#sam proctor

[wiiildflowerrr]

On the Road with 5 Seconds of Summer: Sound engineering for the Meet You There tour, 2018.

This is mainly for those who are *really* into the techy side of putting on a 5SOS show... although this made me laugh:

'...Mixing 5SOS has some really unique challenges elucidated Phil! For many of their young fanbase, it could be their first show, so it’s essential to make it memorable. While their intense excitement and screaming can engulf the room … he can’t mix too loudly “or their fragile hearing is toast”...'

Karen Ringland, Production Manager (as in, 🍌 "What the fuck, Karen?!" "Yeah, Karen - what the fuck?!")

Touring crew L-R Pavan Grewall, Sam Proctor, Marc Peers & Phil Gornell

[arathejedi394]

snippet from ch6 of my spn x stucky crossover

Bucky wakes up wishing he hadn't. His head has a dozen hot knives stabbing into it, he’s nauseous, his eyeballs feel sticky and sandy, and his body generally aches all over. He groans and turns onto his back, covering his eyes with both hands.

“RISE AND SHINE, LOOK ALIVE, PLANET STARSHINE!”

Bucky goes flailing out of his bunk, landing on his back with his splitting headache making him see double as Betty leans down over him.

“You were not here yesterday,” Bucky says carefully as he shakes a finger up at her. 

“You drank tequila again,” Betty answers.

“In my defense, I have a son I didn’t know about!” Bucky retorts.

“Whoa, wait, hold up,” Betty says, making a time-out sign with her hands. “You’re not still drunk, are you?”

“No!” Bucky says, sitting up. “Why do you think I was drinking tequila! I found out I have a fucking son!”

Betty looks over at Becca. “Not the –”

“The stripper,” Becca confirms. “Who was still nineteen when Beaureguard knocked him up. Twenty-seven now.”

“Cradle-robber,” Betty scolds Bucky. “You’re old enough to be his father!”

“I hate you all,” Bucky says, lying back down on the floor. “Can somebody bring me some fucking Excedrin?”

“Here,” Benny says to him, handing him a cup.

Bucky just drinks it, and then he spits it out and starts wiping his tongue off. “What is this?!”

“Do you want your hangover cured or not?”

Bucky looks up at Benny, horrified. “I can’t just take Excedrin and eat saltines?”

“No,” Benny tells him firmly, “because somebody took the day off early yesterday to go binge drink two bottles of tequila while we still have thirty-three missing children and whatever’s taking them to locate.”

“Fuck, I have a child,” Bucky says, sitting up. “What if he gets taken?” 

“NO!” all three of his sisters shout as Bucky tries to scramble to his feet.

“If you think you’re going to run off and tell Steve all half-cocked his kid might be in danger, you deserve the hangover!” Betty snaps.

“Kid’s mine, too!” Bucky argues.

“But you don’t have custody of the kid!” Betty says angrily. “If my ex showed up out of nowhere and told me Vinnie was in danger, you know who I’d think is the danger?”

Bucky sinks to the floor. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Betty snaps. “He’d call the cops on you! And thanks to somebody’s suicidal tendencies and a need to banish six hundred and sixty-six fucking demons, you got the finger for almost a hundred fucking murders pointed at you!”

Bucky grimaces. “They don’t know what I look like,” he points out. “All they got’s are my boot prints.”

“Your boots are so old, they are practically fingerprints!” Betty counters. “Replace them, for Jesus’s sake!”

“They’re perfectly good boots!” Bucky argues. “What cop’s gonna check my boot prints?”

“You wanna end up like the Winchesters?” Betty demands. “A nation-wide manhunt just for your sorry ass!”

“No,” Bucky mutters.

“Good!” Betty says. “Now! When did you get a child?”

“He’s seven,” Bucky says, looking up at her. “Eight in December.”

“Oh,” Betty mutters. “So Steve was pregnant when you broke up and you didn’t know? He didn’t tell you?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Wouldn’t leave a voicemail. I don’ think he knew ‘til after I was gone. He would’ve said when I left if he did. He stopped calling a few months after I left.”

“Oof,” Betty says. “Guys… Maybe we should let him hole up in the bus all day…”

“Two whole bottles of tequila!” Becca argues. “He was five shots away from alcohol poisoning!”

“Rebecca,” Betty murmurs.

“Elizabeth!” Becca counters. “He dented my bus with his stupid boots!” 

“Alright. Gimme that,” Betty says, taking the hangover cure from Benny. “Buckentosh, you go back to bed.”

“Tha’s a new one,” Bucky says, crawling back into his bunk. “Why’d I sleep in my jacket?”

“Because you drank two bottles of tequila!” Becca shouts.

“Bitch, please, my head,” Bucky mutters.

“You’re the bitch. You fell in love with a stripper seventeen years younger than you.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky grumbles.

[augustusaugustus]

15.13 Badlands

STAMP: I thought he was going on leave. LENNOX: So did we all.

Everyone’s so good in this episode. Some seriously great acting across the board. While it’s Dave who’s it’s life & death for, this is really a John Boulton character study episode. I’m not sure if this is the first time someone calls him Robocop, but having George say it here is so perfect because from start to finish this is an episode about John being anything but a robot. He feels things very deeply, but is super uncomfortable with emotions, so he tries to overcome the feelings through action, with no thought about anything but fixing the feelings by putting the bad guys behind bars. Of course, it’s not always that easy, so all that emotion escapes in the form of anger/violence. And then, when it’s over, he has to face the consequences of acting without thinking and the guilt of innocent people being caught in the crossfire, and the pattern starts all over again.

I don’t know why it is, but the most important episodes always seem to have the absolute worst video quality.

[zmediaoutlet]

34 for demon!dean and 49 for... sam, but specifically in those six months after dean's death in mystery spot. haha

34. What’s your limit?

DEMON!DEAN: What are you, a baby? Limits are for the weak. No kink's too kinky, no dick's too big, no pain's too painful. Nothing's ever enough. Can't get into that weird headspace I used to end up in anyway after some heavy-duty fucking around, so what does it matter? Worst Crowley did was cut up my thighs and scrub salt into the wounds, but they healed up too fast to matter and his heart wasn't in it, anyway. Pussy. Can't blame him, I guess. When you're dead and gone and nothing's ever gonna change that, it's not like anything scares you. How are you supposed to find a limit when it comes to that?

49. What do you masturbate to?

MYSTERY SPOT SAM: I didn't want to jerk off to anything. Porn felt like -- it just reminded me. I didn't need more reminding. The only reason I jerk off at all is to -- sleep, or clear my head. It's easier to think, after. But trying to just close my eyes and concentrate wasn't working either because I just thought of -- so I ended up looking for solo masturbation videos. This one girl in particular, who doesn't do the fake screaming but you can hear her breathing and sometimes she'll make little sounds when something's good. You can hear the dildo squishing in and out. I concentrate on that, just the in-and-out, seeing how it goes inside her, and I follow that rhythm with my hand, and eventually I end up closing my eyes and the sound's enough, familiar, that even if I'm imagining something else it sounds like -- like it should. I usually finish up before she does and I close the video before it's over. I don't want to hear the wrong voice.

[lowkeyrobin]

Hawk x sensitive!reader where even after he becomes all "tough" and "badass" he's still gentle with reader. I just need fluff and everything is so sickly sweet like I want my teeth to rot.

- ♠️

(again i forgot which one it was)

YES OMG ☹️☹️☹️☹️ ; I'm screaming and crying were gonna fight wtf ; thank u for requesting some cobra kai stuff love u bae ; also sorry ab this cause I had no idea what to do here

HAWK MOSKOWITZ ; the one i love

summary ; while hawk is off becoming mean and badass, he's still nice to you, knowing you're kind of sensitive, and he doesn't want to lose his s/o

warnings ; language, talk of physical violence

track ; dedicated to the one i love, the mamas & the papas

word count ; 849

masterlist

Eli, these past few months, had changed. A lot. You didn't know whether you liked it or not either. He wasn't even Eli anymore, he was Hawk.

He'd taken on karate, got a new haircut, and completely changed his demeanor and personality. You couldn't lie, he looked cool, especially while showing off his moves, but what wasn't cool was him getting into unnecessary drama.

You'd seen some things online, though you tend not to stick around for any of it. You were caught up by Eli himself, considering you did online school. The bullying from Sam LaRusso and her friends had gotten too bad long ago, forcing you to hide away for the rest of your high school career.

You considered this transition good for Eli, as he was turning a new page in his story. He was able to defend himself, he was confident, and he wasn't being bullied anymore. But, at the same time, he was unrecognizable.

It wasn't in a bad way, not yet, at least. But this "Hawk" guy, wasn't your boyfriend, Eli. You fell into the arms of Eli Moskowitz, not Hawk.

Thankfully, he knew how to retain his relationship. Thank God his standards didn't raise, nor did his ego, as he changed.

You were slightly sensitive, you'd say, kind of emotional, mentally thin, maybe.

You had a bad day, though. That's all that mattered in this second.

You were trying to deep clean your room because it was nasty, and you were already mad. Nothing was working how you wanted it to. Your grades were dropping because you were becoming depressed and unmotivated, and you just wanted to see your boyfriend again. But of course, he'd been busy with karate and working out.

You yell out of pure frustration as you throw a pillow across the room toward your door before crashing onto your bed.

"Ow"

You quickly look up to see Eli standing in your doorway, having been hit by that pillow.

"Fuck, sorry" You mumble, proceeding to hide your face in another pillow that lays on your bed.

He slowly and cautiously steps in your room, picking up the thrown cushion. "What's wrong?"

"...Bad day"

He frowns, "What's wrong?"

You look up at him, spiky hair immediately catching your attention. "Can you wash out the gel before talking to me? You're intimidating looking like a badass"

He chuckles with a nod, "Yeah, I'll be right back"

You couldn't stand the mohawk. It intimidated you, like you were gonna be the next victim of his karate moves. He understood as you'd been honest about it long ago, and would often wash out his hair in the sink and use a towel to then dry his hair.

Now, his roots were dark brown, while the midsection to ends were bright blue. You'd helped him dye it, the reasoning why the bathroom sink was just barely stained with blue in the bowl.

He re-enters the room, his hair now damp, but un-styled. He sits on the bed beside you, allowing you to sit in silence with a pillow pressed against your face.

You slowly pull it away, looking up at him. You flop your back onto your mattress, staring at the ceiling.

"What's up?" He asks, his eyes gazing upon your tired and stressed expression.

You shrug, sitting up. "I hate online school, I have essentially no friends or hobbies, my proctors are shoving thirty assignments on me while I'm depressed and I need to do a million fucking other things-"

He quickly pulls you into a hug, silencing you. You accept his hug, arms draped around his shoulders as you rest your head on one of his shoulders. He does the same for you, his arms slung around your torso instead.

You groan, hiding your face from the light.

He lightly rubs your back, just trying to show you some comfort.

He speaks up after a solid minute of silence, letting you calm yourself down. "Do you want to get into karate? Or at least meet my friends? A lot of them would really like to meet you"

You shrug, unsure.

"It's okay if you don't want to"

You shrug again, your words mumbled from between his shoulder. "What if they don't like me cause I'm not like them?"

He smiles, a light chuckle escaping his lips. "Trust me, they're not gonna make fun of you or not like you in any way unless you give them a reason. And that in itself is pretty much impossible"

You nod, "Thanks"

"Is there any way I can help with your school stuff? What needs done? What can I do for you?"

"Calm down, Eli. I'll be fine. It's just when there's a lot on my mind, I stress out for no reason I guess. Like, I know everything'll be okay but... I dunno" You shrug, pulling away from his arms. "But thank you"

He nods, laying down on the bed beside you. "You tired? I am"

You nod with a smile, pulling him close to cuddle with him.

"Agh- your grip is insane!"

"Sorry"

[thebubblesareevil]

A Deal is a Deal…

I haven’t really posted any danny/kaldur in a bit so here you go

Danny was having a really long, really stupid day.

First he was late for his exam because he woke up to kitty and johnny fighting in his apartment. By the time he got that sorted out he had to rush to campus.

Then, by some miracle, the proctor let him in despite being late only to realize he was in the wrong exam halfway through. (He decided to finish the test and turn it in rather than admit his mistake.)

Then he finally managed to stop and get a truly unholy cup of coffee that he topped off with his last bit of ecto shot only for someone to run into him, spilling his coffee.

Which really didn’t make the blind date Sam set him up with anywhere near bearable. She was nice, don’t get him wrong, however Sam has two types of friends outside of Tucker and him. He was pretty sure he would have preferred hearing about the deforestation of the Amazon than have the heavily pierced girl get wayyy too excited when she realized he was from Amity Park. After he finally escaped with the excuse of feeding his dog Sam decided to call to find out how the date went.

“She did the thing Sam.” He stated bluntly as he struggled to unlock his door.

“And which thing would that be Danny? The one where she’s interested in your personality or the thing where you might need a restraining order?” He groaned, thumping his head on the door before checking the hall for neighbors. With the coast clear he phased through, once more leaving his arch nemesis to fight another day.

“The second one, or at least that definitely seemed where it was heading. She kept asking about all my favorite cemeteries back home.” He threw his keys on the counter, dropping his bag to the floor.

“Well did you tell her about the one near the old clocktower? I’m sure she loved that.”

“Sam, she wasn’t asking about nightly walks and talking to ghosts. She made some not so subtle hints about what she liked to do there.” He could hear Sam wince through the phone.

“Eww, sorry Danny. She really seemed like someone you would click with.” He sighed as he looked through the bare cabinets.

“Not your fault, to be fair things were going great till that point. Plus most people don’t see half as much as I do in graveyards. It could have been worse.” He grinned.

“Oh yeah, what are you thinking?”

“Do you remember that guy from the protest you set me up with awhile back?”

“You mean Orion? What about him? You said he tried to gas light you.” Sam almost sounded offended on behalf of her semi-cannibalistic friend.

“Oh he did more than that. He followed me home.”

“No!”

“Yep, apparently I was being stingy and he thought I owed him so he tried to steal my bike.” He laughed.

“Ugh, don’t worry I’ll be sure to pass the word on to his new partner Marcy. I guarantee he’ll regret it.” He shrugged as he ate a piece of plain bread.

“It’s whatever, at least he didn’t try to kill me.” Sam sighed.

“It was one time!”

“Oh really?” He said as he munched. “If I remember correctly it happened twice.” He could hear the sound of Sam smacking her forehead.

“The first time doesn’t count, that was an accident! Besides Valerie tried way more than I did.” She huffed.

“Yeah, I know.” He yawned, heading over to the bathroom, discarding his socks and shoes along the way. “Some how neither of you are even my worst exes to date.” Sam snorted.

“No I think that title belongs to that crazy Viking that was convinced you were going to start Ragnarok.” Danny felt a small tug at his core as he brushed his teeth.

“What can I say? She was charismatic!” He claimed after spitting into the sink.

“Yeah well Miss. Charismatic nearly talked you into a war with her brother just because he flirted with you.” The tug on his core got stronger. “Personally I would have gone with the brother.” Danny nodded as he nearly tripped walking to his bed.

“I mean, that was never in question. Regardless, I’m swearing off Vikings for the next century.” Danny began struggling to take his shirt off without setting down the phone. The tug on his core was stronger than ever, try as he might to ignore it.

“You really suck at this dating thing, I killed you twice and somehow I’m still not in your top ten-” Danny struggled to escape his stupid shirt as his core PULLED, sending him tumbling to the ground. With a groan Danny finally gave in and just pulled the stupid shirt through his body only to come face to face to someone that was distinctly NOT his bed.

He looked around,coming face to face to someone he was actively avoiding.

“Ello Phantom? How’s death going for ye.”

John Constantine, accompanied by what appeared to be some of the newer members of the Justice League.

Danny decided the best option for this would be to do his best impression of a confused, semi-hungover college student.

“Look man, I don’t know who you are, or what you want but do you have some coffee or something? I’m dying over here.”

“Yet not foolin anyone mate. Need a favor from you. Or rather your better half of you don’t mind.” John replied vaguely as he rubbed his hands together before blowing some kind of powder all over Danny.

Danny stood there flabbergasted, as a rain of dust? Covered him head to toe. He stood there for a minute before his face started to twitch as John began to chant a spell. Danny took a deep breath and-

“AACCHHOOO” John jumped back as the sneeze disrupted the dust.

“What the hell man?” He scolds as he rubbed his nose. John grunted.

“Stubborn little shit huh? Too bad we need the Phantom and he’s coming out one way or another.” Once more he began to chant, Danny however chose to ignore this fact as he took in the faces surrounding the circle. They were clearly some of the younger heroes, even a few apprentices by the looks of it. But Danny really didn’t have time for this, he had another exam tomorrow.

“Look man, I’m not sure what you’ve been smokin or how I got here but unless you’re gonna help me study for my engineering exam, then I gotta go.”

“Please wait.” Danny spun around to face the hero standing behind him, stopping him before he even started to leave. The handsome hero stood tall, clearly he was the leader of this group, which begged the question of-

“Why? What you guys possibly want from me?”

“Allow me to explain. I am Kaldur’ahm, though I am also known as Aquaman. We are seeking the help of a spirit of hope and protection that goes by the name of Phantom. We need his help.” Danny gave the gilled hero a considering look.

“With what?” Kaldur’ahm somehow managed to stand up even straighter.

“A powerful magician by the name of Zatanna was pulled into the Infinite Realms. We need to help of Phantom so we can venture into the realms to retrieve her.” He replied with a barely noticeable sense of urgency. Danny raised a brow.

“You want to go to another dimension? With help from a ghost named Phantom? And you want my help to what? Summon him?” John scoffed, completely ignoring the glare Aquaman sent his way.

“Don’t go playin dumb mate. How exactly do you think you got here.” He pointed to the floor “ That there is a summoning circle, invoking Phantom by name. Now here’s how I figure it. Either you’ve gone and disguised yourself or you decided to take this poor sod for a joy ride.” He smirked. “So which one is it mate?” Danny glared at the Englishman.

“Whether you’re Phantom or not we need help.” Danny sighed as he looked back at the hero.

“Well what’s in it for me? You dragged me from my apartment and you want my help, give me a reason.” He announced.

“Name your price demon.” Danny rolled his eyes at the annoying sorcerer.

“Not a demon.” He paused, trying to figure out what he could ask for as the little heroes started to get nervous. He was gonna help them one way or another, ideally they would give up on him and send him back to his apartment. It would be easy enough to get a magician out of the realms. Danny took one more look around the circle before grinning.

“How about a date?” He said, looking directly at Kaldur’ahm with a grin. He laughed before he continued “Just Kidd-”

“Deal.” Danny choked on his own spit as his cheeks lit up like a Christmas tree. John shouting from the other side of the circle.

“What the bloody hell kind of request was that?!?”

“ I didn’t think he’d say yes!!!!” Danny covered his cheeks as the handsome hero smiled at him.

“A small sacrifice to help a friend, though not a difficult one.” Danny’s face turned a darker shade of red as green started to bleed into his cheeks. ‘Was this guy seriously flirting with him right now?!?’ The hero raised a single smug brow at him, tilting his head just slightly to the side.

“Do we have a deal?” Danny took a deep breath, coughing into his hand.

“Uh, yeah sure, I’ll get your friend back from the realms.” Kaldur’ahm smiled, Danny blushed. “I guess I’ll just… yeah.”

“We shall begin preparations immediately. Once Phantom arrives we should head out immediately, the less time Zatanna spends in the realms the better.” His face closing off as he got serious, Danny couldn’t deny it was cute before he realized what he said.

“Oh, yeah no, you guys aren’t going.” John practically growled causing the hairy green kid to back up.

“Like hell we aren’t! Just because you claim to be a spirit of protection doesn’t mean I trust ye.” Danny turned a steely glare on the sorcerer as he walked towards him. He made it all the way to the edge and the look of confidence he’d been sporting during this whole ordeal dropped from his face as Danny stepped over the edge of the circle.

“I don’t give two shits if you trust me! You aren’t welcome in the Realms John Constantine. Not until you get that piece of patchwork you call a soul sorted out!” He looked around at the rest of the people in the room. “Besides, it’s against the rules to bring the living into the Realms and I’d rather not have to deal with Walker today, thank you very much.” John glared.

“Look here you dead piece of sh-”

“HALF-dead thank you.” He interrupted as he started to float off the ground. “Now buzz off before I change my mind.” John looked as though he intended to reply when Kaldur’ahm stopped him.

“Enough Constantine, we need his help. For Zatanna.” The British asshole grumbled to himself as he scurried off to the side. Danny stepped back on the ground, making his way over to the Atlantean.

“Hey Kaldur’ahm, before I get your friend, you don’t actually have to go on a date with me.” He looked away as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I was gonna help you anyway, I just wanted to get under Johnny boy’s skin.” He just looked at Danny with a smile.

“I thank you, however a deal is a deal, it’s too late to back out now.” Danny’s jaw dropped as the Atlantean grinned. “And please, call me Kaldur.” Danny coughed into his hand to try to force himself to talk.

“Okay… well… okay then… um…” he studdered, dying a little more inside. “I’m gonna go get your friend we can…uh… talk about the details after.” Kaldur nodded as Danny reached a hand behind him to open a portal.

“Agreed, and please be careful Phantom.” Danny paused.

“You can, you can call me Danny.” He back with a slight stutter.

“Very well Danny.” He smiled. Danny blushes as he backed up into the portal, tripping over his own two feet as he fell through. Once on the other side he quickly reached out to find the intruder in his domain. She was easy enough to find, he didn’t even bother transforming. She was standing on an unclaimed floating island only a few miles from where he opened the portal.

Armed with the knowledge that she regularly worked with superheroes he thought it would be best to announce his presence before he surprised her.

“You wouldn’t happen to be a magician by the name of Zatanna would you?” The fierce woman turned, her wand posed, ready to send a flurry of spells at a moments notice.

“And if I am?” Danny smiled.

“A friend of yours asked me to come get you.” She looked at him suspiciously.

“And which friend would that be?”

“A cute Atlantian with a killer sense of humor, named Kaldur.” She raised an eyebrow at that.

“I’ve never heard him described as having a sense of humor.” Danny chuckled.

“Yeah, I told him I’d come get you in exchange for a date. He didn’t even hesitate. Like he’d actually wanna go on a date with a ghost!” He replied with a laugh. Zatanna however did not join in and instead looked Danny up and down before looking him dead in the eyes. She grinned.

“Gotta say I can’t exactly blame him. It’s not often he gets asked out by handsome shirtless men.” Danny squinted at her confused before looking down. His eyes went wide as he realized he hadn’t been wearing a shirt the whole time!

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys. 

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

-

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel? 

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

-

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home? 

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean. 

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him. 

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

-

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo

[fsbc-librarian]

Hi! I hope you are good! Feel free to mention some of your works that aren't yet posted to tease us all with the potential we're waiting for!

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love! <3

I don’t have many more works than 5 😂 here are some of my favourites 💜

This took me over a year to write, and I was so insanely nervous before I posted it, but I’m so so proud of it. It’s still my most popular fic by hits/kudos (and it recently got a short one shot sequel).

Summary: Bucky looked at Steve. Steve carefully did not look at Bucky.

“You didn’t tell him?” Becca asked, pausing in the doorway. Steve shook his head.

“He only just got here. Besides, I thought you would have told him over the phone,” Steve grumbled, now also carefully not looking at Becca.

“He is also standing right the fuck here,” Bucky snapped. “In case you both forgot.”

“Steve,” Bucky started, quietly, purposely not looking at either of them now. “Why is Becca your doctor?”

Neither Steve nor Becca answered him. Bucky looked up. Becca was watching Steve, who was staring intently at a wrinkle in the sheet covering the bed he was sitting on.

“Why is Becca your doctor right now?” He asked again, more forcefully, this time looking to his sister. “And why are we in the fucking family rooms?”

*****

Steve’s a marathon runner. He’s still friends with his ex-alpha, his life revolves around training, work, and Bucky, his best friend. He’s also 6 months pregnant and he doesn’t know who the sire is. If he ignores his problems, they’ll go away, right?

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes, Lorraine, Rebecca Barnes Proctor, Winifred Barnes, Howling Commandos, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov (Marvel)

Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Mpreg, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, hidden pregnancy, Secret pregnancy, New York Marathon, Mechanic Bucky Barnes, Marvel Cameos, Easter Eggs, so many easter eggs, Rating for later chapters, Anal Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Fuck Or Die, Hand-Wavey Medical, Pining, Mutual Pining, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Oblivious Bucky Barnes, Mildly Dubious Consent, only because both of them want it but both think the other doesn't

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Summary: Bucky Barnes is running from his problems. He's housesitting for his best friend while she's on her honeymoon - the almost a year prior that he's been staying in her house doesn't count - when he's woken in the middle of the night by an angel and a demon. Okay, maybe they're not a literal angel and demon, but Steve Rogers *looks* like an angel, and his daughter Charli certainly *acts* like a demon.

The father/daughter duo are running from their own problems, but that doesn't mean that they can't crash headlong into one another's lives. Throw in a cursed book for good measure, and it's about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Sam Wilson (Marvel), Original Children of Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Author!Bucky, Architect!Steve, Peggy Carter & Steve Rogers Friendship, Human Disaster Bucky Barnes, Homophobic Language, Cursed Book, Eavesdropping, Past Bucky Barnes/Brock Rumlow, Past Bucky Barnes/Alexander Pierce, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Steve's Daughter has a British Accent, Gay Steve Rogers, Gay Bucky Barnes, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, meet ugly, Top Steve Rogers, Bottom Bucky Barnes

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Summary: An Avengers fundraising event in Las Vegas takes a left turn, and Captain America wakes up with a brand new spouse and no way to get a divorce. Coupled with Tony Stark's current obsession with reality dating shows, obviously nothing can go wrong, right?

Bucky Barnes isn't even Tony's PA - Pepper is his actual boss - and he does not have time to even date anyone, let alone be married to one of the most famous people in the world, especially not with a sick sister and precocious niece at home depending on him. He just needs to keep his head down, and wait it out til they can get a divorce. Easy, right?

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes, Tony Stark, Thor (Marvel), Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Happy Hogan, Jennifer Walters, Darcy Lewis

Additional Tags: Accidental Marriage, Shrunkyclunks | Modern Bucky Barnes/Captain America Steve Rogers, pa bucky barnes, Captain America Steve Rogers, alcohol consumption, Crack Treated Seriously, Sort Of, mentions of illness, Cancer, Hand-Wavey Legals, There Was Only One Bed, Kidfic, Public Sexual Acts, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Teasing, Bottom Steve Rogers, Top Bucky Barnes, light Dom/sub tones

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Summary: How do you mourn for someone who isn’t dead? That’s the big question, and so far, Bucky hasn’t been able to answer it.

He’d fought for seventy years, even when he didn’t remember his own name, when he didn’t know he was a person. Always the first memory to come back to him was a set of blue eyes, touched with a tiny bit of green. The whisper of a voice in his ears, the flash of memory that someone should be there, right beside him.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes

Additional Tags: no happy ending, Angst, Hallucinations, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Anger, Unrequited Love, Canon Compliant, Not A Fix-It

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Summary: He's not sure how it happened. One moment, he was the Winter Soldier, and the next he's working in a Brooklyn coffee shop, where the prickly owner is someone who treats him like a person, not a machine. And just maybe, he can be a person again.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Sam Wilson (Marvel), Yelena Belova, John Walker (Marvel)

Additional Tags: Captain America John Walker (Marvel), Former Captain America Sam Wilson, Shrinkyclinks | Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes/Non-Serum Steve Rogers, Coffee Shops, Coffee Shop Owner Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Minor Character Death, Past Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Amnesia, memory problems, Hand Wavey Medical, Sad, Feelings, Gay Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Gay Sex, Anal Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

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Upcoming fics

Sympathy for the Devil

Summary: Alpha Bucky Barnes has been a headlining rock star for over 20 years, both as the lead singer of the band The 107, and as a solo artist. The Reunion World Tour of The 107 also features the up-and-coming punk rock band SHIELD, with lead singer (omega) Steve Rogers. The chemistry is undeniable, and when one thing leads to another, Steve Rogers finds himself with an unexpected souvenir.

Working Title: Runaway

Summary: rich kid Bucky Barnes is an omega who has had to pretend to be a beta his whole life, until he’s faced with something that will literally change his life. So, he does the only thing he can think of - he runs away. Right into the dive bar owned by ex-army captain, and alpha, Steve Rogers.

[madlori]

West Wingin' It

No TV show has ever successfully been able to use "New York Minute" as background music and this show is no different. It's too bombastic and cringe. It's always intrusive. They just want the lyrics "somebody's going to emergency, somebody's going to jail." This show even used it as the episode title. The song itself blows.

Bartlet really is kind of awful to Ellie, his middle daughter, in the previous episode. It's a sharp contrast to how he is with Zoe.

I keep forgetting about some of these guest stars. Felicity Huffman!

One of the things that has NOT aged well about this show is the casual misogyny. In what universe is it supposed to be cute and charming for Sam to tell Ainsley that people think she was hired because she's a "leggy blond sex kitten?" And then Bartlet repeats it! Also Emily Proctor is tiny and not leggy. And earlier in the series when Leo tells Hoynes that CJ didn't tattle on him because "she's a good girl." GROSS, LEO. They do a lot of commenting on various womens' beauty but never for the men despite the fact that literal Rob Lowe is there. They do it when Matthew Perry shows up, if I remember, and I guess there's some swooning over Lord John. It just hits different.

That being said, the scene of her doing the bossa nova in a bathrobe in the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue is pretty cute.

Despite this being not a great episode, it features my favorite Big Block of Cheese Day scene, namely the Cartographers for Social Equality.

[winterfieldfrontiers]

Horizon An American Saga cast and characters

Kevin Costner as Hayes Ellison

Sienna Miller as Frances Kittredge

Sam Worthington as First Lt. Trent Gephardt

Giovanni Ribisi as Roland Bailey

Danny Huston as Colonel Houghton

Michael Rooker as Sgt. Major Riordan

Jena Malone as Ellen/Lucy

Michael Angarano as Walter Childs

Abbey Lee as Marigold

Jamie Campbell Bower as Caleb Sykes

Jon Beavers as Junior Sykes

Owen Crow Shoe as Pionsenay

Tatanka Means as Taklishim

Wasé Chief as Liluye

Luke Wilson as Matthew Van Weyden

Ella Hunt as Juliette Chesney

Tom Payne as Hugh Proctor

Will Patton as Owen Kittredge

Isabelle Fuhrman as Diamond Kittredge

Chapters 1  scheduled to be theatrically released in the United States on June 28, 2024.

[sjsmith56]

Coming Through - A Private Man, Chapter 2

Summary: Bucky feels a connection with the public health nurse and openly wonders if he can ask her out.

Length: 4.9 K

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Rebecca Barnes Proctor, Tracey Harris, several OFC, Sam Wilson, Foggy Nelson.

Warnings: Bucky’s anxiety and self-doubt.

Author notes: This chapter also sets up a relationship with a newcomer / refugee centre, as the people who use it become important fixtures in the lives of Bucky and his sister.

<<Chapter 1

🎈 ⚽️ 🍲

It had been a day and a half since Tracey stayed overnight at Rebecca's house. The volunteer centre ended up removing Bucky's notice which bothered her but the second agency she called said they had several people who responded immediately, wanting to give back to the community that had welcomed them from their own dire circumstances. She brought them together at their house on the Sunday afternoon so they could meet Bucky and Rebecca. What surprised her the most was that after listening to the different people Bucky was able to speak to several of them in their own language which pleased them immensely.

"How do you know their language?" she asked, genuinely curious.

He blushed slightly. "The Winter Soldier knew a lot of languages. I retained it all. Do they know who I was?"

She nodded. "I made that clear to the agency. I hope you don't mind. I felt being honest from the beginning was probably for the best. Most of them come from a culture that honours their elders. I think they'll be good to your sister."

With her help they set up a schedule for each person to take one night per week, starting Monday night. They all had Bucky's cell phone number in case of an emergency. Tracey gave them hers as well, saying she wanted to be sure that the lines of communication stayed open between herself and those caring for Rebecca. One of the volunteers, an Afghan woman named Samira, asked Bucky if he would object to her cooking some traditional snacks for Rebecca. He looked at his sister.

"What do you say?" he asked. "Are you willing to try some foreign foods?"

"As long as it's not too spicy, or greasy," she replied. "I would be embarrassed if something didn't agree with me after all the trouble she went to."

Samira smiled warmly and assured her she would tone down the flavours. The others asked if they could do the same and were pleased that Rebecca showed she still had an adventurous spirit at 94 years of age. With the schedule set the volunteers said goodbye to the pair, promising to take good care of Rebecca. Once again Bucky walked Tracey out to her car and they stood there awkwardly for a moment, not saying anything.

"I really appreciate the extra work you've done," he said. "Coming in today on your day off was very kind of you. Those volunteers all seem nice."

"They are," she replied. "I've dealt with that group before. We had a mother who had triplets and she needed overnight help to look after them. That agency rallied around them. I didn't mind bringing them together on your behalf. I didn't get a good response from the volunteer centre so I tried the newcomer agency and they were much friendlier about helping."

Bucky nodded. "I thought it was something like that." He hesitated. "How long do you think it will be before we find out about the extra funding?"

"It could be weeks," replied Tracey. "Anyways, I should get going. Bucky, I promise I will do everything I can to keep Rebecca living here. She loves you so much and that bond is crucial to her mental health, and to yours as well, I think. I will be by to see you both on Friday morning."

"Thank you again," he said, looking her directly in the eyes.

She opened the car door and smiled at him as she got inside the car. As she pulled away she looked in the rear view mirror noticing he watched her as she drove away. It made her wonder if he had much of a social life or if he put everything into taking care of his sister.

On Friday, Tracey made her weekly visit, ringing the doorbell at the house. Bucky let her in and she noticed there was coffee and cookies ready for her visit.

"You didn't have to do that," she said.

"I didn't," replied Bucky. "Amina baked them when she stayed over last night. I have to tell you the people you found are so kind to Rebecca. The women have been applying lotion to her skin and trimmed her toenails, better than I did. Kalyna even put nail polish on them and her fingernails. There's been a different snack for her every night. Tomorrow we've been invited to a Sudanese feast. Most of the volunteers from the agency are going. I don't have a car but we'll find a way to get there, if I have to push her in the wheelchair."

"I could drive you," offered Tracey. "I have no plans for the weekend. Would you be okay with that?"

Bucky looked to Rebecca who nodded amiably. Pulling her equipment out of her bag Tracey examined Rebecca and marked down the readings in her iPad. She asked different questions for the mental assessment but seemed satisfied with the answers. Then she sat back and picked up one of the cookies, biting into it.

"That's tasty," she said. "I can taste cloves. I'm quite pleased with your readings this week. Your blood pressure is good and you seem to have more strength in your arms. Are the ladies doing anything with you?"

"Samira gave me a soup can to do bicep curls," said Rebecca. "Said her grandmother did it well into her 90s but with a piece of firewood, instead of a can. They are all lovely ladies and tell me many stories of their life in their home countries. Some of them have been through terrible times but now that they're here they are so full of hope for the future of their families."

They visited for a little longer then Tracey checked her watch as she had to get to her next appointment. Bucky walked her out to her car, gazing down at her as she unlocked her door.

"What time would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?" she asked.

"Is 11:30 okay?" he answered. "It's at their community centre not too far from here."

"It's fine," she replied. "Can I ask you something?" He nodded. "Do you get out much? You know, as your sister's caregiver that it's important you practice some self care for yourself. Dating, or doing something that you enjoy doing."

"I don't date," he admitted, looking directly at her while he spoke. "I find it hard to talk with most women as I don't have a lot in common with them. I don't really know a lot about modern music or culture. When I'm home I read and putter around in the garden, planting stuff or fixing things."

"You talk to me just fine. I'm sure there's someone who would be pleased to go out with you, to a movie, or just to walk in the park."

"Would you?" Then he looked away as if he had overstepped a boundary. He refocused his attention on her. "Would you meet me for coffee sometime?"

"If your sister wasn't my client I would," she said, returning his gaze. "You're a nice man but I can't date a client."

He nodded in understanding. "Could you meet me for coffee to discuss my sister? Amina and Samira have both said they could help during the day so I could get errands done. Perhaps there are things you need to discuss in confidence."

He seemed slightly anxious while Tracey looked up at him. His blue eyes were focused on her with an intensity that would have unnerved her a few years ago but she didn't feel that way with him. Even with the stubble on his face she could see he was a very handsome man. Maybe what he really needed was practice in how to relate to a modern woman. There wouldn't be any harm in meeting with him as a client's representative.

"Okay, we can do that," she agreed. "Text me and I'll meet you. By the way, there should be a lawyer coming to meet with your sister next week. She wants to write her will, make you her heir. I asked a pro bono lawyer, Foggy Nelson. Perhaps he can help you with your claim for back pay. He's a bit of a crusader with his law partner."

"Thank you." Bucky smiled softly at her. "I'll let you know about the coffee meeting."

He watched her drive away and returned to the house where his sister sat smiling from where she watched the exchange between Bucky and Tracey.

"You ask her out?" she asked.

"She can't date a client," he said. "So I asked if she would have a coffee with me to talk about you. What's this about a lawyer?"

"I want to leave you the house if I die," said Rebecca. "If it doesn't get written down the government will take it." She looked at her brother, at the slight frown on his face. "It's the prudent thing to do, Bucky. Let me make sure you're taken care of on this. You already take such good care of me."

He smiled at his sister. "Alright. Tracey suggested he could help me with my back pay claim. It's been almost a year and I haven't heard anything. Maybe he can nudge the right people."

The following day Tracey showed up on time to drive them to the community centre. Bucky carried his sister out, gently seating her into the front seat of the car, reaching over and fastening her seatbelt securely. Then he folded up her wheelchair and placed it inside the trunk. It was a little crammed in the back seat because of his long legs but he didn't complain. It also allowed him the opportunity to look at Tracey. She even looked at him a few times through the rear view mirror.

When they arrived at the community centre there were balloons and decorations marking the occasion. Several of their volunteers came over to welcome them to the event. As soon as Bucky lifted Rebecca out of the front seat and put her into her wheel chair Amina took her inside the building. While Tracey parked the car Kalyna, a Ukrainian refugee, brought her husband Bohdan over and introduced him to Bucky. His face lit up when Bucky spoke Ukrainian to him, as he was still in the process of learning English. Bucky told him he would be happy to help him learn and on noticing the man had one arm told him he lost his own arm during World War II. Of course he asked to see Bucky's new arm and at first thought it was something he could get but Bucky explained it was a Wakandan prototype gifted to him. He tried to keep the explanation simple and was happy when Tracey rescued him from the man.

"Thanks," he said. "He kept asking how he could get one gifted to him. I don't think he understood this was, what do you call it? A one-off?"

"The Wakandans helped with more than the arm, didn't they?" she asked.

He nodded. "They made it impossible to activate the Winter Soldier again. He's dead and buried. I vowed never to kill again but as long as the code words were still there someone could bring him back. I owe them so much."

They approached the door and he stood to the side to let her in first. There was a hallway full of displays about Sudan and the neighbouring countries. She noticed and watched how he positioned himself whenever they approached one of the displays, always allowing her to see something first. He looked for Rebecca, smiling at how animated she was as Amina pushed her along and stopped at the displays, explaining this and that to her. It felt good to see her interacting with people as he realized his own introversion had kept them inside the house, isolating themselves from the neighbourhood.

There was a moment when someone's child came inside complaining about a lost soccer ball. Bucky's sensitive hearing picked up the conversation and he heard an adult ask if there was a way to the roof. Stepping outside he saw several kids grouped together looking up towards the roof of the building. Gathering that the ball had been kicked up there he went to the side of the building and jumped up, located the ball and stood at the edge with it before tossing it down to the waiting children. When he jumped down, landing cleanly on both feet there was applause. Someone came over and asked if he was an Avenger.

"I was," he replied truthfully. "During the battle of Wakanda and then again, when Thanos returned. I fought against the Flag Smashers when they hurt people. I'm not an Avenger now. Now I work at the docks in a regular job."

"They don't have the Avengers anymore?"

"No, no one would fund it," he said, somewhat embarrassed.

As his words were shared throughout the assembled guests he became uncomfortable with the attention and turned away, seeking a quiet corner. Tracey followed him, concerned for him. When they were alone he looked down at his feet and took some deep breaths.

"The attention makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?" she asked. "The questions about the Avengers bother you. Do you have anxiety?"

"Well, funding it wasn't in my control," he said. "I leave that sort of thing to more important people. My job is good. It's honest work and pays decently." Then he looked at her face and knew he hadn't really answered her question. "I do have anxiety over how people see and react to me. Since I've been ... rehabilitated I've tried to do the right thing. My abilities make me unique. I know that but if the government doesn't fund the Avengers then it's not like I'm rich enough to do it pro bono. Still have to eat and pay the bills."

"Did you like it? Being an Avenger even if it was only briefly."

"I was good at it," he answered. "Making sure people were safe, stopping others from hurting people. I'm just an ordinary guy really."

Tracey could see he was getting more uncomfortable with the questions and she smiled at him. "I think you're more than an ordinary guy. I think you're one of the good ones."

For a moment Bucky couldn't tear his eyes away from Tracey's lips then they were interrupted by the announcement that the food was ready and to line up. Searching through the sea of faces they found Rebecca and saw she was already being seen to by Amina, who looked back and nodded at them. They joined the lineup of people that were waiting. When they got to the buffet tables they picked up their paper plates and loaded the different foods on them. A couple of chairs were saved for them at the table where Rebecca was sitting. Amina introduced them to her family, a husband, son, and daughter. Bucky noted her son was the boy who came in asking for help with the soccer ball. He became aware of the boy watching him closely and finally looked directly at him.

"What would you like to know?" he asked in Arabic.

"May I see your arm?" he asked, to his mother's horror.

She started to apologize to Bucky and he waved it off. Gesturing to her son to come closer he took the glove off of his left hand and pushed up the sleeve of his long sleeve Henley shirt. Smiling and then nodding he told the boy he could touch it.

"It's metal," said Amina's son, Kafeel. "Are there wires and stuff inside?"

"It's all computer circuitry and microchips," replied Bucky. "It works just like a normal arm except I don't feel things quite the same. I had to learn to be gentle with it so that I didn't crush fragile things."

"Cool," said the boy. He looked up at Bucky. "Thank you for getting my soccer ball."

"You're welcome," he replied calmly.

Kafeel returned to his seat and Bucky pulled his sleeve down but left his glove off. Rebecca had a soft smile on her face, knowing that her brother was a kind man at heart, especially when children were involved. Later, when the gathering began winding down people were encouraged to take leftovers home with them and foil containers were put out. Amina brought a full one to Rebecca and Tracey, then went back and brought another full one to Bucky, saying she knew he needed more food than normal, having heard it from his sister. While Tracey brought the car he pushed Rebecca out through the main door. The sun was almost down and many people were standing around chatting before leaving. As he lifted his sister up several people descended on the wheelchair to fold it up and laughed as they touched it at the same time. It was put into the trunk as he placed her in the front seat and fastened her seat belt. All of her volunteers were gathered around to say their thanks to Rebecca and Bucky for coming.

"Thank you for asking us," he said with some emotion. "I wish I had known about you all sooner. You're good neighbours."

"Mr. Bucky, we're here to help," said Samira. "You're a good man and you look after Mrs. Rebecca very well. Please, don't hesitate to call any one of us, any time."

He nodded and got into the back seat. As they pulled away Rebecca waved goodbye to their friends, for they were friends now. At the house he carried his sister inside, placing her in the arm chair. He went back out to where Tracey had pulled the wheel chair out and stood beside the open trunk. For a moment they looked at each other studying the other's face without speaking. Putting his hand out he shook her hand, making her notice how gentle the grasp of his large hand over hers felt.

"Thanks for driving us," he said softly. "I'll let you know about that coffee meeting soon."

Tracey nodded and got into her seat. Like always she looked back via the rear view mirror and saw that Bucky watched her for a long time. When she made a turn she pulled over and sat there for a moment. What was happening to her? She never had feelings for a client before but then was Bucky really her client? His sister was but was that still too close for comfort? At that moment Hungry Eyes came on the radio and she took a breath. She didn't want to think whose eyes were more hungry. As much as she didn't want to she might have to step away from this client. She could get lost in those blue eyes and that would cause all sorts of problems professionally.

A small smile was on Rebecca's face when Bucky came back inside. He put the leftovers away in the fridge and put some water on for tea. Making them both a cup of camomile tea he brought hers out and placed it on the table beside her. Both of them yawned almost instantaneously and chuckled at each other.

"You like her," noted Rebecca. "I can tell by how you watch her."

"She's a nice lady," he said. "It's obvious she cares about people."

"She's divorced, no kids. Her husband worked out of town a lot and cheated on her. That's when she went back to school for nursing."

"I'm a fossil. My outside might say young but inside I still miss the 1940s. It was simpler then. She could do better than me, a dock worker."

He looked at anything except his sister, taking a sip of his tea. Whatever Rebecca thought she saw in him when he looked at Tracey was wishful thinking at best. Still, he liked the quiet nurse's calm manner and found it easy to talk to her. He had spoken more to her in the few days of their acquaintance than he had ever spoken to any woman since reassembling after the Snap.

"Ethically, she can't date me," he said suddenly, startling Rebecca. "You're her client, that makes me her client as well. She could get into trouble if we dated and I wouldn't do that to her."

"That's a shame," replied his sister. "You could build a life with someone like her."

He drained his mug and went to the kitchen to wash it out. Sometimes he didn't want to hear Rebecca say out loud what he was feeling. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at Tracey's phone number in his contacts list. Just as quickly he opened up another contact and dialled, then stepped outside into the dark of the backyard so his sister wouldn't hear him. It took several rings but when he heard Sam's voice he let a breath out.

"Hey, Bucky, what's up?" asked Sam. "How's Rebecca and the job?"

"Job is ok. Ran into some bureaucracy with Rebecca," replied Bucky. "We have a public health nurse who checks on her every week and she's doing good but we had to line up volunteers to look after her overnight while I'm working as she can't be alone. I couldn't afford to hire anyone."

"Yeah, that can get expensive," he said. "But you lined up volunteers? From where?"

"A newcomer agency for refugees and immigrants," said Bucky. "It's working out but I need your advice on something else."

"Okay," drawled Sam, sounding unsure. "What's wrong?"

"I think I'm falling for the nurse and I think she likes me but ethically she can't date me," explained Bucky. "She's really good with Rebecca and I don't want to get her into any trouble but how do I get her off my sister's case so we can date?"

"Oh man," breathed Sam. "Are you sure she feels something for you? Because if you do this and she turns you down ...."

"No, she hasn't said anything." Bucky was suddenly thinking that maybe this wasn't a good idea. "I just ... I just feel a connection with her that I haven't felt with anyone else. I'm tired of being alone, Sam. It's exhausting."

"You haven't dated anyone?" he asked. "What happened to that Leah, the bartender?"

"After I told Yori about his son she didn't want to see me any more," said Bucky.

"So, not even any casual hookups?"

Bucky knew that Sam would ask that but also didn't want to admit who he had been hooking up with for casual sex so he lied.

"No, nothing. Do you think I should tell her straight up that I'm attracted to her and want to take it further? Or should I let it go?"

He could hear Sam breathing at the other end as he thought over what Bucky asked. "You could tell her and suggest a different nurse take on Rebecca as a client. I'm sure they shuffle case loads all the time. Then you give her time before you officially ask her out, a month at least, longer if you can stand it."

Bucky took a big breath. That actually sounded like a good plan. If Tracey was interested in him he would be willing to wait until she was comfortable with dating him. They talked a little longer about whether Sam had heard anything from anyone about the Avengers restarting but he hadn't so they finished the conversation and said their goodbyes.

The following day it rained so Bucky cleaned the house, did some laundry, and read. He called Amina and asked if she could come in on one of the weekdays so he could run errands. She suggested Tuesday afternoon which he accepted. Then he texted Tracey, asking to meet for coffee then. He was afraid to phone, certain he wouldn't be able to talk coherently. She texted back, agreeing to meet him at 2 pm. Rebecca saw his face go soft when he received the text but didn't say anything, knowing he would withdraw from her if she spoke.

On Monday morning the doorbell rang and Bucky looked out the small cutout window of the front door. A somewhat pudgy man with long hair parted at one side waited. Bucky opened the door.

"Hi, I'm here to see Rebecca Proctor about a will?" he began then did a little double take. "You really are Bucky Barnes."

"Yeah, Rebecca is my sister," replied Bucky. "You're Foggy Nelson, I take it. Come in."

Nodding his head Foggy stepped in and wiped his shoes on the mat. Bucky led him into the living room introducing him to Rebecca. He looked around, seeing how neat and clean everything was.

"Nice place," he said. "So you want to write your will."

"Yes, I want to make sure the house goes to Bucky if I die," she replied. "He already pays the taxes and utilities, and we split on everything else."

Foggy turned to Bucky. "You live here, full time?" Bucky nodded. "You don't need a will for that. You can make your brother a joint tenant with right of survivorship. It makes it easier for him to inherit it. If you put it in the will then it has to go through an executor, and probate, and it could take a while for him to legally inherit it. As a joint tenant his name would be on the land title and it would automatically go to him."

Rebecca smiled. "Let's do that."

Foggy wrote down all of the relevant information and indicated they could still do a will for her personal possessions. He would print off the forms at his office and bring them back for signing. Then he looked at Bucky.

"Tracey said you may need my services as well," he said. "Something about a claim for back pay?"

"Well, I was a POW for all the time HYDRA had me," replied Bucky. "It was suggested by the lawyer who represented me after the Battle of Earth that I put in a claim for it. He thought I was entitled to some sort of compensation for being kept as a slave, really." Foggy listened sympathetically, nodding his head slightly. "It's not that I want a big payday or anything but there is evidence that some members of the military and CIA who were HYDRA sympathizers kept my existence a secret from people who would have come looking for me and rescue me. I put in a claim a year ago and since then have heard nothing."

"Bucky has to work night shift at the docks," said Rebecca. "It's not the best paying job but it's honest work. Between that and our pensions we manage but the money is tight. We depend on volunteers to stay the night with me so that I'm not alone. He's given up a lot to look after me. No social life is hard on a young man like him."

Bucky smiled at his sister. "I'm older than you, kid."

Foggy grinned at the sibling exchange. "What does your lawyer say about it?"

"He retired and when I phoned to ask if anyone else was taking the case they said they needed a retainer," he replied. "I don't have that kind of money."

"What about the Avengers?" asked Foggy. "Are they not active?"

"No funding," replied Bucky. "Everyone's doing their own thing basically, although Sam and Joaquin, Cap and Falcon, get the occasional contract. It's not like they paid us to take down the Flag Smashers."

Foggy nodded sympathetically. "Okay, I'll take on your case as well. See if I can light a fire under some bureaucrat. The evidence that your existence was hidden ... was that in the release of HYDRA and SHIELD files onto the web?" Bucky nodded and Foggy stood up. "Okay, I'll get these forms made up and bring them to you, Rebecca, to sign. For the joint tenancy, Bucky you'll have to pay your sister a dollar. I can witness that transaction, although I may have to bring a colleague to act as notary. Don't worry, that won't cost you anything. I'll call back in on Wednesday morning."

He shook their hands and let himself out. Rebecca looked at her brother.

"I liked him," she said. "Such a nice young man.

Bucky liked him, too, but was concerned about Nelson's ability to light a fire under a bureaucrat. His previous lawyer had said it was a slam dunk but nothing had come of it. If he was a suspicious man he might think someone was deliberately dragging their feet on his claim. As far as Bucky was concerned they could still be on their own.

Chapter 3>>

Series Masterlist

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[ao3feed-sambucky]

Never tell me the odds

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/zy5vBiW by Currently_living_on_a_prayer The man standing in front of him, looking equally surprised to see him here, was barefooted and wearing grey sweat shorts. A black hoody was covering his upper body and his long brown hair was tied up in a messy bun at the back of his head. Trailing behind the Prince was a fluffy white cat that started to nestle against her owner’s legs when he didn’t move further into the room. Sam could faintly hear his sister asking what had happened, but he just pressed the end call button on his phone without breaking eye contact with the man invading his kitchen in the middle of the night. For half a second nobody said a word. * Sam Wilson, the son of the US president, has never gotten along well with the second prince of Romania, Prince James. However, after a major incident at the royal wedding, they have to pretend to be best friends. Will they be able to act civil with each other and what will Sam do when James turns out to be nothing like he expected? Words: 3298, Chapters: 1/15, Language: English Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV), Captain America - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Sam Wilson (Marvel), James "Bucky" Barnes, Sarah Wilson (Marvel), Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Nick Fury, Darlene Wilson, John Walker (Marvel), Brock Rumlow, Alexander Pierce, Steve Rogers, Lemar Hoskins, Alpine (Marvel), Rebecca Barnes Proctor, Tony Stark, Thor (Marvel), Loki (Marvel), Paul Wilson, Winifred Barnes, George Barnes (Marvel), Jack Rollins, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, T'Challa (Marvel), Maria Hill Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Red White & Royal Blue Fusion, Modern Royalty, Prince Bucky Barnes, FSOTUS!Sam Wilson, Enemies to Lovers, sarah knows all, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Adorable Alpine (Marvel), Internalized Homophobia, Ableism, Abusive Alexander Pierce, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Royalty read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/zy5vBiW

[augustusaugustus]

15.41 Heavy Plant Crossing

GARFIELD: I’m going to ask her to marry me. QUINNAN: >.>

This is the weirdest scene. George drags Dave out of the shower and shows him an engagement ring while Dave is stark bollock naked. Let a guy put some pants on at least!

Love triangle blah blah blah. I get so much vicarious embarrassment from it. Why would you propose to someone who clearly doesn’t even want to spend time with you?

[forensicated]

Your Dream Sun Hill Staff Line Up

This will only work if we ignore the obvious problem with aging and make everyone as old as when they were onscreen for the majority of the time all at the same time (so ignoring returns and later sad deaths like Ted in the numbered episodes and people leaving the service like Rod/Yorkie etc.)

I have included those who rose through the ranks or 'acted up' onscreen in those positions as well [For example - acting Superintendent Derek Conway would be allowed to be chosen as a Superintendent, however you couldn't promote someone who hadn't been seen onscreen as that rank - say making Will Fletcher a Superintendent] It's likely that I've forgotten some so please feel free to point it out and add them in!

You obviously cannot have people in more than one position however, so unfortunately (for me!) there's no Inspector Smith, Sgt Smith and PC Smith all working at the same time!

There are no rules on the sexes of characters (ie - you don't have to have 6 PC's of each sex). The numbers are as follows...

Allowances

1 Superintendent

1 Chief Inspector

1 Detective Chief Inspector

2 Detective Inspectors

3 Detective Sergeants

10 Detective Constables

1 Inspector

3 Sergeants

12 Constables (in total)

(Initially a little bit generous on PC's and DC's allowances. I did start with 8 and 10 but it was a bit too hard for that! If we go for another round we might need to bring that down...)

Superintendent Chief Superintendent Charles Brownlow Acting Superintendent Derek Conway Superintendent Tom Chandler Superintendent Adam Okaro Superintendent Amanda Prosser Superintendent John Heaton Superintendent Jack Meadows

Chief Inspector Chief Inspector Derek Conway Chief Inspector Philip Cato Chief Inspector Paul Stitch

Detective Chief Inspector Detective Chief Inspector Kim Reid Detective Chief Inspector Frank Burnside Detective Chief Inspector Gordon Wray Detective Chief Inspector Jack Meadows

Detective Inspector Detective Inspector Roy Galloway Acting Detective Inspector Ted Roach Detective Inspector Frank Burnside Detective Inspector Harry Haines Detective Inspector Sally Johnson Detective Inspector Chris Deakin Detective Inspector Claire Stanton Acting Inspector Liz Rawton Detective Inspector Alex Cullen Detective Inspector Neil Manson Detective Inspector Rowanne Morell Acting Detective Inspector Ramani De Costa Detective Inspector Samantha Nixon

Detective Sergeants Detective Sergeant Ted Roach Detective Sergeant Danny Pearce Detective Sergeant Jo Morgan Detective Sergeant Alistair Greig Detective Sergeant Mike Dashwood Detective Sergeant Chris Deakin Detective Sergeant John Boulton Detective Sergeant Don Beech Detective Sergeant Geoff Daly Detective Sergeant Claire Stanton Detective Sergeant Rosie Fox Detective Sergeant Debbie McAllister Detective Sergeant Phil Hunter Detective Sergeant Sam Nixon Detective Sergeant Vik Singh Detective Sergeant Mickey Webb Detective Sergeant Ramani De Costa Detective Sergeant Stuart Turner Detective Sergeant Jim Carver Detective Sergeant Max Carter Detective Sergeant Stevie Moss

Detective Constable Detective Constable Mike Dashwood Detective Constable Jim Carver Detective Constable Alfred 'Tosh' Lines Detective Constable Tony 'Yorkie' Smith Detective Constable Viv Martella Detective Constable Alan Woods Detective Constable Jo Morgan Detective Constable Suzi Croft Detective Constable Rod Skase Detective Constable Liz Rawton Detective Constable Kerry Holmes Detective Constable Tom Proctor Detective Constable Duncan Lennox Detective Constable Mickey Webb Detective Constable Danny Glaze Detective Constable Kate Spears Detective Constable Paul Riley Detective Constable Eva Sharpe Detective Constable Brandon Kane Detective Constable Ken Drummond Detective Constable Juliet Becker Detective Constable Rob Thatcher Detective Constable Terry Perkins Detective Constable Ramani De Costa Detective Constable Jo Masters Detective Constable Suzie Sim Detective Constable Gary Best Detective Constable Zain Nadir Detective Constable Kezia Walker Detective Constable Grace Dasari Detective Constable Jacob Banks Detective Constable Stevie Moss Detective Constable Will Fletcher

Inspector Inspector Sam Deeping Inspector Brian Kite Inspector Christine Frazer Inspector Andrew Monroe Acting Inspector Matt Boyden Inspector Gina Gold Inspector Rachel Weston Inspector Dale Smith

Sergeant Sergeant Bob Cryer Sergeant Tom Penny Sergeant Alec Peters Sergeant Joseph Corrie Sergeant Stuart Lamont Sergeant Ray Steele Sergeant Jane Kendall Sergeant John Maitland Acting Sergeant Cathy Marshall Sergeant June Ackland Sergeant Matt Boyden Sergeant Craig Gilmore Sergeant Nikki Wright Sergeant Dale Smith Sergeant Sheelagh Murphy Acting Sergeant Yvonne Hemmingway Sergeant Phil Hunter Sergeant Callum Stone Sergeant Diane Noble Sergeant Rachel Weston Sergeant Jo Masters

Male Constables SO101 - Francis 'Taffy' Edwards SO128 - Lewis Hardy SO134 - Phil Young SO139 - Timothy Able SO140 - Nick Klein SO148 - Tony 'Yorkie' Smith SO149 - Gary Best SO171 - Reg Hollis SO201 - Dave Litten SO201 - Pete Muswell SO218 - George Garfield SO275 - Roger Valentine SO294 - Dinesh Patel SO315 - Dan Casper SO330 - Robin Frank SO330 - Ron Smollett SO340 - Dave Quinnan SO342 - Abe Lyttleton SO351 - Malcolm Haynes SO354 - Arun Ghir SO355 - Cameron Tait SO358 - Gary McCann SO362 - Luke Ashton SO363 - Steve Loxton SO363 - Lance Powell SO408 - Nick Slater SO416 - Sam Harker SO416 - Ken Melvin SO416 - Gabriel Kent SO432 - Des Taviner SO437 - Leon Taylor SO452 - Adam Bostock SO510 - Billy Rowan SO543 - Will Fletcher SO577 - Barry Stringer SO595 - Tony Stamp SO740 - Ben Hayward SO743 - Pete Ramsey SO759 - Steve Hunter SO795 - Ben Gayle SO800 - Richard Turnham SO833 - Dale Smith SO876 - Nate Roberts SO876 - Nick Shaw SO988 - Eddie Santini

Female Constables SO148 - Mel Ryder SO158 - Honey Harman SO181 - Norika Datta SO202 - Kerry Young SO212 - Millie Brown SO217 - Laura Bryant SO227 - Viv Martella SO235 - Roz Clarke SO249 - Gemma Osbourne SO251 - Jamila Blake SO258 - Beth Green SO298 - Yvonne Hemmingway SO335 - Donna Harris SO361 - Emma Keane SO361 - Vicky Hagen SO363 - Kirsty Knight SO437 - Leela Kapoor SO469 - Polly Page SO483 - Diane Noble SO487 - Cathy Marshall SO487 - Rosie Fox SO487 - Suzi Croft SO518 - Cass Rickman SO561 - Debbie Keane SO570 - Cathy Bradford SO643 - June Ackland SO659 - Suzanne Ford SO661 - Sheelagh Murphy SO682 - Di Worrell SO686 - Sally Armstrong SO832 - Delia French SO832 - Claire Brind SO888 - Amber Johannsen SO943 - Andrea Dunbar SO988 - Ruby Buxton

[queenofbaws]

Got any jossam for a poor lowly college student? 👀👀 (and I hope you’re feeling better!!!! And I hope you’re having a good weekend so far!)

It took a beat for the words to make sense in his sleep-addled mind, but the moment the puzzle pieces all slotted into place and "This seat taken?" clicked in his brain, Josh turned to Sam as a man lost in the desert might turn to a mirage - disbelieving, startled, and more than a little confused.

She smirked, clearly proud of herself, and slid into the spot beside him, going so far as to set his usual coffee order in front of him before sipping at her own oat-milk monstrosity.

"Oh, you do not belong here, Sammy..." Josh chuckled, picking up the drink and giving it a swirl, "I don't want you to misunderstand me here, I've had dreams like this, you suddenly seeing the error of your ways and joining me in studying the deepest, darkest depths of the human psyche, but...you should not be in this lecture hall and you really, truly should leave while you still have the chance."

"Please, like I can't handle sitting around for an hour and listening to some old guy talk about...whatever you guys talk about over here," she teased, leaning to rest her head against his shoulder as she caffeinated herself (and, unknowingly, sealed her own fate), "I think I can handle one psych class if it means getting to spend a little extra time with y..."

It was his turn to smirk as the proctor began walking around, sending massive stacks of stapled papers and scantron half-sheets down each row; he felt Sam go stiff against his side as understanding dawned, and maybe it wasn't the coolest move in the book, but after all the time he'd spent cramming last night, manners were the farthest thing from his mind as he started cracking up.

"Oh it is not exam day," she said in a hushed voice, struggling to stand but finding his hand curled around one of her belt loops and weighing her down, "I take it back - I take it back! - I've had nightmares like this, oh my God, let me up, you putz!"

six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!

[burlveneer-music]

Laurence Pike - The Undreamt-of Centre - "a requiem mass for drums, electronics and choir" based on the story of Orpheus

The Undreamt-of Centre is the fourth solo album by prolific Australian drummer/composer/producer Laurence Pike, an evocative, contemporary reimagining of the requiem mass. The album draws on the sounds of modern classical music, Japanese environmental ambient music, fourth world electronics, free jazz and the choral traditions of Estonia, with particular influence from Tallinn-based composer Tonu Korvits. Produced in collaboration with the Vox Sydney Philharmonia Choir, conducted by Pike’s childhood friend, composer Sam Lipman and recorded in a 19th century Gothic church.  In memory of Tony Lake Music written and performed by Laurence Pike (copyright control): Drums, Percussion, Electronics, Piano, Synthesisers, Field recordings Choir orchestrated and conducted by Sam Lipman Vox Sydney Philharmonia Choir: Soprano - Hannah Alexander, Josephine Brereton, Amelia Myers Alto - Jasmin Borsovszky, Ines Obermair, Hannah Roberts Tenor - Josh Borja, Tom Hazell, Ezra Hersch Baritone - Finnian Murphy, Jesse van Proctor, Ziggy Harris Soloist on ‘Introit’ - Josephine Brereton I first had the thought of working with voices a number of years ago. I had the strange notion of making a requiem mass for drums, electronics and choir. It sat with me since then, until it felt the time was right to realise the idea. Why a requiem? Initially I simply liked the idea of a structural format that had existed and been reimagined again and again over hundreds of years. Ultimately, it’s a ritual set to music. The processes and ecstatic outcomes of rituals, were something I had explored in making the Holy Spring album in 2019. I became interested in subverting the religious musical construct of a requiem into something far more contemporary, using language and sounds not readily associated with it. It also seemed a ready-made vehicle to explore the sound of a choir with my electro-acoustic drum kit performances. It was the decline in health and death of my father-in-law in July 2021 which contextualised this idea for me, and I have dedicated the album to his memory. I had begun searching for a narrative structure or text that I might set a choir to, while not adhering to the text of a Latin mass. I began reading the poems of Rainer Maria Rilke, in particular his ‘Sonnets to Orpheus’, inspired by the classical Greek myth of Orpheus. Orpheus was the son of Apollo and was considered to be the greatest of all poets and musicians. His most famous myth involves the death of his beloved Eurydice, with Orpheus travelling to the underworld to make a plea to Hades to return her to life, which he grants on the condition that Orpheus can’t look back at her until they have returned to the realm of the living. As they reach the exit from the underworld and fearing he’d been tricked, Orpheus turns back to see her and she disappears forever. There suddenly seemed to me to be a convergence of thought between this myth (its rumination on mortality, acceptance, the human soul and our inability to control universal forces), my recent experiences, and the idea of a requiem – a musical ritual to mark the transition from life to death and beyond.