

Jaemin smiles, eyes creasing as he leans in. “Of course.”

He’s warm. He always is. His hands are warm as they roam your body, igniting small sparks of passion wherever they touch. His smile is warm as he cups the back of your head with his palm, readjusting you so that you’re beneath him, arms on either side of your head. His body is warm as it’s pressed against you, his weight present but not suffocating as his hands find their way to yours, your fingers intertwining. 

You can feel his right hand palming your waist.

Jaemin pulls away from you. “What happened to being quiet?” he tuts.

You sigh. God, you simultaneously love and despise how cocky Jaemin gets in moments like these. “Yeah, okay, okay. Just keep kissing me, Jaemin.” He arches a brow, a smile playing at his lips. “Please.”

“Okay, since you’re being good for me.” His breath fans your neck, before his lips are back on yours, soft and warm.

And then there’s a loud, sudden thud.

It all happens so fast. First, you’re shoving Jaemin off of you with a start. Then, he’s falling onto your floor, ass-first, an awkward, undealt-with, semi-tent in his pants.

“Shit! Jaemin!” you whisper shout, pulling at your shorts so it doesn’t look like someone just had their hands down them. “Move! Hide!”

You can hear a door click shut and heavy, sluggish, footsteps dragging across the hallway floor.

Jaemin scrambles to his feet. “Shit, where?”

You card a hand through your hair. “Uhm, fuck, uh,” your eyes scan your room, “there! Under my desk! He won’t see you from the door.”

Jaemin wordlessly dives under your desk, nearly bumping his head on its edge.

Your door opens soundlessly, the dim light from the hallway flooding into your room, illuminating your no doubt flushed face. You hope Jaehyun’s too tired to notice.

“Hey, you okay? I heard something and thought you fell.”

You laugh nervously, rubbing your arm in an up-and-down motion. “What? What are you talking about? Nothing happened.”

Jaehyun eyes you suspiciously, the sleep beginning to wear off as he shifts his weight from one leg to another. “You sure? I’m pretty certain I heard something…”

You shake your head furiously. “Nope. I didn’t hear a thing.”

Jaehyun groans, running his hands down his face. “Damn, I swear my house is haunted.”

“Go back to bed.” You wave Jaehyun off, hoping that you both sound and look nonchalant.

“Yeah, yeah, you too.” Jaehyun yawns. “G’night,” he slurs, shutting the door behind him.

Jaemin makes a move to slip out from his hiding spot but you hold a hand out to stop him. He freezes in place, eyes darting warily from you to your door.

When you hear the soft pads of Jaehyun’s footsteps fade into silence, you let out an uneven breath. Another near heart attack. It seems like the people around you don’t want you living a long life.

“The coast clear?” Jaemin crawls out from beneath your desk, his long limbs unfolding themselves from the almost foetal-like position they were previously in, and this time he does bump his head against your table. “Ow! Shit!”

You wince at the sound. “Oh my God, it’s almost like you want us to get caught.” You extend a hand towards him, and he clasps it gratefully, his left hand rubbing his forehead as his face contorts into one of pain. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” sighs Jaemin. He unexpectedly holds you against him, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and nuzzling his face into your neck. “Fucking hell, I almost pissed myself.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t.” You lean into Jaemin, allowing most of your weight to be supported by him. Your shoulders loosen and your body finally relaxes, that is until an old friend digs into your thigh. You suppress a snort.

“Do you need help with that?”

Jaemin snickers, backing away from you and ruffling the top of your hair. “Nah, I think I’ve had enough excitement for tonight.” The ghost of a smile teases his lips. “I can wait ‘till the weekend.”

You laugh to nobody in particular as Jaemin slips out of your window like a cat, disappearing silently into the night, the only remnants of his presence are your unruly hair and the pink tint that dusts your cheeks.

You’re looking forward to the weekend.

[chews-erotically]

Waxing Gibbous 

Pairing: Ezra + femNurse! Reader

Rating: Hard M / 18+ ONLY

       * Warnings: ANGST/ mentions of depression/ perceived death/ claustrophobia/ graphic descriptions of injury/ gore/ live burial/ nightmares/ guilt/ fear/ paralysis/ pain/ despair

      * Summary: You can only keep it down so long.

      * Word Count: ~900

*Part ONE* *Part TWO* *Part THREE* *Part FOUR* *Part FIVE* *Part SIX*        *Part SEVEN*  *Part EIGHT*  *Part NINE*  *Part TEN*  *Part ELEVEN*

    This chapter contains some content that some may find triggering- please see the warnings above. I deal with my feelings through writing as a way to acknowledge and process what I’m feeling. It is therapeutic for me. That said, PLEASE do not read this chapter if you feel down and find that reading about the topics above may make you feel worse. I promise the story still makes sense if you sit this one out.

    I wrote this because I needed to be selfish and work through some dark thoughts. It is absolutely and completely self-indulgent and I hesitated to even post it. I recognize that these are dark times for so many of us, please know that I love and cherish every single one of you and I will ALWAYS welcome discourse with anyone who needs encouragement, commiseration, or a sympathetic ear.

PART TWELVE

     You had your first nightmare the night following the incident at the bar. You were unsure if the actual confrontation had triggered you, or if it was simply the proverbial last straw among the amalgam of stress and circumstance, but you’d awoken screaming and slicked with sweat.

    In your dream you were dead. Your limbs were frozen and stiff. Your eyes did not open. Though you had expired, you were still able to hear what was said around you as if underwater. You were still within your own body, muffled and broken. The voices around you spoke of how you died. You had fallen from a great height, you could feel the sickly pull of gravity winding its fist into your guts as you hurtled toward the ground. You felt everything, the snap of your limbs shattering like glass. Shards of bone lanced your organs, your sight sparked and pulsed as your retinas detached before your vision turned red and then black. Your throat choked with blood. You were panicking. You could not move, you could not scream. Your pain was transcendental in it’s exquisite clarity.

    You willed yourself to lose consciousness. You prayed for your end as the agony of countless fathoms of searing stilettos cut into you and pulled their pound of flesh gleefully from your broken body.

    This is what was due for you. This is what you deserved for killing, for hurting.

    You gasped in your misery in place of your breath. You leaned into the pain, wanted it. You would suffer. You were unsure if there were tears sliding down your face. You felt wet all around. Tears or blood, leaking out of you in equal measure.

    You felt your world tilting and sliding. Movement. Every sensation re-breaking you, reminding you to pay attention. You were not going anywhere, you would bear witness to your slow and torturous end, you would learn that this was your world, at the mercy of countless faceless masters filled with infinite patience.

    You were placed in a box. That box was sealed. You heard the muffled pounding of nails into splintering wood. There was no way to save you.

    Clods of earth rained upon the box. You lie impassive, frozen. Resigned and terrified.

    Thwump.

    Every action you had taken part in, every injury and injustice and I’ll-gotten reward outweighed any halfhearted effort of goodwill you’d extended during your short and brutal life.

    Pathetic.

    Thwump.

    Worthless.

    Thwump.

    You were dead, and you had not ascended to some alternate universe, some abstract heavenly reward. In a box, in a broken body you felt every agonal sensation, your eyes unseeing and unblinking. Your brain screaming, pleading from some distant, flawed and human place to release you. You felt the cold, robotic legs of countless pale and sightless insects. They were crawling into your pants. Into your hair. Your mouth. Scrabbling against your grey gums and your powdery tongue.

    You felt the first searching pinches of mandibles against your cool and tender flesh.

 ****

     You were screaming, your voice raw. Keening. You couldn’t see. Your limbs thrashed against bindings that held you, horizontal and utterly helpless as your hoarse voice dissolved into rasping sobs. Your brain was slow to register your actions as your desperation and terror made you feel as if your heart was going to crack through your sternum with the force of its hammering. 

    But it shouldn’t be beating.

    You were dead and in a box in the ground, paralyzed and in agony and covered in gnawing insects.

    Strong arms grasped you, holding you still. You struggled against the hold violently. You kicked out against something, anything.

    The arms wrapped around you tightly. Mouth against your neck, speaking lowly.

    “I’m right here. Wake up, love. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

    The voice, disembodied in the darkness, continued to reassure and sooth patiently as your hitching breaths and sobs gradually abated.

    Ezra had you, and he stroked your back, your hair, your forehead, your arms as he murmured.

    “It seems that your mind has finally caught up with our sordid histories and nefarious goings-on, my sweet love. My own terrified cries have been known to propel me from restless slumber in the oppressive darkness of night.”

    You slumped against him, wrung out, exhausted. You slowly came to realize that you had not been able to move your limbs fully because they had tangled in the sheets as you’d thrashed. You had screamed so long and loud that your voice croaked when you could finally speak.

    “I have never dreamt like that Ezra. I was dead, but I was trapped in my body. I was dead, but I could feel everything. They put me in a box and buried me. It felt real.”

    “The horrors we’ve faced, the things we’ve done, will manifest in any number of nefarious ways, Dove. It is but a product of our shared experience.”

    You stood up on shaking legs and began to turn on every light in the room. You came back to the bed and cocooned yourself in as many blankets as you could find. Ezra drew you to him, leaning your back against his chest as you sat on the mattress between his legs. He notched his chin onto your shoulder and sighed. He stayed silent, waiting for you to speak or not speak.

    You did not speak.

Tags: @ifimayhaveaword @rzrcst @absurdthirst@cinewhore @hopelikethesun@yespolkadotkitty @lose-eels @lackofhonor @din-damn-djarin @mrpascals@theocatkov@thefineandnobleartofavoidance@hellojustheretolookatmeemees@cyaredindjarin @im-like-reallythirsty @mstgsmy@goldafterglow @sistahsarah-sallysaidso @givemethatgold@shaqbutt @sirianisrock@artemiseamoon@thatreclusewriter, @scribbledghost@f0rever15elf@opheliaelysia @qveenbvtch@hdlynnslibrary@ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa@spacegayofficial@ezraslittlebirdie @ezrasarm@ezraslittleblondestreak@tintinwrites@kindablackenedsuperhero @darthadeline@alexisinorbit@knittingqueen13 @lueurnotes@xakilicious@keeper0fthestars @huliabitch @di-kut@zombieaurora@corrupt-fvcker @cryptkeepersoul@teaofpeach

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

kiss me in the d-a-r-k .epilogue iv.

monday night

masterlist

Warnings: dub con sex (oral, intercourse)

This is dark!(dad)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader has a late night.

Note: #ficdaddy #afterworkwriting #naughtythoughts #whatamidoing? Okay, so here’s more but might be a little break til the next because I’m exhausted and I’m thirsty but ya girl is also a disaster. Thanks everyone for your support and indulgence in my #pornfic lol🔥🔥🔥 I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply!

...

By the time you got off the subway, your fatigue had washed away your shock. The whole ride home, you felt him. Felt the afterglow slake away and the ghost of his touch. You swore it was a dream. A very vivid fantasy but you just wouldn't wake up.

You walked the block from the stop to your building with your hands tucked deep in your pockets. The city was overdue for snow. You shivered as your boots scuffed the pavement and you stopped dead just in front of the steps. There was a familiar car across the street. A rover, to be exact.

The horn tooted as your eye narrowed on the tinted window and the door opened. Steve stepped out and waved as he looked both ways down the street. You winced and tried to hide your anxiety. You were a terrible liar, worse with him. He saw through you like a window.

What was even doing here? You’d told him you were busy. How long had he been waiting? You sighed and dropped your shoulders.

“Hey,” You greeted him stiffly. “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t help myself,” He reached out with a gloved hand and rubbed your arm. The gesture reminded you of Bucky. You gulped. “Tell me you’re not planning on turning in already?”

“I was planning on cramming for my exam,” You countered. “Not much sleep to be had these days.”

“I can help,” He smirked, “Keep you on task.”

“Really?” You challenged with a scoff. “I think I’m better off alone.”

“I swear,” His breath clouded in the frigid evening. “Come on, you can’t leave me out in the cold.”

“You really wanna hang around and watch me study?” You asked.

“Help,” He corrected you. “Come on, years of helping with homework has prepped me for this very night.”

“Alright, if only to get out of the cold.” You relented and dug for your keys. “I hope you don’t mind clutter. My apartment is...small.”

You led him to the front door. He was close enough that his warmth radiated over you. He climbed the stairs after you and you were out of breath by the time you got to your floor. He wasn’t. How pathetic you were. After a struggle with the janky lock, your door jolted inward and you welcomed him into your college nest.

“I know you don’t like coffee, but I can make you a tea?” You set down your bag as he closed your door. “I, uh, just toss my coat on that chair.” You laughed at yourself as you unbuttoned your jacket. 

“You know what, I could use a coffee,” He removed his coat and folded it over the patched armchair. 

You placed your jacket on his and pulled your boots off. “I was just gonna have some leftover pizza. Want a slice?”

“As gracious a host as you are a guest,” He looked around the small space. “Make your coffee. Get your books out. Tell me what you want. I’ll order in.”

“You really don’t have--”

“Ah,” He raised a hand as he pulled out his phone. “You have studying to do. Let me worry about dinner.”

You agreed with a nod and went about setting up the coffee to brew and dumped your text and notebook on the bed. Steve went through the options and you settled on Chinese as you poured milk into your mug and set it on the table beside your bed. You sat at the top of the mattress and opened your textbook.

He ordered and sat across from you. He pulled your notebook over and flipped it open. “What course is this?”

“Public discourse and Social Trends. Third tab.” You instructed and squinted at him. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” He folded the notebook back and his eyes glossed across your writing. “Put that down. Quick review. Then you’ll know what you need to work on.”

You tilted your head and pursed your lips at him. “You should be in your hotel, enjoying the view, or the pay-per-views, or the minibar. You shouldn’t be in this hole helping me revise all this...garbage.”

“I am right where I want to be, sweetie,” He intoned. “Now stop stalling.”

-

It was just past midnight. You’d gone through all your notes and the cartons of fried noodles and sweet and sour chicken. Two cups of coffee as well. You sat with legs crossed as Steve reclined across the bed and closed your notebook. He yawned and tossed it atop your textbook. You leaned back on your pillows, his yawn was contagious.

“Alright, you’re free.” You said. “I feel...better.”

“Better? You got this.” He replied.

“I hope.” You muttered.

“Ugh, haven’t had a night like this since...since me and Bucky were in college.” He grinned. “Did you know we went to the same uni? I was in business, he was in Lit. That was his first degree, my last. He always was a do-gooder.”

You nodded. You picked at the corner of your textbook and kept your eyes to the bedspread. You could feel him staring at you. Shyly, you glanced up as the heat grew unbearable. “What?”

“I meant what I said...about Bucky.” He lifted a brow. “Would do him well to loosen up. You too.”

You swallowed and clenched your jaw. You chewed your lip, unsure how to divert the conversation. “I don’t…”

“Wait,” He sat up and the mattress shook beneath him. “You...already did it?” You looked at him, “That was your appointment?”

“Steve, I--”

“Oh, sweetie, that’s...wow. You see, you should enjoy yourself.” He reached over and squeezed your knee. His hand lingered. “Explore.”

“I wasn’t thinking. It happened so fast. I-I-I…” You huffed and hung your head. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t do that.” His hand crawled up your thigh as he moved closer. He pushed your books aside and sat next to you. “I’m proud, sweetie.”

“Proud?” You said confused. “For fucking my professor.”

“For being you.” He leaned in. “Tell me,” He kissed you and wrapped his arm around you as he pulled you close. “How did you do it? Were you on top? Was he?”

“Steve,” You warned and tried to wriggle away. “Really.”

“I wanna hear,” He purred. “Come on, tell me.”

You licked your lips and thought. You shook your head at your helplessness. You knew he wouldn’t let up. 

“We were in his office,” You started quietly. “I...kissed him.” You cringed as you recounted the scene. “I shouldn’t have but...uh, he kissed me back...Steve, I can’t…”

“Go on. You’re doing fine,” He urged as his fingers traced the line of your vee. 

“I was on the desk first and he...used his fingers.”

“Did you cum?” He rubbed just along the top of your thigh.

“Yes,” Your voice was raspy as your lip trembled. “Then he turned me around and--” Your lips moved but no words would come.

“He fucked you against his desk? Oh, Professor Barnes,” He mused as he picked your fly open. “How unprofessional.”

“I…”

“Did you cum again? While he was in you?” He asked. You nodded as he slipped his fingers beneath your jeans. “No panties?”

You closed your eyes as his fingers hovered just above your clit. “He came in them. I had too take them off.”

“Fuck,” He breathed. “That’s fucking hot.”

“It’s...I could lose my scholarship...he could lose his job.” You gasped as he flicked his fingertip over your bud.

“He has tenure and who’s gonna know? I’m not telling anyone,” He pressed his lips to your cheeks and rubbed you with his finger. Slow, tantalizing; enough that your thighs began to tingle. “It was nice, wasn’t it? The rush? Up in his office like that?”

“Y-y-yes.” You confessed.

“Like the summer? Kylie just down the hall...asleep. We could’ve been caught so easily,” The glimmer of guilt at the reminder was muted by the lurid thrill. “Oh, sweetie, you’re so wet already. Is it for me or him?”

You bit your lip and breathed through your nose. You shook your head. He stopped and you looked to him sharply.

“Tell me.” He demanded. 

“Y-y-you…” You blurted out. “...and him.”

“Tell me what else you want him to do? How do you want him to fuck you?” He tickled your cheek with his nose as he inhaled your scent.

His finger began to moved again and your eyes threatened to roll back. Your thoughts blurred together and the last of your willpower drifted away. Your lip quivered and your voice rose in gasps.

“I want his mouth on me. To feel his beard against my thighs.” You grabbed his wrist as the sparks flew and bounced around your core. “To drink me up until I cum.” Your voice thinned. “I want him to push my legs up and fuck me until I scream. I want him to be rough with me. To not stop even when I beg--” Your breath caught as the coil wound tight. “--when I beg him to--STOP!”

You slipped from his embrace and pushed yourself back against the pillows. Your thighs squeezed his hand and as you lifted your pelvis and came loudly. You shook as you dove over the edge and plummeted to the depths with a shout. Your hand rested on his as he stilled his fingers.

“Can I fuck you, sweetie? Like that?” He slowly pulled his hand from your jeans.

You nodded frantically and caught his hand. “Please,” You panted. “I want you. Not him. I want you right now, Steve.”

He smirked and bent over you to kiss you. He drew his hand away from yours and as he sat back he ran his fingers along your lips. You opened them and he shoved them inside. You tasted yourself on him and sucked on them with a hum. His eyes darkened at your reaction.

“Anything you want, sweetie.” 

He pulled his fingers away and climbed off the bed. His pants were tented with his arousal. You shoved your jeans down your legs and your socks caught in the bottom as you tore them off. You took your sweater off next and unhooked your ratty bra. You really needed a new one. You looked over as he rolled his briefs down his thighs. You liked to think none of the guys your age looked as good.

“Lay down,” He pointed to the pillow. “And don’t you move.” You laid back and he got back on the bed. “Bend your legs. Yeah, like that, now, apart. Very good.” He knelt between them and his eyes shone down at your pussy. “God, you look just as good as you taste, sweetie.

He bent and he slowly ran his tongue over your clit and along your folds. You gasped and reached down to touch his greying locks. He shoved your hand away and growled. You kept your hands on your chest, cupped your tits as you watched the top of his head, His tongue flitted up and down, each time faster, and he swirled around your bud so that your hips bucked.

You began to mewl. You sounded animalistic. Your legs closed around his head and his hands spread across the back of your thighs. He pushed your legs up until your knees were almost to your chest. He kneaded the flesh and purred as he lapped you up. You arched your back as he plucked at your deepest strings.

“S-Steveee.” You came with a drawn out moan. His name floated above you and he tended to you until you were breathless.

Slowly he lifted his head. You looked down at him as he deliberately licked his lips. He kept hold of your thighs as he got to his knees and positioned himself against you. His cock slid between your folds and along your clit. You shivered and reached out to him.

“Ah, keep those hands to yourself, sweetie,” He tilted his hips back until his cock poked at your entrance. 

His eyes fell between your legs and he watched as he impaled you an inch at a time. He pushed his shoulders back and sighed as he reached his limit. Your walls clung to him; longed for him. He pushed your legs until your knees were against your chest entirely. He rocked into you once and you squealed.

He did it again. A similar reaction. He thrust, each time waiting for your response. You got louder and louder as he sped up. Delving deeper and harder. His flesh clapped against yours between your cries and a bang came at the wall, warning you to quiet. But you couldn’t.

You stretched your arms out and grasped at the blanket. He snarled as he pounded into you. He had never been like this. Always decisive, but never rough. Never this carnal. This incensed. You bunched the bedspread in your fingers and keened as another orgasm tore through you.

You quaked as he didn’t waver. He had you pinned to the mattress, helpless. Not that you could’ve have pushed him away if you wanted to. His thick muscles bulged beneath his skin as he thrust into you. He didn’t fuck like an old man. At least, you assumed most men his age weren’t so ferocious.

It wasn’t long before you came again. The banging on the wall stopped. They’d given up. He had your ass off the bed, your back curled as he pounded into you. He found your clit and teased you as he drew forth yet another orgasm. You were dazed.

“Steve...Steve...please, no more, I c-can’t.” He slammed into you and chuckled.

Your words turned to murmurs. Pure gibberish as he ignored you and carried on. He grunted and his motioned stuttered. He bared his teeth and growled as he pulled out. He kept hold of one leg as he stroked himself with the other. He came all over you, the warmth seeped between your folds and along your ass.

Slowly he sat back and let your legs splay around him. You were both out of breath. You felt around blindly, felt his cum all over you as you spread it around.

He climbed over your leg and fell down beside you, out of breath. He smiled and closed his eyes as he caught his breath. You rubbed your forehead as your wits reassembled. What a long day. Both of them in less than. How had you gotten tied up in all this?

“Steve,” You ventured and he opened his eyes.

“Yes, sweetie,” He turned his head to look at you.

“Why are we doing this?” You asked weakly.

“I…” He clamped his lips shut and thought. “Well, I’ve done the right thing; got married, had a family, white picket fence. It’s boring. Fake. I don’t want fake. You get to my age and you realize there really isn’t any harm in doing what you want instead of what others expect of you.”

“Oh,” You considered his words carefully. “Have you done this before?”

“What do you mean? Have I fucked any of Kylie’s other friends? Of course not. Never even fucked anyone more than a couple years younger than me. Didn’t have the time, or the energy.”

You nodded and stared at the ceiling. Afraid to ask your next question. “Why me?”

“I...At first, I just thought you were cute. I don’t know what made me kiss you in that hot tub, or why I even invited you, but I knew that night, I needed you.” He traced circles along your stomach. “And you needed me. To show you before it’s too late that it’s okay to be more than cookie cutter.”

His words reeled in your head. You were surprised; that you asked; even more that he answered. And he sounded honest. And if he wasn’t being earnest, you’d learn another lesson from all this. 

All you could do was enjoy it while it lasted.

[luckyladylily]

So I don’t particularly care all that much about sexualization of women in media. Like look, it is obviously an issue, and if that is all there is then it starts getting into serious problem territory. As a systematic, culture wide thing we should absolutely be working on it. But the diving into the particular character is too sexualized thing is just... weird to me?

The thing that sparked this particular thought was Uzaki, the current big boob anime girl it is popular to hate right now. (she has a round face, that is why some people read her as a child, she doesn’t have the angular fate same face that is super popular in anime right now. It’s really not that complicated.) But there is this thing that happens where people focus in on a sexy female character and the discourse explodes about that character in particular and all the same arguments get trotted out and it’s so boring, but most of all it’s so pointless.

Arguing back and forth about if bayonetta’s legs are too long or if Lara Croft’s boobs are too big or anime girl X wears something impractically revealing and it all just seems so pointless. I get the feeling that some people think this is activism, and it just isn’t. It’s barely even feminism.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just being weird again. I guess I’ve seen some real bad shit happen to real women and after that it is just hard to care about if Uzaki has a g cup and if that is acceptable or not.

[slxyangel]

Long Dark Shadow (Steven Adler / Izzy Stradlin’ x Reader)

Summary: “Revenge is a really tricky fucker, but who cares at this point?” This is the second part of Shock Therapy.

Wordcount: 2.4k.

Warnings: Panic attack, a lot of angst, more angst and a little bit of angst in case there wasn’t enough.

A/N: Since this is a sequel to a story I already posted, here are the tags for the people who asked me to write this, you are the real MVPs and I genuinely appreciate u :))) izzzyjizzy wannabegonnie kairigoth youthgonewild imagines-xxx isahminski

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Masterlist: https://slxyangel.tumblr.com/post/189625800403/masterlist

The parking lot extended in front of your eyes, almost empty, almost infinite. The pavement was noticeably hot, you could feel it burning under your feet as if you were barefoot. It was mid July and, as expected, the sun showed no mercy. The air was steaming, it scalded, it hurt when you breathed it in. Your head  was spinning but you wouldn’t stop moving, you just couldn’t risk to. It’s funny how you hadn’t noticed any of that when you stepped out to the alley a while before, nothing other than typical summer heat and a slightly more pleasant sensation inside of the studio than outside. But now… oh shit, what had you done?

You reached the first car on your way, a red Volvo and you leaned on it to recover the breath you inexplicably lacked. Well, maybe not that inexplicably, there were probably reasons, only you couldn’t process them. You withdrew your hand as soon as you touched it. Fuck, it was fire. You took your damaged fingers to your mouth in an attempt to sooth them, but the gesture soon turned into a failed attempt to cover your mouth’s accelerated respiration and stopping yourself from having a panic attack. There, beside the red Volvo, you bent down and tried to catch your breath, as two pairs of steps neared you from behind.

Steven situated himself in front of you and squatted, but he kept the distance. He was trying to make you focus your eyes on his instead of letting them freely wander around, searching for life. He had had his fair share of these with you, and he knew better than to hug you, as much as he felt that would make everything better. You needed space, you needed air, and if he was right and the root of this whole thing was the one he had in mind, he was all but going to fix it with his closeness. Izzy, on the other hand was standing there, one step and a half away from you and the drummer, biting his nails, with the very unpleasant feeling that he had caused this. Besides, he was supposed to be the calm guy, the chill dude who could handle situations like these because he had been through many of them, but he was losing his shit. Seeing you there, with tears of powerlessness rolling down your cheeks and your hands unsuccessfully trying to cover them... he didn’t know where to fucking put himself, but he sure wasn’t going to leave you alone, so he stood there, as still as a corpse and with his chipped nails as the only outlet for his own anxiety.

After a couple of minutes, your breath slowed down and evened, and your hands were finally able to dry your cheeks without the danger of tears bathing them all over again. You felt like sitting on the floor, but you wouldn’t repeat that mistake, so you stood up, wrapping your arms around yourself and turning to face Izzy. So did Steven.

-          I’m so sorry – you mumbled, almost to yourself.

-          No, why? What? – the blond sounded hurried, the same way a person does when something is escaping from their hands and they needed to catch it but don’t know how to – Why? Don’t be sorry. Please, don’t be sorry.

-          I… I don’t know, Steven. I really don’t know.

-          It’s okay, you’re okay. Because you are okay, right? Are you okay? You’re breathing, you…

-          Yes, yes, I’m fine.

An honest smile peeked out of your lips. You always loved the way he had to make you feel cared about, he really was the sweetest boy on Earth. But still you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, that something was broken. I was like this dark certainty took over you, and what worried you the most wasn’t that mere fact; it was the sensation that it wasn’t necessarily negative. You wanted to fight against it, but deep down you didn’t. Your eyes flew to the guitarist’s as you were delving into this, and you found him looking at you with a familiar intensity, exactly the same one you were trying to swim against. You shook your head and looked at the floor. No. No, no, no.

-          What do you think? That I didn’t notice? – Steven’s voice sounded tired, as if it weighed ten thousand pounds.

-          What? – you stared at him, confused.

-          That – he gestured with his right hand --. This.

-          Dude… -- Izzy finally talked, with a calm that sounded so uneasy.

-          Dude, what? I’m not dumb. – his shoulders fell limp, matching the sound of his voice – Despite what everybody in here seems to think, I am not dumb. I have eyes, I see things, I realize things. Like the way you look at her as if she was the very axis of your world. Izzy, no offence, but you’re dead inside, and she sparks light in your eyes. At first…

-          Steven, please…

-          Let him finish – you interrupted Izzy.

-          Yes, let me finish  – the drummer looked at you with a gaze you weren’t able to identify –. At first, if I’m honest, I didn’t give it much of a thought. Okay, maybe I am dumb for that. But for God’s sake, you – and now he pointed in your direction – started looking back at him the same way. I see you two from the stall across the glass, sitting on the couch next to each other, you putting your legs over his, how you accept drags of his cigarettes when you don’t even like Marlboro, and how he blows his smoke in your face and you giggle at it…

-          Hey! That was only…

-          Now you let him finish. – Izzy cut you, sharp as a knife.

-          I thought “It’s okay, Steven, you’re being paranoid. She’s effusive, she’s like that” and I know you are and I swear to god I love that about you. But what am I supposed to do when I hear you – his eyes now accused his bandmate – tell Axl that you, I quote, think you fucking love her and that the guilt is consuming your soul? What guilt, man? WHAT FUCKING GUILT???

Tears escaped from his eyes with the same lack of permission words were spilling out of his mouth with, like a faucet he had opened by accident and he couldn’t close. Fuck, you should have known, you should have noticed the same way he did. You should have been more cautious. Not only about controlling your feelings for somebody else, because one can’t really put a lace around that, but about letting him fabricate the wrongest of ideas and chew on it until it was this rooted. After all this situation you didn’t know if he was your boyfriend anymore, but you couldn’t stand to see him suffering, not him, not like that, not because of that. Unlike during the rest of the conversation, you forgot that Izzy was there and that you were trying to be neutral, and you hugged Steven. You were surprised when his arms, although weakly, hugged you back.

-          Steven I… -- the guitarist spoke lowly, raggedly – I am so, so sorry. But not because of what you think… fuck. You are my fucking brother, I wouldn’t do that to you in a million years, I swear on my mother. You don’t believe me now. I see why you don’t believe me, but I need you to make the effort. Yes, the guilt consumed me and still consumes me because I am in love with your girlfriend. Fuck it. I can’t do anything about it. I want you to know I tried, I need you to know I tried. All the fucking time. I saw her with you and I saw her happy, because man, she loves you so much, it’s so obvious one can tell from fifteen miles away. And I caught myself having this sick feeling of envy and fucking rage in my guts because it was you and not me who she looked at like that. And I felt guilty because it was so fucking dark it was gonna eat me alive, and then it was gonna be the band and then it was gonna be us two, and I could see the precipice coming dangerously close and it scared the hell out of me. That’s when I talked to Axl, I needed advice. I never need advice, so imagine how lost I fucking was. But I swear to you that that’s all. Nothing happened between me and her, nothing, I need you to believe that, please.

What the hell was going on now? Your body and Steven’s were slightly more separated now than when Izzy started ranting, but you were still holding his hand. Again, you had been left with no words. You didn’t know what to say because you didn’t even know what you thought. Your feelings were a blur of guilt, love, sadness, frustration, longing and a million other unidentified things, and the way you heard the brunette talk about you and him and Steven hadn’t helped clear it out. All you were absolutely certain about was that you needed the drummer to know he wasn’t right, at least not entirely. You looked at him with again watery eyes and nodded, reassuring the part of Izzy’s discourse the other boy was surely most worried about. You wanted to talk, but you weren’t sure your voice wasn’t gonna crack in the process. You tried your best:

-        I promise. I promise you nothing ever happened between us two. Nothing but this kiss. Please, you have to believe me, Stevie… Steven. – you wanted to bring him closer to you by calling him that, but you were afraid it was only going to pull him further apart, like an attack to happier memories, so you backed down -- I want to be honest with you, as honest as I possibly can, because you deserve it. I’m so sorry I can’t tell you that you are entirely wrong and that I don’t have feelings for someone else, I wish I could do that, I mean it. But at this point I don’t even know what I feel. I am extremely confused. That’s why I panicked before and that’s also probably why I planned the whole thing in the first place. I don’t know, I want to believe that seeing you with the girl triggered things in me, things I didn’t know were there, and I pulled that up as a defense mechanism, and it turned out entirely wrong. I should have thought about it, I know that. The only thing I am certain of is the love I have for you, that was never arguable and will never be. And also I know that I need you to stop torturing yourself with the thought that maybe something happened between your best friend and your girlfriend, because there is absolutely nothing further from the truth.

You managed to fight the lump in your throat and finish your speech without starting to sob, though tears had been freely dancing all over your cheeks while you spoke. The man you were devoted to now looked at you with a new expression of a broken soul. His eyes didn’t look doubtful anymore, he wasn’t waiting for the brick wall of a certainty he had been chasing to crash him so hard he wouldn’t stand up again. No, he was saved from that. Instead, he was full of void. A huge emptiness that, despite how little he wanted it to, understood every word you had just said and tried to adapt the corners of his soul to this reality, new to him. He was plain and simply sad, yet saying that was an understatement.

-          Maybe it was my way of getting your attention? Maybe, I don’t know, I never thought of it like that, but now that I put together all of the things that had me doubting even myself... yeah, maybe it was. Wrong way? Most definitely, I have no excuse, and you have no idea how sorry I am and how much I wish I could take it back. But I can’t. I can’t undo what I did wrong and I unfortunately can’t redo what I clearly haven’t been capable of getting right the first time.

He let go of the hand you were still holding him with, and walked away. Pain shot through you like a poisoned arrow, and you wanted to run behind him and hold him so tight you could glue back all of the pieces you felt guilty of having shattered him into. But you couldn’t do that. It was his grief, it was his sorrow, it wasn’t yours to take and manipulate, even if you wanted to move it towards what you felt was a better direction and with the best of intentions. He had to heal at his own pace, and trying to make things better would only make things worse. So instead, you stood there, looking at the corner he had disappeared behind, with two big tears rolling down your cheeks and an excruciating pain in your throat you wish could cover the pain in your heart.

A long, dark shadow approached you with doubtful steps and hugged you from behind. It was Izzy. It was obviously Izzy. What were you going to do now? You sensed there were parts of you fighting each other, but you couldn’t tell them apart. A trembling, almost weepy sigh abandoned your lungs, not even a significant portion of what you were holding inside. But you were tired. You were infinitely tired of fighting an invisible enemy, so in the middle of the inner and outer storm, you let yourself do what felt the least bad. You turned around in his embrace, just enough to face him, and you pressed your front against his. Your arms surrounded his waist, below where his arms were holding you; and your face hid in his chest, distraught tears wetting his t-shirt. There were no words, there was no need for them, and it didn’t feel any better, but it didn’t feel any worse; that was all you could have asked for. Thinking about it, in case the pain in your throat couldn’t cover the one in your heart, it was comforting to know that a long dark shadow was there to try its best to fix it.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Art Of Remembrance (Part 12)

Taking a break from discourse to bring fanfics. I’ve got another light-hearted one shot on the way. Some Azula and Zuko sibling fluff because I like fire sibling shenanigans. 

Where there had once been ice there is now fire, it is all around her and it blazes unchecked. It melts the ice that glitters on her frostbitten skin, but it is too late she is already frozen to the core. Frozen to her soul. 

Yet the fire roars on it, it kisses her skin. It isn’t pleasant in the slightest, but it isn’t unpleasant either.

Not for she anyhow. 

The people around her would say different. 

They screech and wail as the flames hug and blanket them. They writhe and kick as it spits sparks and flecks of charred skin. 

The smell fills her nose and the torment fills her ears. 

And in the back of her mind she knows that it is her fault. 

Her fault that their skin blackens and bloodies. 

Her fault that the world is crumbling into smoldering embers. 

Her fault. Everything is her fault. 

The sky turns purple and the clouds bring a light snow as they roll in. But the flames don’t relent and the clouds don’t spill rain. They spill vines. The splat around her in wriggling clumps. And just as the fire latches to the people around her, the vines gather around her. They snake up her arms and curl around her legs, cocooning her until she might suffocate. 

The flaming silhouettes all turn in unison to face her. All features have burned away save for some strands of hair and their eyes. Their horrible hateful eyes. She can see laughter and satisfaction in them as the vines fill her mouth and work into her ears. 

They yank and pull until she feels hollow. 

They yank and pull until she thinks that there isn’t anything left of her. 

Her vision goes black. 

All she can hear is the crackle of the fire. 

Azula rolls onto her side and bunches herself into a rather feeble ball. She thinks that she must have been crying out because her throat is raw. She wishes that her dreams weren’t so vivid. She supposes that the space left by her absent memories leave room for much more intense nightmares. Theories matter none, they don’t provide her with any relief from the constant night terrors. And they only seem to be getting worse as her brain tries to put pieces together. 

Sokka’s recounts and her own assumptions assemble and reconstruct themselves in a myriad of  nearly incomprehensibly hellish visions. 

She shudders and hugs her knees closer to her chest. She wonders if anyone has heard her fussing. If they have, they don’t have enough care for her to check up on her. She doesn’t know which she thinks is worse; that no one has heard or or that no one cares. 

Decidedly, she isn’t getting any sleep so she sits herself up and dangles her feet over the side of the bed before finally making the choice to leave it. She wanders into the hallway, finding it to be twice as disconcerting at night when shadows splay themselves around each corner and over the lavish carpeting.

It is all too quiet and leaves her with too much room to think.Mercifully, her head is foggy with sleep. Through the fog, Azula thinks of retreating back into the semi-security of the infirmary--which decidedly isn’t as consoling as her own bed. Maybe she should wander her way to her own room where the mattress and pillows are much plusher. Perhaps she can sleep then. But a pillow, no matter how soft, and a mattress, no matter how cushiony, can block out the nightmares. 

The princess yawns, she wishes that she can find sleep, her dreams have been stealing it from her for days now. And Agni knows she needs it with the beating that her body has taken. Yet she is still shaken by the dream and she can’t place exactly why. 

Instead, she creeps into the kitchen and fixes herself a ludicrously early breakfast, if only to give herself something to do. Something to focus on. She isn’t particularly hungry but she finds herself two eggs and a slice of bread. She thanks Agni for her firebending; she doesn’t have to fuss with noisy pots and pans. Instead she cracks the eggs onto a plate and hovers the plate above the fire dancing in her palm. She cooks her toast similarly. Unable to find any jam, she settles for dipping the toast into the yolk. Preparing a meal and finishing it takes only a half an hour and she is back to where she had begun--creeping around in the dark. 

Though, now, the sky is beginning to lighten from black to the very deep blue of the first stage of sunrise.

.oOo.

At first Sokka can’t place the reasoning for his rude awakening and then he sees the figure hovering much too close to his bed. He lets out a surprised yelp. “Azula! What are you doing here!?”

The princess seems to bite the inside of her lip and she shrugs. “I...can’t sleep.”

“So you came here?” 

She nods. “I didn’t know who else to go by.” She pauses. “You’re the only person who bothers with me…” 

Sokka lets out a drawn out sigh. She hasn’t said much at all but he gets the feeling that she has much more to say and it is those unspoken things that are at the heart of her sleeplessness. “Well do you want to…” he tries to come up with the best way of posing his question. “Do you want everyone to get along with you?” 

She shrugs. “Right now I just want to sleep. I just want to stop dreaming.”

She as just as good at dodging questions as she is at stopping him from doing so. “And staying with me will help you do that.” 

She takes another long pause before nodding. “I think so.”

“Alright, you can stay with me.” He gestures holds out an armful of pillows and blankets and gestures to the floor.

Even in the dark he can sense the crinkle of her nose and the crease between her brows. He sighs again, “fine, you can have the bed.” He supposes that it is the least he can do after letting her think that she was a cold blooded murderer. 

He watches her shimmy onto the bed and make herself comfortable, nuzzling her cheek against his pillow. 

“Do you want to try to make some new friends?” He asks again.

“I want you to quiet down for once so that I can sleep, at least for an hour before the sun rises.” 

He must admit that he is impressed by her ability to continuously be a pain in the ass, even when her eyes are droopy with exhaustion.  At least this time there is no hostility in it, he can almost pretend that they are back at home having one of their mundane banters.  “Good night, Azula.”

“Shut up, Sokka.” 

He rolls his eyes.  

.oOo.

Despite his attempts at chatter, Azula is able to drift off and finally comes to a sleep so deep that she can’t remember her dreams. 

She wakes feeling more or less refreshed. At the very least, she isn’t completely drained. Light drifts in lazy gold rays into the room. It is warm but not unpleasantly so. She might have drifted back off had Sokka not tripped over his own blanket. He falls to the floor with a voluminous thud, his ruckus pulls her into full alertness. She groans in annoyance while he cusses and rubs his knee. 

“Good morning.” He greets with another one of his lopsided smiles. “Thought that I’d make sure you didn’t oversleep.” 

She narrows her eyes, wholly unentertained. 

“We should probably bring you back to the infirmary before Zuko has a meltdown.” He suggests. 

“I don’t need to go to the infirmary. I am fine.” She insists.

“Well Zuko…”

“Will know that I didn’t...take off again...when he sees me at breakfast.” As she says it, she recalls that she has already had breakfast. She supposes that she can just sit there and pretend to be interested in whatever is served.

“So you do want to make friends with everyone.” He quirks a brow and flashes a smug smirk. 

Azula half-frowns, half-pouts. She was certain that he would have dropped it by now. She supposes that he is correct, she thinks that it would do her well to make amends--that opportunity is the single perk she has found to her amnesiatic state--but the thought of several horribly awkward conversations hold no appeal. 

“Come on, I’ll help you through it this time.” He offers. It takes her a moment to gather that he is speaking of having left her to fend for herself on the docks. “Can you try to trust me?” 

She folds her arms over her chest. “I still don’t know if everything you told me about my past is true…” 

“It is!” He insists. “One-hundred percent, nothing left out.” He pauses. “Well maybe some things are left out, I don’t know what you did on the beach. Zuko only told me stories about that. But I tried to tell you the whole truth.”

She wishes that his expressions and body language weren’t so earnest. But there is a certain desperation in his voice that tells her that he can’t be lying. And if he is, he is terribly good at it. “I’ll go to breakfast with you.” 

Sokka musters up a hopeful smile. 

She tries not to share in his cheer. She doesn’t want to get her hopes up too much. But his optimism is hard to brush off. Reluctantly she follows him down the hall.

[mooosicaldreamz]

please do a song by song review of lover i beg u

oh......u didn’t have to beg!!!! i’ll give it to you 4 FREE.

I FORGOT THAT YOU EXISTED: what i enjoy about this song is that it is fun and not especially mean, just like, shrug emoji. i think sometimes when ur in a relationship that is not especially amazing and you reach the point where you forget that you dated someone is the funniest thing and its such a strange moment. it’s a good tonesetter for the album, bc its so fun and chill and like, whatever. it has the same energy that i think we are never getting back together wanted to have. i LOVE the “i just forget what they were” breakdown. what a fun, bouncy song. easy listening to start the album. calvin harris rip.

CRUEL SUMMER: i love jack antanoff vERY much and have liked his work with fun. and as bleachers, and i think his production on lorde and taylor’s albums has been so wonderful. this song just reeks of him and it’s so like, ascendent, how it builds up and up into the chorus. i think it’s interesting that she reaches so high on the chorus. “summer’s a knife/i’m always waiting for you to cut to the bone/devils roll the dice/angels roll their eyes.” the breakdown is once again wonderful abt crying in the back of the cab on the way back from the bar - i feel like this album and its concept brings a much more natural version of taylor that i think has largely (and perhaps rightfully, considering the evolution of her fame and craft) been in hiding since probably red but maybe even since speak now. “I LOVE YOU AIN’T THAT THE WORST THING YOU EVER HEARD // HE LOOKS SO PRETTY LIKE A DEVIL” while she’s screaming it is more exuberant than ANYTHING on 1989 or rep (and i love both of those albums). 

LOVER: i love how sleepy soft this song is, i love how simple it is, and it’s made me cry like, six times. the wedding band sound is just, so fun and beautiful. it really makes me feel like i’m drunk, happy, and dancing really slow on an emptying dancefloor. i’m going to assume that was the vibe. it’s so soft. god it feels like a cloud. i enjoy how simple the lyrics are in this song, and how the words get to breathe and simmer. they take on a lot of meaning bc of how much space they’re given by the echo and by pacing. it’s so nice. i’ve gone back and forth on whether i like the wedding vows thing, but i think it might be nice. i love “swear to be overdramatic AND TRUE! to my lover”

THE MAN: the bumpy sound of the bass beat is really fun, and i think the song is a good bop, but it doesn’t say anything i don’t already know - but i think taylor bringing up the back end on the Woke train, trying to reach all those people who still aren’t totally sure about the gays or feminism but also think trump is terrible and are now reconsidering their life choices is a fine enough goal for her social justice initiatives. also i just realized she says “getting bitches and models” which she already does, you don’t have to pretend taylor

THE ARCHER: this song is sonic perfection the rolling synths the dreamy voice, the awful awful breakdown at the end of “they see right thru me / can you see right thru me / i see right thru me” “help me hold onto you” i just ... can’t handle this song. it’s perfect. i like the implication throughout this album that taylor is in Love, the big real kind, and i support her and joe bc i think it’s obvious their relationship has totally like, taken her to a new and good emotional space. anyway i like the implication that taylor fell in real, big Love and realized that love is still a fucking mess, like it doesn’t solve all the problems. “ALL OF MY HEROES DIE ALL ALONE” i mean come on. i hate her

I THINK HE KNOWS: this song is a bop “i think he knows his hands around a cold glass make me wanna know that body like it’s mine” is a stn move. the rumbly noise in the chorus and the synthy breakdown is a beast, it owns itself. there’s a real comfortable self-confidence that i, once again, maintain has been missing from taylor’s music up until now. also that moaning noise distracts me every time. “hand on my thigh/we can follow the sparks/i’ll drive” tAYLOR! inappropriate. i’ve seen some takes on this song that it’s not a fave, but it’s a fun song and people are wrong. there’s not one song on this album that i’m like this is bad in the way that i DO NOT like some songs on rep

MISS AMERICANA AND THE HEARTBREAK PRINCE: the first thing i thought when i heard this song is that it sounds like lana del rey. give it a re-listen, it does. sounds just like idk, “high by the beach” but it also rings a bell for me of electra heart era marina and the diamonds (like “teen idle”). i like this song a lot, even though it’s relatively oblique in my opinion on what it’s.....actually about. “you play stupid games / you win stupid prizes” is a great lyric in masterful taylor swift fashion bc it looks stupid when u write it on paper. i like the shouting breakdown thing that happens on the back end of the song with go/fight/win (OH I JUST GOT that, it’s like cheerleaders shouting). i’m a fan of it, but it’s an oddball on the tracklist.

PAPER RINGS: this song rings with a lot of red’s chaotic energies but with the adult sensibilities that she’s rolling with on this album. i love the sort of down-home shouty stuff happening on the verses, and the “kiss me once / kiss me twice / three times” bridge. it’s a good one. “i hate accidents/except when we went from friends to this” is a fun and good lyric. i LOVE the key change i LOVE the “wrap your arms around me baby boy” for some reason very much. 

CORNELIA STREET: i mean obviously this song is wonderful. i’ve seen much Discourse about this song being related to Kaylor which seems plausible. it’s clear that taylor wrote some of these songs in the present tense when they’re in the past, which i think is really interesting. i LOVE “jacket ‘round my shoulder is yours” what a good inversion of the phrase. i love the way that the phrase cornelia street breaks up the lines in a really weird way, because of how its syllables run. it’s a good song. it’s a soft boi

DEATH BY A THOUSAND CUTS: early frontrunner for my fave song!!!!! love the opening repeating noise, and the simple guitar plucks initially. taylor’s voice takes up front and center bc it isn’t especially altered/layered/echoed like it is in some other spots on the album. it has an amazing rolling pace on its verses that’s followed by the slower pace on the chorus. “i ask the traffic lights if it’ll be okay and they say i don’t know” i am certain that this song is about karlie kloss and i will not accept any other possibilities i know she said it was about a movie but i don’t care. “my hips my heart my body my love / tryna find a part of me you didn’t touch” wow taylor god what a gifted lyricist i hate her

LONDON BOY: this song is fun. “i saw the dimples first / then i heard the accent” i love the rising effect on “walking on the afternoon” resetting with the horns. it’s just a song that makes you bob your head. she does sound like she’s throwing out as many english references as she possibly can which is amusing and i don’t know what the legs are on this song bc of that - it could come across as somewhat kitschy. but! also i’d like to start some discourse bc i think it’s CLEAR that taylor isn’t afraid of using pronouns or even very direct references to who she’s with (this song is basically an I LOVE JOE ALWYN shirt), and it makes it even more clear when she’s avoiding using pronouns or direct description. the two songs before this don’t do that in the same way that this song does. 1989 barely uses pronouns at all. i’m just saying. taylor is bi is what i’m saying.

SOON YOU’LL GET BETTER: obviously this song is sad and it makes me cry i have no further commentary except that it’s a wonderful, simple song that has an excessively odd placement on this album following after london boy

FALSE GOD: this song is sexy! and interesting. the horns come back again, which is good and her voice is lower. honestly the line “the altar is my hips” is just..........a lot for me to compute. “i’m golden when you touch me / hell is when i fight with you” the bridges are really fun, sexy, soft. this song is like when lover ends and a song with a little more of a sultry feel comes on but ur still drunk so its a little sloppy.

YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN: obviously this song ruined my life. it sent me to the heights of elation and then i sort of had a hangover on it but i’m back around on it guys! it’s a fun, fun, summery song. that chorus with the oh-oh is just .... pop perfection. the bumpy synth noise that goes ba-duh-duh-duh like it’s reverberating is absolutely perfect for the pacing of the song. it’s excessively well-crafted to the point of slickness. it should have been the lead single but what do i know about anything

AFTERGLOW: i know that i wasn’t supposed to be into i pinned your hands behind your back but i was so. this is a continuation of the theme of like, i’m in love but i’m still a mess!!! sorry :) i like this song but it does not inspire me. 

ME!: i don’t know why the exclamation point is there and it sounds much more like a brendon urie song than a taylor song, but it’s fun! i don’t hate it! i can see why it was picked as a lead single - to really illustrate the tonal change from rep to here, but still. spelling is fun, tho.

IT’S NICE TO HAVE A FRIEND: this song is simple and so, so so sweet. i love the childhood friends to lovers narrative, and i just. like it. so much. it’s so sweet. and then obviously the horns come back for this one, but don’t overwhelm. this song is a good palette cleanser after the bombast of me!

DAYLIGHT: i tweeted about this but this song reminds me of clean and long live (particularly long live, it for some reason really sounds like that in my head). but i like that it really relates a feeling that i feel sometimes of like, my life was a mess and sometimes still is a mess but bc i’m in a stable and good relationship, things feel approachable, like, if everything goes wrong again, i’ll at least know for sure i have this, and i think this song sort of shows that off with the  “I don’t want to think about anything else.” it’s nice. it’s calm. i read an oral history today about the kanye storming the stage moment at the vma’s because it’s been 10 years since it happened - and i feel like this album and this song, in many ways, are a plateau on the meteoric catapult of taylor’s relationship with fame that really had started to run before that moment but certainly started rolling after that. i think this song is a demonstration of the growth that she’s gone through over the last ten years that we’ve all watched with such close attention. it makes me feel happy for her. i hope she gets to keep this the way it is. i’ve read that she thought for the longest time that this album would be called daylight and i’m honestly? not sure it shouldn’t be. but the vocal note at the end sort of draws it back thru.

it’s a good album. i think the back half of it doesn’t hang as tough all the way thru as the first half, but overall, i think it’s overall quality is better than reputation even though i think reputation, as a concept album, works very well. it’s a great evolution and a real, authentic thing. very impressive that she’s managed to produce four very different albums successively where as many artists don’t change that much from album to album. but i think that’s evidence of the work that’s gone into them, to be honest. death by a thousand cuts is my early fave. 

[rutilation]

I’d comment that Phos’s complaint about the final level of their game being ridiculously hard is a metaphor for how their entire quest gets exponentially more difficult as it approaches its conclusion, but the blurb in the margins already points out that parallel, so I guess my observation is redundant.  The accursed little thing is stealing my thunder.

Click the read more if you want to see me read way too much into the art.

Before I get into gushing over the artwork, I want to go over some of my thoughts on the narrative side of things, so let’s get the most annoying part out of the way first and talk about Aechmea.

I’ve heard that in the original Japanese, it’s clear that he’s referring to Cairngorm.  What’s interesting here is that he said this line when it seemed for a moment that Kongou was about to release the Lunarians.  But now that it’s clear it won’t happen, I wonder whether or not he’ll actually say what was on his mind.  In any case, I can’t wait to see more of his ugly mug next chapter.  Yay.

This chapter has sparked a bit of discourse regarding the earth gems, so I might as well chime in.  While I agree that the earth gems’ reaction isn’t unreasonable given the circumstances and the limited information at their disposal, it’s still not really the best reaction they could have had.  Regardless of their interpretation of Phos, the truth of the matter is that the version of Phos that the other gems feel the need to shatter, tie down, cage, and then shatter again is less of a threat to Kongou than the one they let walk around freely in chapter 58.  Just because what they’re doing is understandable, doesn’t mean that what they’re doing is right, and I don’t think that this pattern of shooting first and asking questions later is a good road for them to collectively go down.

And on the subject of Euclase, to reiterate what I’ve said before: they give me the willies not because I think their actions are totally unreasonable, (though said actions do tend to be on the more militant side of what could be considered reasonable, don’t they?)  Rather, a lot of the bad vibes I get from them are because of the menacing manner with which Ichikawa sometimes frames them, in addition to Padparadscha’s seemingly less-than-charitable opinion of them.

I’ve been curious for a while now about how Rutile would react after Padparadscha outright rejected them.  Looks like they’ve just doubled down on their obsessiveness, to the point of doing a stellar Onryō impression.  Really, the quickest way to ruin a relationship in this story is to either take someone for granted, or to be possessive/controlling.  Phos has some issues with the former, but a number of the other characters have a strong case of the latter, case in point being Rutile here.

I’m guessing that this implicitly confirms that the human particle is indeed in Phos’s eye?  I doubt that Kongou’s human sensors would go off due to Phos being merely metaphorically human.  I’ve also seen people posit that the reason Kongou can’t release the Lunarians is because his one-way ticket to nirvana only works on less sentient life forms.  (@rinboz has a good analysis that touches on this topic, btw.)  I think the chapter confirms this interpretation based on Phos’s mysteriously disappearing cage.  And that dovetails nicely into my thoughts on the art of this chapter…

Because the imagery of the cage coming to life, flowering, and vanishing in a breeze of petals is *chef’s kiss* gorgeous.

The scene starts off in gray and black, and the panels have a cluttered, claustrophobic feeling to them from the grain of the wood and the shadowy, looming architecture.  But once Kongou begins his prayer attempt, the panels start to become more spacious, those grays and blacks giving way to sleek monochrome.  Finally, this changes to stark white with minimal linework and virtually no shading.  The only other time I can recall Ichikawa using this blank, simplified style in hnk was when we saw a brief flashback of Phos as a child.  (For a given value of “child,” we are on arrested development island after all.)  

The way the cage seemingly transformed back into an earlier phase of its existence before vanishing reminds me of how Shiro went back to being a dog for a few moments before he left.  So, it seems that Kongou’s attempt worked just fine on a wooden cage—i.e, a plant—but none of the sentient beings present could actually be affected.  

Once he fails, the shroud of grey once again falls over the scene, black arches closing in.  And yet when the “camera” turns to Phos, their greyscale body is surrounded by white, as if the pure vision they had just seen is still haunting them.

I’m just in awe of how perfectly the environment here mirrors Phos’s emotional state.  Their heavy bondage flies away in a flurry of petals just as they’re getting their hopes up, and in the moment that those hopes are dashed, the rain of blades that shatter them are represented as black bars caging their mangled body.  Have I said before that Ichikawa is an absolute master of visual metaphor?  Because she is.

I was so fond of the art, as a matter of fact, that I reread the chapter several times and kind of.  Stared at it for a couple hours.  Here’s some interesting things I noticed.

In chapter 71, Cinnabar’s mercury globules were gone, but now they’re back.  Were they gone before because Cinnabar had just unloaded a bunch of mercury the previous chapter, or could there be some other reason?  Also in regards to Cinnabar, they’re present while Phos confronts Kongou, just barely visible on the far left—note the floating mercury.

But at no point does Ichikawa let us see their face or what they think of all this—more on this in a moment.

Bort doesn’t seem to be wearing powder on their left leg.  It’s the same leg that Phos shattered, and as far as we know, that’s the only time they’ve ever been broken, so maybe they’re leaving that leg bare as a reminder?  That seems like the sort of samurai-esque thing Bort would do.

Everyone’s started wearing gloves.  Before, the gems with a <9 hardness would only wear gloves if they anticipated having to touch someone or something with a different hardness level, (or in Cinnabar’s case, if they didn’t want to contaminate the things they touch.)  But in this chapter, everyone’s wearing gloves the whole time.  There are two possibilities that come to mind for me.  One is that since the earth gems have to anticipate fighting other gems instead of cloud-people, they have to worry about abrasions to their hands while fighting, and are thus patrolling with gloves.  The other possibility is that since Cinnabar has been fully (?) integrated into the group again, everyone has to be careful of what they touch, and they’ve taken to wearing gloves to lessen the risk of being contaminated by mercury.

Peridot and Sphene aren’t wearing gloves while patrolling in chapter 69, even though the earth gems were definitely counting on fighting the gems on the moon sooner or later, which makes me think it’s more likely that Cinnabar is the reason everyone’s wearing gloves.  Maybe it went something like this: up until the night raid, Cinnabar hadn’t been living with the other gems despite the fact that they must have been engaging with them.  But after the night raid, they start living with the others in the school, thus necessitating the gloves.

Once the sleep deprivation started kicking in I found myself engaging in the potentially meaningless venture of counting swords, gems, and who had swords and who didn’t in the second half of the chapter.  I may have found a couple of interesting things, so get your tinfoil hats ready.

On this page, we see all the earth gems sans Jade and Euclase, and of those gems, Sphene, Cinnabar, Obsidian, and Red Beryl are unarmed.  My first observation is that one of the gems who was unarmed grabbed a sword from somewhere and threw it at Phos.  There are only seven swords on this page, but—not counting Rutile’s scalpels—there are eight swords on the ground on the final page. 

Which begs the question: who threw the mystery sword?  We can rule out Jade or Euclase; they were standing in front of Phos and it’s clear from the positions of the blades on the ground that they were all thrown from behind.  Best-case scenario is that Sphene simply set their sword aside while checking the cage and grabbed it again off-panel.  Worst-case scenario would be if Cinnabar was the one who chucked the eighth sword at Phos.  I’m just gonna hope that they’re too frail to pick up a sword in the first place; please don’t dash my hopes Ichikawa.

Speaking of which, on the penultimate page, there are eight lines piercing Phos—one for each sword on the last page.  This makes me wonder: did Bort not attack Phos here?  Their whip is seemingly unrepresented in the stylized depiction of the weapons that shattered Phos, and it’s not entirely clear from the last page whether they used it or not.  Then again, Rutile’s scalpels are on the ground on the last page but absent from the previous page, so maybe I’m reading too deeply into it.  But the fact that Ichikawa was careful enough to have the number of swords match the number of black lines makes it a possibility worth keeping in mind.

This is what happens when I’m assigned to read The Tedious Misadventures of Tristan and Isolde.  I start procrastinating by going all True Crime over who exactly murdered Phos.  Anyway, see you guys next month when we find out whether the earth gems were nice enough to put Phos back together or if they just chucked the pieces out to sea.

[lucajpeg]

Soft Sculpture Tumblr Task

My initial concept for this project was not informed by research at all (though I did subsequently do my homework). The moment i read the words “future organism” (okay, first i read future orgasms, but aaaafter that) my mind ran in a million directions picturing squids and eyes and bellies and slime. The words future and organism are both heavy with association and aesthetic triggers for me. When Rowan mentioned his “nine-legged termite” I was reminded of an old tattoo I have of an animal called a “spiderbug”, half insect half spider, with three legs on one side and four on the other. Funnily enough I had never thought of that tattoo as an asymmetrical animal, but rather as two symmetrical animals morphed together. I drew the spiderbug when i was kind of high/ sad, thinking about mixed genders - mixed emotions  - mixed bodies. 

This meeting of the nine-legged termite and spiderbug sparked an aesthetic and conceptual interest in the idea of odd - as in numerically odd - animals. There are almost no externally asymmetrical animals (internally, humans’ hearts have an asymmetrical tilt to one side). There are birds with beaks that curve to the left, and some crabs have one larger pincer but asymmetrical structures are generally quite rare. Some animals, like sponges, have radial symmetry. Genes work with pattern and repetition, and it would only be in the case of mutation or trauma that a vertebrate animal would have an asymmetrical number of limbs (starfish have five rays, but these are not limbs!). Thinking about the idea of a future organism I am drawn to this idea of an impossible animal, one that wouldn’t work. Reading the article Rowan shared (and other sources too) it is increasingly obvious to what extent humans can manipulate (and overwrite completely) the “laws” and systems that govern how genes function.��“Nature” (whatever that means?!) no longer works through repetition and sequence. It can be cut up, edited, spliced, removed. 

Thinking about this concept of gene manipulation and trans-genic species I started conceptualising a biomorphic animal. I started researching and drawing together different biological structures from different animals. Because this project is so structural, I had a kind of “structure informed aesthetic”. I became drawn to animals with structures that interested me, such as tentacles, webbed feet, roll-up exoskeletons. A majority of my research has been looking at animal structures and skeletons. For example, I have designed a leg structure that is somewhere between a frog and a cockroach. 

Ruminating on future organisms and human’s relationship with nature it is almost impossible to insulate ones work from our current ecological crisis. You won’t be able to read about animals for long before coming across words like “endangered” or “extinct”. Resting on this, I began thinking about animal defences. Relating this to my concept of an “animal that wouldn’t work”, an “odd” animal, I started thinking about animal defences that don’t work, and the concept of impotent defences. 

Pangolins, for example, the animal that inspired the structure of the exoskeleton, are built for defence with a thick, impenetrable skin and the ability to roll into a ball. However, they are one of the most critically endangered animals in southern Africa. Frogs, often highly poisonous to people, are under major threat. I wanted to convey an animal that had an obviously defensive structure, and one that obviously wasn’t working. Fleshing out this idea, I decided to convey it further by putting the animal on it’s back, and rendering it’s stomach in a very soft material. I’ve also decided to put holes all over the exoskeleton. I’m going to cover its face with lots of eyes, but maybe use clear marbles or stones to convey blindness (perhaps as though it is a creature that usually lives underground).

This research process is continuous and receptive. I am constantly referring to images and biological diagrams to inform the making process. Sometimes this happens retrospectively- after I made the initial exoskeleton it started looking more like a pill bug than a pangolin, so I started using images of pill bugs to guide me. I’m sure this will continue when I move from the armature to the fabric. The cool thing with working with an imagined animal is that you can let this receptive and dynamic process go in any direction. 

Embedded deep behind this idea of impotent and dysfunctional nature is my underlying and continuos engagement with androgyny. Thinking about words like transgenic and trans-species warrants some thought on the prefix trans - which means on the other side of, or across from. Thinking about asymmetry and a physicality/materiality that goes against “nature” comes back to a lot of my thoughts and understandings about androgyny, and how non-normative genders are understood in biological terms. Where cis-heterosexuality is “natural” and logical, what does it mean to be unnatural? What does it mean to be a body that “doesn’t work”? Engaging conceptually with gender doesn’t always have to be about men and women, or even about humans at all.  I think our understanding of gender and the gender binary is inextricably linked to how people understand and narrate nature. Our narratives about nature inform our narratives about ourselves - and vice versa. With ecological discourse as well as with gender discourse there are dominant narratives, and other narratives that are often suppressed, colonised or erased. I once read a paper by a trans writer that kind of blew my mind, about how sea sponges (which have radial symmetry) are an example of a non-binary animal.

I like to imagine my spiderbug as a queer species, one that fits neither with God’s plan nor with human concepts of ordered and functional biology. It is not singular, or symmetrical, or binary. So much of our emphasis in science and research is on function: what can animals do for us, what can we take from them. There’s something kind of defiant and radical about an animal that can do nothing. 

KEY CONCEPTS/ GUIDING WORDS:

Biomorphic 

Asymmetry 

Transgenic 

Trans-species 

Dark ecology 

Impotency

Defence

Androgyny 

Queer species 

Spiderbug  

[stillebesat]

Contained DVD Commentary Part 1

Alright!! Let’s do this crazy thing!!! :D 

Warning: Spoilers for the Fic Contained. 

Guide: Italicized words are used to show pieces of the story. Normal words are my thoughts. In later parts Bold Deleted Scenes can be found. 

Contained.

I actually got the idea for this story in the End of December of last year (2017) after I’d seen @brighter-side ‘s Secret Santa Fanart for @virgils-jacket.

I managed to write the first two and a half chapters of the story before I got...well stuck and distracted with other fic ideas and so ended up putting the fic on the back burner for the most part until June when I actively started working on it to post it. ^^;; When working on a fic, I usually have a temporary title for the fic, a generic thing that helps me to quickly refind the story if I have to take a break from it. Funnily enough...Contained never had another name. It’s what I called it from the very beginning and when it came to come up with a title and post it...I decided to keep it as so. It was rather fitting after all.

Chapter 1. 

Surprisingly enough, this chapter has remained mostly unchanged from what I wrote back in Dec 2017. I may have tweaked a couple of words here and there and added a line or two, but overall I wrote this chapter nearly as a stream of consciousness using the feelings that the image had invoked within and trying to describe the scene I saw in the fanart. Creativity. Cramped. Trying to Escape. Crying. Wanting to Get out. I also was trying to convey that he’s been stuck in the box for a while. So like the imagery I used like “worn nearly to the bone” was meant to convey that concept and show that Creativity isn’t one to give up right away. He’s been fighting. He’s trying to find the way out. He’s wanting to prove to the Masters that he’ll be good and that he can follow their rules. (He really can’t. He’s Creativity. Rules are hard for him, especially when they constrain him from expressing himself.)   “Please. His legs twitched, having gone numb long ago from being stuck in the same cramped position for ages. A relief really, because if his legs were numb, then they weren’t screaming at him to stretch them, to move, to run, to play.” This particular paragraph is actually a semi-call back to a memory I have back in Jr. High...I think I was in like 8th grade? (14ish years old) in a Geography Class I took. I wasn’t even actively participating in the conversation at the moment (I was distracted doing something else, probably reading, I read a lot when I was younger) but when I tuned into the conversation the Teacher was telling another student what would happen if they ended up getting locked in one of the cupboards that lined the walls.

-These were short ones, with counter space on top to put things on- and she (the teacher) was telling the boy what would happen if he was curled up in the same position for hours on end and how his legs would go numb, and would twitch and cry out in agony to switch position and yah… O.o It’s one of the odder conversations I’ve tuned into halfway through. I don’t even know what prompted the topic to come up, nor do I remember what happened afterwards. But that thought of being trapped in tight spaces and how your legs react to them has stuck to me through the years. ^^;;

Creativity winced, feeling the lashes across his back from his last attempt to ‘play.’ It had been too energetic, too ‘happy.’ Too...too creative.

I think out of all the lines in this fic...this is the one I would change. I used the idea that the Masters had whipped Creativity mostly to show that they weren’t nice. That they were cruel and willing to hurt him to get him to behave. It was probably also a callback to you know...Pioneer Little House on the Prairie times where Teachers could beat their students with a belt or a ruler for when students didn’t behave right and needed to be ‘corrected.’

I don’t know if that line fits quite right with the narrative I ended up with in the rest of the story, but the imagery was used to convey that the Masters were trying to Contain Creativity even when he wasn’t in the box. They wanted him to be still, to be quiet, to walk and not run, etc. They wanted a properly behaved well mannered child who would follow them without question and The Masters would take harsher means to see their vision of proper behavior sustained. (It wasn’t good for Creativities. They’re a wild bunch)

He’d struggled for so long to escape the boxes his masters had put him into. He’d done so in an effort to please, to show that he could do more, be more than the boundaries surrounding him.

This section was the play on the concept of “think outside the box.” Creativity thought the boxes were just a challenge. That the Masters wanted him to find ways to get out. That it was a ‘physical representation’ of the saying above, and if he could be creative and think his way outside of each box the masters would be pleased with how creative he’d been and they would allow him more freedom to express himself because he ‘did it right’ this time.

It took him far too long to realize that the Masters were putting him in smaller and smaller boxes because they wanted him to be contained and think inside the rules and structures they’d outlined and to not try and go beyond what the Masters had outlined. (this is a physical concept of the ideal that if there’s too many rules, Creativity won’t be able to find any loopholes and he’ll have to stick within the guidelines given to him) Creativity did end up realizing it. The chapter actually focuses on this moment of realization (after way too long fighting to come out without getting out of the box) that the Masters wanted him to be the exact opposite of who he is. Still and Quiet and Complacent. He’s still struggling with the concept “wanting out” but realizing he can’t get out. So maybe maybe if he’s good and still and quiet the box will be made bigger so he can at least ‘stretch out’ his limbs (exercise his creativity) without being ‘outside’ the box (the rules).

“Light.” He whimpered, his burning fingers rubbing once more against the walls. Just a little light. A break from the endless dark. Anything. A small pinprick would be more than enough.

This sentence is a double meaning. Creativity is craving actual light of the sun as he’s been stuck in darkness for ages, and being able to see helps his creativity to flourish.

Kinda like the concept that looking outside or stepping outside can help brighten one’s mood and spark ideas to come when you’ve been struggling with a project for a while. But it’s also bringing in the concepts of a “Spark of Creativity” or the “Magic” of the world. After all there are little sparks -ideas- that people can give to each other, and Creativities can use those sparks and create/bring to life the ideas contained within each spark. A small prinprick would be enough. Creativities thrive off of new ideas, they love playing with them and exploring multiple routes and the Masters have left Creativity without a spark to play with for so long that he’s willing to take anything. The smallest of grains of sand just so that he can...well be himself and build off of an idea no matter how bad it is.

Left with nothing to inspire him. Only nightmares to haunt him whenever sleep found him.

This line has the feeling of ‘more meaning’ to it when I read it. Like I know I had something in mind when I mentioned these nightmares. But do I have any idea currently what I was thinking when I wrote the line? Not anymore. ^^;; lol. But I suppose it’s telling that if Creativities are left far too long without creative stimulation that their ability to think positively diminishes and that they are more prone to nightmares as Creativities are Light. Their creations tend to create awe and hope and happiness in others and in themselves so Creativities often have more vivid dynamic dreams that can’t be considered nightmares. The nightmares the bad thoughts and fears and doubts come when there’s not enough inspiration, not enough praise to them, etc. I suppose the nightmares are a type of metaphor of the lack of praise/recognition. It’s their doubts coming to the surface when they’re asleep etc.

The masters hadn’t come to see him in fiveever.

Sometimes it’s little tidbits like this that can help the reader gauge when I was actually writing the story. Fiveever was used here because The Sanders Sides 12 Days of Christmas video had come out like...four days before I began this fic and I loved Roman’s use of “It has been like Fiveever” in the video and so incorporated the term in the story. ^^;; lol. The use of fiveever also shows that despite his best intentions Creativity is still rebelling against the rules against the Masters. If he was truly wanting to follow their guidelines he would have used forever, though since that’s not a ‘measurable amount of time’ the Masters would have been happier if he’d used a term like “a long time” (Since Creativity has no idea how long he’s actually been in the box) to express how long he’s been stuck inside the box. But nope. Despite his best intentions, Creativity is still trying to improve on the foundations of others. Using Fiveever because it’s bigger than FOURever and Five has to be better than Four right? (It also shows he’s still quite young, as you’re more likely to hear children making up words like that than older people)

After all, the masters didn’t need him. Didn’t need Creativity anymore.

This line here is mostly a comment on the school system. About the same time I’d been working on this fic I believe there was a bit of discourse on Tumblr, or at least I’d seen some tumblr posts about how much the Arts were being taken out of school in favor of the Sciences. (and it’s been something I’ve been aware of for years now. Shortening recess, less funding for theatre performances in comparison to sports ((High School Musical Reference There)) getting rid of all the ‘fun’ things to convince students that they need to focus on the maths and sciences and be productive in society’ etc. It’s a thing where people don’t realize that you need creative expression in order to balance out oneself. To be able to think creatively in those Sciences. You need both Creativity and Logic in order to have a good project perform well and be well received. And yah. Just a comment that people don’t think you need Creativity in order to succeed. When really it helps a ton.

Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5

[jincherie]

Inheritance | pt.6 [FINAL*]

Pairing: Yoongi x reader Genre: fluff, hybrid!au, angst/conflict, future smut Words: 7k Rating: sfw Warnings: the toxic family strikes again!! Family discourse, swearing, angst? Notes: wow this took for-fucking-ever I am so sorry for being THAT bitch omg anyways enjoy!! btw I have something somewhat steamy planned for an afterstory— what? Nothing. Thanks for sticking with this so long, I hope you enjoy it! 

After your grandmother passed she left everything to you. Her house, her fortune, and apparently… her cat? The grumpy male hybrid you encounter at her house is anything but the tame housecat you’d expected to find. Fulfilling your grandmother’s last request to look after him becomes a lot harder when he seems to be avoiding you, and your dissatisfied relatives start stirring up trouble.

Masterlist || Prev. | Afterstory*

Two days had passed since Taehyung had come to visit, and you were cautiously optimistic. On one hand, you were feeling on top of the world. You hadn’t heard a peep from your relatives, you and Yoongi were closer than ever, and not only were the two of you enjoying each other’s company, but your skin was the clearest it had ever been— an unforeseen, but very welcome bonus. You had so many reasons to be overjoyed and content, and you were— until your mind ventured too far into the details.

You were counting it as a good thing that you hadn’t heard from your relatives, remaining optimistic that it was an indicator you’d gotten in ahead of them, and this whole thing would thus blow over smoothly. But really, the fact that you hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them was also cause for concern. If they hadn’t shown back up, then historically that meant they were plotting something, or enacting said plot. It was when your mind ventured down this particular track that you found your mood dropping. There was a fear that niggled in the back of your thoughts that maybe you’d been too late, that maybe they were one step ahead and there was still a possibility of losing Yoongi to them.

Thoughts like this brought your mood down, but in a house where you weren’t alone anymore you certainly weren’t left to dwell on it. Almost as though Yoongi had an extra sense that was attuned specially to you, the second you found yourself thinking something along those lines and your mood changed, he would be by your side. He’d grasp your hand in his— he’d grown a lot bolder since your venture to the park, although he still sported a pretty blush whenever he did something particularly daring— and tug you in the direction of the living room. With something playing on the large TV to serve as a visual distraction, he would pull you gently down next to him on the couch, his arm and tail curling around you securely as you slotted perfectly into his side. It was the perfect distraction, because even if the massive TV didn’t capture your attention, then being immersed in the warmth and safety of his embrace, surrounded by his subtle minty scent and feeling his heart thrum against your cheek where it pressed against his chest, certainly did.

In fact, it was a fairly similar position that you’d found yourself in now. It was a cold and dreary day, rain hammering down heavily outside and thunder rumbling in the distance, and you’d both finished lunch not long ago. You’d run out of things to do for the day, and so had suggested a movie— to your surprise Yoongi had agreed without a moments hesitation. Now here you both were, seated comfortably on the plushest couch in the living room with the lights off and a movie of the hybrid’s choice beginning to play on the large flatscreen.

You were seated close to each other, arms brushing occasionally, but neither of you moved. A part of you wished you could rest in his arms once more but you were far to embarrassed to even try and initiate anything of the sort. Instead you tried to distract yourself from those thoughts and focus on the movie, and you would have been able to had something not been flickering your peripheral vision.

It was Yoongi’s ears, twitching and shifting as they adjusted to each sound and voice that came from the TV. His gaze was trained on the screen, but as you turned to watch his ears fully he eventually noticed your gaze. He turned slightly, the lightest traces of a blush on his cheeks, “What?”

You couldn’t help the flush that heated your own cheeks as you were torn from your thoughts and realised he’d caught you staring— you’d been thinking about what his ears would feel like, what it would be like to pet them. You weren’t going to lie, it was a thought you’d entertained a lot, and sitting so close to him like you were now, the urge was a lot stronger than it usually was. On a whim, you decided to just go for it.

“Can I pet your ears?” you asked before you lost the impulse that had carried you this far. Yoongi blinked, eyes wide in shock. All of his attention was now on you, and you could feel your cheeks heating even more. Slight regret began to seep into your bones and you stuttered slightly, about to take it back when the hybrid beside you spoke.

“Sure,” Yoongi said, a slight nervous waver to his gravelly tone that you mightn’t have picked up had you not been living with him for a while. His cheeks were bright pink and you had to resist the strange urge to coo at his cuteness that rose within you. “You can, uh… you can pet them.”

You couldn’t help the bright smile that overtook your face at his permission, your hand raising immediately to get started. It must have alarmed Yoongi however, as he suddenly squawked, “Gently!”

You giggled, moving slower and first resting your hand on his head, slowly brushing your fingers through his hair. His raven locks were surprisingly soft, silky against your skin. The hybrid watched you curiously, like he was wondering exactly what you were going to do, and it struck you as a bit odd.

“Yoongi,” you began, scratching your nails lightly down his scalp. His eyes fluttered closed in bliss, mouth dropping open slightly as the softest of noises began to build in his chest. He hummed, and you continued, “Has anyone ever pet your ears before?”

“No,” he mumbled distractedly as your nails scratched just behind one of his ears, that sound in his chest growing louder as you continued your ministrations. It took you a second to realise that he was purring, like some big overgrown cat. Your heart skipped a beat, and you had to squash a squeal that threatened to rise up your throat.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, but Yoongi was enjoying himself far too much to even notice you’d said anything. You used your nails to scratch lightly up his ear and his body sagged, tension leaving his form all at once as his body leant into your touch. His purring grew even louder, the sound bordering on what you’d hear in big cats when they growled, except lighter, less threatening. His fluffy, raven tail was thrashing and curling happily behind him.

You continued petting him, drinking in his blissful reactions, but soon enough your arm began to grow tired from being held up the entire time. You spoke on another whim, “Yoongi, lay your head on my lap. My arm is starting to hurt.”

You’d expected a bit of backlash, maybe a cheeky comment in return, but all you got was a hybrid dropping his head on your lap without so much as a split-second of hesitation, purrs rumbling from his throat and vibrating along your leg. His hand came up to grip your thigh and he cuddled closer, pressing against you contently. You had to squash the soft gasp that accompanied the several skipped beats your heart performed; he was like putty in your hands and you could hardly believe it. You immediately went back to work, with both hands this time— you didn’t want to squander the opportunity he was presenting to you and ruin the moment.

Yoongi looked like he’d never been in such a state of utter happiness and bliss before, and to be honest it sparked a certain amount of pride in you to know you were the one making him feel this way. You alternated between dragging your nails gently down his scalp and rubbing the soft, black fur on his ears, rubbing your thumb against the flow of hair then back over again to smooth it. Yoongi didn’t stop purring the entire time, his whole body lax where it lay across your lap and the couch.

Eventually you trailed your hand further, dragging your nails and scratching at where his hairline met the nape of his neck, eliciting a shudder and a pleased hum from the hybrid under your hands. You continued like this as the movie went on, although truthfully at this point neither of you were watching it.

After a while you strayed more, one hand rubbing his scalp and ears and the other dragging your nails over his back soothingly. When you first did it, it was almost like Yoongi had literally melted onto the couch, a soft noise of happiness escaping against your thigh as his grip around it tightened slightly. It was like you were petting one big cat. From the sounds he would make, and the way his purring picked up each time you scratched down the length of his spine, he was enjoying it a lot.

You found it in yourself to tease him a bit, “I thought big cats couldn’t purr?”

Yoongi grumbled, but the happy swishing and curling of his tail in the air betrayed his true emotions. “Shut up,” he said weakly, emitting a particularly loud purr as you scratched his lower back above his tail. He sounded sleepy yet seemed surprisingly awake. “I do what I want.”

The sleek, fluffy appendage curled to wrap loosely around your wrist, keeping you there whether it was his intention or not, and you let out a soft chuckle both at his words and his actions. Gently, since you were unsure whether he would receive it well, you shifted your hand and dragged your fingers ever so lightly over the length of his tail. The appendage trembled happily, curling over your fingers, and Yoongi let out a happy sigh. You were glad you’d mustered the will to ask him— this was the closest you’d ever been with him, and it was making your tummy do flips.

You continued your ministrations, alternating every so often, until you grew slightly bored and as a result more adventurous. The whole time you’d only used your nails on Yoongi’s back and head, including his ears, and he’d received it pretty well. You’d only been dragging your fingers lightly through the fur on his tail thus far, and hadn’t gone very far down his tail— you’d always stop whenever you grew near the base of his tail where it joined his spine, and begin to move your hand back up. To be honest, you knew historically cats had sensitive tails, and you’d been very cautious not to hurt him and ruin the moment. But since he’d taken it so well, you wondered if he’d receive it just as well should you use your nails to gently drag over his appendage as you had done to his back, head and ears.

You decided to give it a try, moving your hand to the base of his tail and dragging your nails gently along the length of it until you reached the fluffy end. The reaction you received was much different to the one you expected; Yoongi jerked, hand gripping your thigh tightly as a large shudder rolled down his spine and a noise that sounded suspiciously like a moan escaped against your leg. He pulled back suddenly from your lap, chest heaving slightly, and his wide, dilated feline eyes found yours. The feeling that washed over you as he held your gaze was foreign, something you’d never gotten from him before, but it lit something deep in your belly that had a soft gasp passing your lips in shock.

The air between you was thick with something else until the hybrid blinked, breaking the hold he had on you, and his entire face flushed pink. As soon as his eyes released you your mind caught up with you and you panicked slightly, hands going to his shoulders. “Oh shit, Yoongi I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?”

He flushed further, if possible, and he stuttered slightly as he answered, “N-no! No, you didn’t hurt me. Nothing you did caused me pain.”

You couldn’t help the confused tilt of your head, “Then why—”

Yoongi sputtered, averting his gaze as he struggled to arrange his thoughts coherently, “It’s— you, my tail, um… Sensitive. My tail is…very… sensitive.”

“Oh,” you said, eyes widening. “Oh. Whoops. Uh… sorry.”

Yoongi’s cheeks were bright red, and he was looking anywhere but at you. Even though you were slightly embarrassed yourself, you couldn’t help but find his mannerisms cute. Several beats of silence passed between you, the only noise in the room coming from the long-forgotten movie playing on the TV, before he suddenly spoke once more.

“Can you, uh…” he swallowed, scratching the back of his neck. “Can you keep… petting my ears?”

At your surprised, and slightly amused look, he rushed to explain, “It’s just, no one has ever pet my ears before and it felt really… it felt nice. Please?”

You stared at him a second, admiring how awkward he was being compared to usual and trying to swallow your own embarrassment as you did so. You shot him a bright, reassuring smile. “Of course, sweet Suga. Lay your head down again and I shall hop right to it.”

Yoongi grumbled, quickly forgetting his embarrassment at the mention of your grandma’s nickname for him, but lowered his head onto your lap once more nonetheless. The second your hands brushed through his hair and scratched behind his ears his loud, rumbling purrs started up once more and a smile slipped onto your face. He was so cute— a big, overgrown cat.

The movie passed with the both of you sitting content, enjoying each other’s presence and revelling in your touch. Just like usual, with Yoongi by your side all of your worries melted into nothing and you were soothed once more.

x     x     x     x     x     x     x

It was three days after Taehyung came to visit, and earlier that morning you’d received a text from the blonde that had caused your stomach to drop slightly.

TaeTae [9:14AM] somethings come up with the paperwork don’t worry its nothing bad!! just… different? Strange?? I’ll give you a call later!

Needless to say, you were somewhat concerned. You had a nagging feeling ever since you’d woken up earlier that something was off today, and receiving that text from Taehyung didn’t help one bit. What if the paperwork wasn’t going through? Did Yoongi’s previous owners somehow still have a claim on him? What were you going to do if it turned out you couldn’t adopt him legally and keep him safe? You didn’t want him to go, you wanted him to stay— and not just because your grandmother had asked you to care for him, but because you cared for him. He’d admitted he wanted to stay with you, and spend the rest of his time with you, and you— you felt the same way. He’d grown on you so quickly, so suddenly in such a short amount of time and already you couldn’t imagine your future without him there. You didn’t want to live in this house if he wasn’t there to keep you company, shooting you gummy smiles when you complimented his cooking and bought him icecream, comforting and cuddling you when you were feeling down; your grandmother’s house had quickly become a home to you, but only because Yoongi was here too.

Perhaps, it was really Yoongi that had become a home to you.

Instantly you blushed at the thought— that was so god damn cheesy and you couldn’t believe you thought it with your own mind. It felt sudden, and quick, but honestly it was true, despite how much your logical side cringed. Being with Yoongi felt right to you, and it wasn’t something you wanted to change any time soon, or at all.

You were concerned, but ultimately couldn’t do anything, and so just decided to wait until Taehyung called you to see what was up. You were probably overreacting— it was probably something dumb, miniscule even.

Either way, you’d needed a distraction, which is how you found yourself in your current situation. You were upstairs, making your bed like a responsible adult and sorting your laundry. Boring but necessary, and you felt better after doing it. You’d spent the morning cleaning your room to keep your mind off unwelcome thoughts, and to be honest had made good progress. However you could only clean for so long; you had a short attention span after all, and you were getting bored. That’s why you’d welcomed it when you were midway through throwing clothes in the basket and a call from downstairs stole your attention.

“y/n? Come here for a second.”

Curious as to what the panther hybrid and only other occupant of the house could possibly want, you gladly ditched the clothes and plodded down the stairs. As your feet touched the bottom floor a pleasant, absolutely mouth-watering smell reached your nose and you honest to god nearly moaned out loud. You instinctively followed the delectable scent to the kitchen and were only somewhat surprised to see Yoongi by the bench, fanning a tray of what looked like chocolate chip cookies. You nearly leapt for joy.

“Aw, Suga,” you cooed the nickname, shuffling forward happily to slip your arms around his back in a playful manner. He jumped, having heard you approach but not expecting the intimate position he found himself in. “You made cookies? How domestic. They look amazing.”

Yoongi tried to scowl but there wasn’t any heart in it. The slightest of smiles was tugging his lips, fondness leaking into his deep tone, “Shut up or you don’t get any,” he grumbled, peering at you over his shoulder as you parted from his back, your fingers lingering against his sides for a split-second longer. “And of course they look amazing, I made them. They taste amazing too.”

You laughed, moving so you were standing beside him, and going to grab a cookie off the tray. Yoongi’s lightning reflexes made an appearance as he swatted your hand before you could even touch one, eliciting a surprised yelp. “Yah idiot, don’t touch them yet. They’re still hot.”

You pouted, gaze longingly trained on the steaming cookies that were taunting you from the bench. Yoongi snickered at your expression, taking a cookie off of a tray you hadn’t noticed slightly to the side and bringing it up to your lips. “You can have this one, it’s cooled down more.”

You took the offered treat eagerly between your teeth, before he decided to take it back, and nearly moaned out loud the second you bit into it. Chocolate, warm and gooey, melted onto your tongue and the cookie broke into separate, delicious bits of sweetness and sugar in your mouth. Where the hell had he been hiding such an ability?

“Yoongi,” you shot him a wide-eyed look. “How could you keep this from me so long? You have a gift.”

There was a blush forming on the hybrid’s cheeks that had a certain fondness blossoming in your heart. “Stop being so dramatic,” he scoffed half-heartedly, averting his gaze to the cookies as he began moving them off the tray. “They’re just cookies.”

At the sound of him telling you to stop being dramatic, you immediately did the opposite and amped up the dramatics tenfold. You draped an arm over his shoulder as you spoke, “Just cookies? Cookies that taste like they were made at the hands of a god, you mean.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, and while he was distracted you took the opportunity to nab the cookie he was currently transferring and shove it in your mouth. He let out an affronted noise and you giggled, almost choking as you did so before you recovered smoothly and swallowed, shooting him a winning smile that elicited yet another eyeroll. You were feeling so warm, on top of the world almost, your heart swelling with nothing but love and affection for the hybrid before you. You almost didn’t notice when there was a series of shuffles behind you.

“Ah, how sweet.”

And all at once your heart dropped and the grin froze on your face. Yoongi’s ears shot up and back, gaze whipping behind you and his tail thrashing in agitation behind him as his hackles rose. You turned, your fear confirmed by the sight of your two aunts before you and several officers behind them. They donned different uniforms to officers that patrolled the streets— these men worked for what was commonly known to as the Pound, a government-managed unit that monitored and oversaw hybrid affairs. You could resist your aunts, but these officers? Legally, your hands were tied. Dread touched your lungs and stole the breath from your lips with creeping tendrils, your eyes wide and mind racing to take in the situation in its entirety. It hit you at once, and immediately you felt nauseous.

If they were here, that meant they’d already taken action— if they were here, it meant they’d already been successful.

It meant they were here to take Yoongi, and without papers or hearing back from Taehyung, there was nothing you could do to stop them.

It was like all of your worst fears had manifested at once. You could feel the animosity emanating from the hybrid behind you, a low growl splitting the air in a similar fashion to the last time your aunts had arrived unannounced. He was responding to the threat before him and you could feel the danger as it danced in the air and caressed your skin. You felt Yoongi’s hand grip the back of your shirt and you found yourself clinging to the slight sense of calm and comfort it brought you.

“Neither of you are welcome here,” you said sharply, eyes narrowed in a cold glare. “Get out of this house. Now.”

Priscilla grinned, a sight that further cemented the dread filling your stomach. She knew she’d already won, she knew she’d gotten in before you’d had a chance to fight back, and she was revelling in it. Her perfectly curled blonde locks tumbled from her shoulder as she tilted her head, crimson-painted lips splitting in her glee. They’d dressed up for the occasion, visage immaculate and fit for the cover of any prestigious magazine. Designer clothes adorned their svelte forms, limbs heavy with gold and jewels. Looking at them, a special type of anger began to simmer within you. How could they be so selfish, so petty? They already had everything they could ever need, yet you could tell they weren’t going to rest until you had nothing left.

“Honey,” she brought her fingers to rest on her chin, gel nails glimmering. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be telling us what to do right now.”

Janine gazed down at her nails, inspecting the flawless pink manicure as her high tone pierced the air, sickly sweet coating causing a peculiar cocktail of anger and nausea to bubble up your oesophagus. The officers behind her shifted slightly at the sound of her voice. “y/n, dear, you know why we’re here. You can make this much easier for everyone if you cooperate and do what we want.”

You bristled, and there was a spike in the snarls tearing from Yoongi’s throat as he sensed your emotional distress. The hand on your shirt tightened slightly.

You knew there was truly nothing you could do, but you weren’t about to lay down and let them take your hybrid without a fight. “No,” you glared, “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again— you can’t take him. I won’t let you.”

Priscilla grinned, clapping her delicately gloved hands together. “Honey, you don’t have a choice!” she crowed, pulling a folded piece of paper from her coat pocket and unfolding it before your eyes. “We have written permission from his previous owners, and I think you know what that means, y/n.”

You did, and it only caused the hopeless frustration within you to grow. You felt it as Yoongi stiffened behind you, his grip on your shirt tightening and his elongated nails piercing the fabric to prick your skin.

“I’m not going anywhere with any of you,” Yoongi spoke up from behind you, voice low with a dark, unspoken promise lining its edge that had your hairs raising and a visible shudder rolling through the women before you. The officers seemed slightly more resistant to the effects of the predator hybrid’s snarls and threatening air.

Janine piped in with glee, repeating Priscilla’s earlier words, “You don’t have a choice! This letter means our claim is the only one the courts will recognise. Even if it’s by force,” her head tilted to the officers behind her in a reminder, “you will be coming with us.”

One of the officers, a large, bulky man to the left of your aunt, took a step forward, and you immediately took one back. Your arm flew out on instinct, as though to prevent him from getting to Yoongi, as your back bumped into his chest. The frustration within you bubbled and curled against your lungs, shortening your breath and luring panic from where it lay dormant within you. There was nothing you could do, but you needed to do something.

“No!” you couldn’t stop the cry as it tore from your throat. You glared further at the two of the people that had done nothing but hurt you for their own gain your entire life. “I will not let you take him. He doesn’t deserve whatever shit you’re going to throw at him, and he most certainly doesn’t deserve to be stuck with two nasty old women who are so embittered with their own lives and who they are that the only thing they know to do is ruin the lives of people around them. He deserves better than you.”

“y/n, please,” your aunt rolled her eyes, sending a spike of fury down your spine. She flicked her blonde curls back over her shoulder, adjusting her stance. The heel of her Valentino clacked against the tile floor. “Save the dramatics— you’re an adult, darling. Act like one, and we won’t have a problem here.”

Yoongi snarled, and while Priscilla cowered your other aunt voiced her agreement, “The officers here aren’t just for the hybrid, y/n. If you resist they will restrain you, and we will take him by force.”

The absolute smug satisfaction painting Janine’s fine features had your blood boiling, all of your helplessness and frustration melting into white hot fury that had angry tears pricking your eyes. All of this was so sudden, so abrupt, and you just wanted them to go. The officers moved to step forward and Yoongi stepped around your arm protectively, snarling louder.

“Why are you doing this?!” you burst, your voice breaking slightly and teeth gritting painfully as you struggled to contain the fury welling within you. More tears pricked your eyes. “Why are you so intent on ruining everything for everyone else?! My parents, grandma… you never stopped trying to sabotage every aspect of their lives, and even now you’re acting out of sheer spite! Why are you so full of hate?!”

Your aunts looked taken aback, the officers’ gazes flitting between yourself and them, before the two women snapped from their daze. Priscilla stepped forward, cold fury freezing her gaze as her eyes narrowed at you. Her manicured hands curled into fists. “Our mother— that bitch always played favourites,” she hissed, pretty features contorting into an ugly glare. “We were never good enough for her, none of us, except your mother and her stupid, perfect husband. She played favourites then, and even now when she’s six feet in the fucking ground she’s playing favourites again and giving everything to you!”

She stepped forward, ignoring the snarl that tore from Yoongi’s throat at the action. Her face was red in anger. “We should be the ones getting that inheritance, not some snivelling little brat that somehow managed to make it into the good books by birthright alone,” another step closer, another ugly scowl as she spit the words like venom from her mouth, “I don’t care if we have to tear it from your bloody fingers, sweetheart, we’re getting what is owed to us— and if we can’t take anything else, we’re taking him.”

“Nothing is owed to you!” you snapped, glaring at the women who were trying to take the final, most precious person in your life. “Maybe if you weren’t such horrible, nasty people you’d see that the only thing stopping you from getting anything from her was your own hateful actions! You’re all selfish, and manipulative, and you have no one to blame for the way things turned out but yourselves!”

You switched your glare between them, angry tears finally budding and slipping down your cheeks. Yoongi’s head whipped to look at you the second they touched your skin. “She was right to keep everything from you, you destroy everything you touch. You’re willing to blame your own mother even after her death for your own shortcomings. You’re toxic.”

Your aunts were livid, fuming as Yoongi switched his stance and took your hand in his.

“That’s enough!” Janine snarled, her brunette locks flying as she marched forward. She jabbed her fingers at the officers. “You, get that hybrid and restrain him, now! We didn’t bring you to stand around and do nothing!”

The officers jerked into motion and, eyes wide, you cried out in protest. You felt entirely helpless. “Don’t!”

Sensing your distress and catching sight of more tears slipping down your cheeks, Yoongi pulled you closer protectively, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and turning you away from the other people in the room. You heard Janine scoff, “Oh, how touching. You fools, hurry up and get him. I want her away from him and I want that hybrid so we can leave.”

You screwed your eyes shut as Yoongi’s embrace around you tightened, the officers beginning to advance further. They didn’t make it more than three steps before there was a loud bang and a deep shout that echoed against the walls, “STOP!”

Everything froze, and several beats of your heart filled your ears before recognition lit in the back of your mind and you were pulling back to see Taehyung rushing into the room, another man with dark red hair hot on his heels. The blonde was slightly out of breath as he halted, taking in the scene before him. His eyes narrowed, and you noticed a new hesitance in the officers that hadn’t been there before. “Taehyung,” you whispered, confusion and relief filling you all at once, and Yoongi pulled back to turn and see for himself, his grip on your hand never faltering.

“You can’t take him,” Taehyung spoke simply, with an authority and firmness you’d never before heard in his voice, his usual playful lilt long gone. The officers wavered, while your aunts simmered.

Priscilla stepped forward, waving the paper in her grasp with a smug smile to mask her anger. “On the contrary,” she said, unable to hide the spite in her tone. “We have paper-proof that—”

“A signed letter of acknowledgement from previous owners means nothing if the hybrid is not unregistered or unclaimed,” Taehyung said coldly, glaring at the blonde with such intensity that she took a firm step back, eyes widening in shock. You struggled to keep up with his words, however, confusion whirling amongst your thoughts.

At Priscilla’s silence, Janine sputtered, “Stop spouting nonsense!” she snarled, ripping the letter from her sister’s grasp. “This is all we need— with this the court acknowledges we have the right to the hybrid—”

“Haven’t you been listening?” Taehyung snapped, moving towards where you and Yoongi stood near the bench. “The letter means nothing before the court if there is already a claim or ownership in place. Yoongi is not unregistered or unclaimed.”

Your eyes flew to Taehyung’s face, mouth hanging open in shock. What on earth did he mean Yoongi wasn’t unclaimed or unregistered? He’d said it himself, Yoongi had been apart from his previous owners long enough that their ownership had become void, and your grandmother had never claimed him. Your mind was whirling— his text earlier, the fact that he’d just burst in now, what he was saying now— what the hell did it all mean?!

“There is no possible way for the hybrid to be anything but unclaimed,” Priscilla hissed, hands curling in rage. “There wasn’t enough time for that brat to fill out and lodge forms—”

Taehyung shook his head, “There wasn’t,” he agreed, but his gaze remained icy where it fell upon the two women. “But she didn’t need to. Yoongi is already in her name.”

A soft gasp fell from your lips, shock palpable on your aunts’ faces. It took only a moment for their expressions to cross over to realisation. “That bitch,” Janine hissed, venom dripping from each word.

Taehyung ignored their apparent revelation. “With a current ownership in place, you cannot take Yoongi,” he stated, gaze hard.

Your aunts didn’t react well. Janine bristled, Priscilla jerking forward. “Who the hell do you think you are?” she barked, changing her approach to the situation. “The words of some boy who just waltzed in here mean nothing to me, and sure as hell aren’t going to stop me from taking that hybrid. Officers, hurry and get him!”

Contrary to what you expected, the officers did nothing. Not a single one of them moved from their spots, and it infuriated your aunt like nothing you’d ever seen before. You watched as some of them shot nervous glances to the other people in the room. What the hell was going on—?

“Are you all deaf?” her voice rose with her rage. “I said, get that hybrid! I can and will make your lives miserable!”

There was a beat of silence before someone stepped forward, and your eyes widened in surprise. The red-haired male that had followed Taehyung in pinned the two women with a hard glare, hand reaching into his suit pocket to pull out a badge that glinted in the light.

“They’re not going to be doing anything of the sort while their superior is here to witness it,” he said dryly, looking vastly unimpressed. The Pound officers shifted, uncomfortable beneath his hard gaze. His eyes flicked to your aunts. “I’m Jung Hoseok, head of the Department of Hybrid Services. Those officers answer to me.”

You watched as the colour visibly drained from your aunts’ faces. At their stunned silence, the red-haired male, Hoseok, continued, “From what I’ve just witnessed, I have enough to charge you both with serious offences. Attempting to forcefully remove a claimed and registered hybrid from their owner falls under hybrid trafficking, after all, and I think you understand how serious and punishable those offences are.”

For the first time in your life, you witnessed fear enter your relatives’ eyes. Hybrid trafficking was one of the most serious and punishable offences— sentences were never light.

“You cannot legally take this hybrid, and you will not ever be able to. I suggest you leave before the list of offences grows and I am forced to take further action,” Hoseok jerked his head to the door, dark eyes still narrowed in a firm glare as they found the officers and he ordered them, “Escort them out and inform them of what shall happen should they ever step foot back on this property and violate the restraining order I am going to lodge.”

And just like that, you were watching as the officers escorted your aunts out of the room and off the property. Even amongst their apparent shock, they found the will to glare at you as they passed by. They yelled, screaming insults and protests as they were forcibly removed from the house, but they weren’t stupid enough to try and fight back physically. Your eyes followed their angry forms until they were no longer within view, shock coursing through your mind as you struggled to comprehend the situation that had concluded just as rapidly and suddenly as it had begun.

Distantly, the door clicked shut behind them, the deadbolt automatically sliding home and a soft beep echoing through the air. No one spoke for a second, and as you turned to grill Taehyung for answers the red-haired man, Hoseok, suddenly let out a great breath and visibly deflated. He spun then, a brilliant, megawatt smile on his face as he stuck his hand out at you— Yoongi didn’t even have time to growl protectively before you were shaking the offered appendage and listening to him introduce himself.

“Woah, what a way to meet!” he laughed amicably, smile lighting up the room. You were in slight shock at the further turn of events. “Anyway, as I’m sure you just heard, I’m Jung Hoseok. I’m Taehyung’s boss.”

Your eyes widened in realisation as you shook his hand, but confusion still ebbed at your thoughts. “I’m y/n,” you said, before continuing, “Thank you so much, Mr Jung, for helping like you did. Please excuse me for asking, but didn’t you say before you were…?”

Hoseok’s dark eyebrows rose, but the smile never left his face. “Just Hoseok, please!” he requested, before responding to your latter question. “And the head of the Department of Hybrid Services? That I am, miss y/n. Both the Pound— or the Specialised Hybrid Management Unit, I should say— and authorised shelters like the one Taehyung here manages, answer to me. They’re both different branches of the same department, after all.”

Your mouth formed a silent ‘o’ in realisation. “Ah,” was all you could manage. “Thank you, again. I have no idea what I would have done if you two hadn’t come— which reminds me. Taehyung.”

The blonde turned to you, quizzical expression on his face before he realised your current train of thought. You spoke it anyway, rubbing your thumb over Yoongi’s hand where it remained in your grasp as you felt him shift anxiously beside you. “What did you mean before, when you were saying all that stuff.”

“Oh!” Taehyung beamed, reaching into his pocket to procure a bunch of papers folded into a haphazard square that left much to be desired. “That’s what I was going to call you about! Your paperwork was going through the final stages this morning when something came up. It was an error in the registry section, and I couldn’t understand how since Yoongi, legally, should have been unregistered.”

You listened with wide eyes as he continued, hands gesticulating each word greatly. “So I did some further digging— this was after I messaged you by the way— and found out why our system wouldn’t let your claim process. It turns out Yoongi wasn’t actually unclaimed, he was recently registered under someone’s name.”

Your brows furrowed in a display of your confusion, gears whirring in your mind as you remembered what he’d said earlier to your aunts. “But the claim I filled out with you was the only one I did,” you said, meeting his large, brown eyes. “There’s no way I could have—”

“You didn’t,” Taehyung agreed, smiling gently. “But your grandmother did. Her name was Lola, right?”

At the mention of your grandmother’s name tears pricked your eyes; she really had planned for everything. She’d taken care of every single thing for you, even until the very end. A breath you didn’t even realise you’d been holding escaped you in a big rush. “Yeah,” you said, trying to ignore the way your eyes were burning. You offered a watery smile, and felt Yoongi move closer, grasping your hand tighter. “That’s her.”

Taehyung’s pleasant eyes were soft as they met yours, a comforting smile on his lips. “She took care of everything— you don’t need to do a single thing. Yoongi is legally under your care.”

It took a second for it to sink in, for both you and Yoongi, but when it did you straightened, eyes shooting wide. “Wait, so we’re— he’s safe? Really?”

Taehyung nodded, and you were unable to contain the short shriek that escaped you before you managed to slap a hand over your mouth. The sheer amount of relief that flooded you, accompanying the realisation that he was free— you were both free— was almost too much. Elation bubbled excitedly behind your ribs, filling your lungs with glee. You turned to Yoongi, ready to throw your arms around him, but he was one step ahead of you.

He took you in his arms, grinning that beautiful gummy smile you’d come to love at the surprised yelp you let out, and spun you about happily. You laughed, and you could hear Taehyung and Hoseok joining you from where they stood at the entrance to the kitchen.

Yoongi was speaking at you so fast, so overcome with happiness that he could finally, for sure, stay with you, that you didn’t have a chance at understanding what he was saying. But that was fine, because you definitely understood what he did next. Your feet brushed the ground and he placed you back on the floor, but you weren’t still for long before he tugged you closer and his hands cupped your cheeks. His lips met yours in a surge of happiness-induced bravery and warmth blossomed in your chest, butterflies fluttering against your ribcage and tickling your insides.

When he pulled back it was with a happy blush, and he tugged you closer once more, burying his face into your neck. Amongst the slight shock and flurry of emotions overtaking your thoughts, you knew one thing.

You’d never been more sure of anything than you were that you truly loved Min Yoongi, the beautiful hybrid your grandmother left in your care.

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