#this is america you stay alive to work work work and if you die you burden your family

[bamsara]

hot take but i think if someone's parent(s) have died the government should support the remaining child/adult children with financial stuff to the age 26 (the age it is for other adult children to remain on their parent's healthcare plans, car insurance, ect) because I should not have been paying bills or losing healthcare at 17

#personal #woo nelly some real life stuff is happening #and i am bitter about life #we STAY silly tho #sara shush #“but you get money when they die” no tf i did not we went into debt he didnt have life insurence #this is america you stay alive to work work work and if you die you burden your family

[stardustdreams-andcaffeine]

More | Bucky Barnes (Mob AU)

mob!bucky barnes x f!reader ✧ oneshot

Summary: You're the secretary to one of the most powerful mob bosses in the country, and that's what he was supposed to stay—your boss. The heart often has other plans. Now, you're in a race against time to save the life of James Barnes, the mob boss who has become so much more.

A/N: Longer one today, just as angsty as I'm used to. I write better with the more angst I do and you can't tell me any different. As always, let me know if you have any requests or comments because I love you all! Keep those dreams alive 🤍

Warnings: mob!bucky, vioence, angst, fluff throughout (because I'm really trying here), secretary!reader, mentions of past abuse in relationship, protective bucky

Word Count: 13,122

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I have to make it. I have to.

"Come on, come on, come on," I breathe out, drumming my nails nervously against my steering wheel and peering around the car in front of me.

He's not answering his phone. I have to make it in time.

I take my lip between my teeth, the anxiety in my chest only rising as each second ticks by. Finally I swear under my breath and swerve around the car before me, slamming the gas pedal to the floor. A chorus of honks rises around me but I don't care. All I know is that he's going to die.

My boss is going to die if I don't make it.

You may be wondering to yourself, how did a meagerly-paid secretary end up breaking traffic laws and nearly crashing her boss's brand new Tesla just to get to him in time? Why would I even bother? Why would his life be in danger in the first place?

Well, to understand that, I'm going to have to take you back to where my life of crime began.

If my mother ever heard I had a life of crime, she'd kill me herself, so let's keep this one between us.

|||

2 Years Prior

"I'm sorry sir, but you don't have an appointment and Mr. Barnes is full for today," I repeat, quickly losing my ever-bearing patience with the brash business man before me.

His eyes dart around my desk and to the office of my boss, CEO James Barnes. I've only worked here for a few months and yet being his personal secretary is proving more difficult than I imagined.

"Look sweetheart, just let me through and I won't take but a few minutes of his time," the man pushes, not even sparing me a glance as he walks around my desk. I shoot to my feet and step in his way, not hearing the office door open behind me.

"You can either see yourself out, or I can have someone help you. Either way, sir, you're not seeing Mr. Barnes today." I assert, my heart pounding and blood boiling in indignation.

If there's one thing I've learned in my time working in Corporate America, it's that most rich and powerful men think they're so far above the rest of the world that they're entitled to open doors wherever they go. Thankfully, my boss is one of the better ones.

Definitely better than this tool in front of me. I almost scoff in disbelief when the man goes to step around me again.

"You don't scare me, sweetheart. I'm just gonna-"

I step directly in front of his path, my eyes flashing with anger.

"Either you leave right now, or I'll personally make sure you'll never get a time slot with my boss. And it's Ms. Y/L/N, not sweetheart" I grit out, standing my ground and leveling my glare at the man.

"Who do you think you-"

I feel the warmth of his presence before he even says a word.

"Do you feel a need for career-suicide, or are you just incompetent?" A dark, rough voice sounds behind me, cutting off the business man.

As my boss steps beside me, the heat of his presence washes over me and I don't even need to look over to know that his menacing face is on display. I can see it's impact in the business man's sudden desire to leave.

"Uh, I-I am so sorry sir. I'll be on my way."

As he scurries to the elevator, I feel my cheeks heat as I look over at James. His dark hair is cut short but is left long enough to be perfectly messy. His bright blue eyes are already piercing into my exhausted ones.

"Sorry for the commotion, sir. I'll try to handle them quicker next time," I start, but my nerves are lessened by the slightly impressed look upon James' features.

"I've never seen you get angry before," my boss notes, making more heat crawl up my neck.

"Yeah well, I used to let everyone use me as their doormat, but I don't let people walk all over me anymore." I respond with half of a laugh. He hums at that, his eyes trained on me.

I break the contact first, turning around suddenly to my desk to avoid the way his eyes seem to burn the air between us to nothing.

"Miss Y/L/N, can I have a word with you in my office?" He speaks again after a few agonizing moments of silence. My hands freeze and I slowly turn around to find his gaze inquisitive.

"Of course, boss" I reply, clasping my hands together to hide the way they tremble slightly. James Barnes is quite possibly the most terrifying person I've ever met, and yet the more time I spend in this job the less he scares me.

When follow his gesture to walk before him to his office, he slips his hand to the small of my back as I enter and I swear my skin sets on fire. I hurry away from his touch and into a chair as fast as I can. There's a slight hint of amusement upon his features as he settles back in his massive chair, eying me from across the desk.

"Is...is everything alright, sir?" I question after a minute of the thick silence. He sits straighter at this, leaning his forearms on his desk and clasping his hands together.

"Do you have a criminal record, Miss Y/L/N?"

His question startles me so much that it takes me a moment to respond.

"I'm...sorry?" I question, not understanding where this is going.

"Anything at all," James continues as if I didn't say a word, "Petty theft, aggravated assault, murder-"

"Sir I definitely don't have a criminal record," I cut in, my heart beginning to increase in speed. James nods, his blue eyes pinning me to the spot.

"Good, that makes you unsuspecting," he states, only heightening my confusion, "In order for you to be of best use, not to mention safe, it's best if you know exactly what it is that I do."

I sit completely dumbstruck and left with no response at all. My mouth opens and closes as I search for words, but I can't seem to find any.

"You've got a backbone and you're an honest, hard worker. That, you've proven. And, against my better judgement," Barnes pauses, his gaze taking on a somewhat softer, almost vulnerable gaze, "I trust you, Y/N."

My heart leaps into my throat and something stirs within me when he says that...that word. Y/N. My name. He said my name for the first time since he hired me. I don't know why it has such an effect on me, but it does.

Before I can stop myself, I blurt "I trust you too."

I do? When did I make that decision? And why did I just say it out loud?

Something in my boss's face shifts at my words, but he masks it with his usual cool, calm demeanor. He sits again in silence for a moment, taking in me and my response before he nods.

"The business I run is more lucrative than what the surface shows. I need someone on my side on the surface level, an associate who can assist me in matters at this office."

"This office?" I repeat, my brows furrowing together as my heart begins to race again. What does he mean by lucrative? And why is there excitement bubbling in my gut?

What he says next would change my life forever.

"I'm the White Wolf, Y/N." my boss's low voice rumbles, his eyes bright and clear, "I'm the-"

"King of organized crime, ruler of the New York mob," I interrupt, my eyes wide and my entire being not comprehending what's happening. I should leave. I should quit this job and call the police and leave. I should be terrified. But there's something in those eyes...

What I say next would start that life of crime I mentioned earlier, and quite frankly I still don't fully understand where it came from within me.

"Sure," I simply say, and the shock that splays on James' face must mirror my own.

"Sure as in..." he trails off, waiting for me to elaborate and clarify what we both know I mean. I swallow down my nerves and go with the decision my entire head is screaming against but my entire gut yells louder for.

"I'm in," I say, this time with more confidence, "Like I said before, I trust you. And I get the feeling you'd kill me if I said no."

Humor traipses across his features as he sits back in his chair in surprise. He plays with the ring in his finger, nodding slightly to me.

"That went better than planned," he murmurs, and I don't know why but I feel like smiling. My entire body is buzzing and my head is swimming, but something deep inside of me is waking up.

I've been walked all over my entire life. That's just the way it's been. I didn't know the difference between being nice and being a doormat for people's convenience until I was well into my life. As much as I hate to admit it, there's something about James Barnes that I trust, there has been since the day I met him. I felt it pull deep in my soul and now, knowing what he does and who he is...

It's time I control my fate, time that I grab my destiny and force it into motion. It's time that I stop letting people walk all over me and be the person who has a voice and a say and...and power. I've heard of the White Wolf as long as he's been around. He may be ruthless but he is not cruel. He's always looked out for the city, taken the scum off the streets and done the things the politicians refuse to. I trust James. And something deep within me is shouting that this is right, that this my destiny, that this is the strings of fate pulling.

And I know when to listen.

"Welcome, Ms. Y/L/N," James announces, standing and keeping his gaze burning down on mine, "To the real business."

|||

Seven months later.

One night, about seven months after the conversation that absolutely changed my life, I'm working overtime in the office.

My hands are dug into my hair and my eyes droop closed. I release my hold on my hair to knock back the last of an energy drink, but the liquid has little effect. I desperately read through the computer screen, hoping to solve the legal entanglement before me.

James informed me when I came into work this morning that some over-righteous beat-cop was looking too much into the business we hide behind our Property Management company. I've been here all day long trying to figure out how to file all the necessary forms to make this disappear and seem a joke. That's taken longer than I expected, though, and at nearly midnight, James and I are still here working.

"God, this is awful," I groan, dropping my head to rest on my arms upon my desk, my forehead seeping in the cool of the wood. I hear my boss's office door open but don't even bother moving. Eventually, a soft laugh sounds that makes me drag my head up and look over to its origin.

"You look absolutely pitiful" James comments, his tired eyes dancing with a humor that seeps into my own features slowly. A small smile tugs at my lips as I sit up fully.

"Thanks, that's what I was going for," I quip sarcastically.

He coughs out a laugh that makes my chest tighten slightly and some of the exhaustion part. Over the months working for the White Wolf of crime, we've become...friends. Well, as close to friends as a mob boss and his secretary can get.

"Come on, let's take a break. We've been at this for too long, I don't even know how you can think straight," James mentions. I shake my head, blinking a few times before turning back to the computer screen.

"No, I've almost got this loophole figured out and we'll be golden if I can just-" I'm cut off abruptly by a strong, calloused hand gently gripping my chin and turning it up so I'm looking at James. My heart gallops suddenly and it takes every ounce of strength to keep my composure against the charge coursing through me.

"Y/N, take a break," he mumbles so soft that a shiver runs down my spine. We stay locked like that for a moment until I nod and pull myself out of his grip by standing.

"Alright" I murmur, breaking the tense, charged moment by pointing a finger at him.

"But if you bring out alcohol on the job, so help me James Barnes I'll turn you in to the police myself," I threaten emptily. He laughs genuinely this time, and it warms my spirit.

"Come on, doll. I've got an idea" he urges, walking out to the massive open save before my desk. I eye him warily and step to it, hoping that the sudden skittering and tripping of my heart at that nickname doesn't show. He's never called me anything but my name, before. Now, it's almost too easy to forget that I work for him.

"You might wanna take your heels off," he suggests, which only heightens my confusion. Nonetheless, I slip the footwear off and walk barefoot in my pant suit to my boss.

"Should I be concerned?" I ask, bringing another humored glint to those beautiful steel eyes.

"No," Barnes says simply, my eyes darting to his forearms as he rolls up the sleeves of his button-up, "I've actually been meaning to do this for a while. You're working for me in a very dangerous business, and although your involvement is kept a secret, I want you to be able to defend yourself if anything goes wrong."

His words settle over me heavily as I shrug my  close-tailored suit jacket off and lay it on my desk. This is actually a smart idea. I sure don't want to be helpless should the time come and, lets be honest, it inevitably will.

"Okay," I reply, walking warily in front of my boss who's practically made of muscle, "Teach me."

Something dark floods his eyes that he blinks away quickly before holding his hands up in a fighting position, gesturing for me to do so. I oblige, putting my fists up in the best way I can. He walks over to me, slowly taking a few steps around my body to inspect my stance.

"Not bad," Barnes announces before stepping close to my side and placing those large hands against my torso and turning it slightly, "There, like that you can use the power you have against someone who might have a lot more than you."

His touch muddles my mind and I can't help but feel that his burning hands linger for a second longer than necessary before he steps away and back in front of me. Even as he does, I instantly feel like I'm missing something without his warmth. It's been that way since I began working here, though. Every little touch here and there has gotten me irrevocably addicted to the feel of him.

I'm so startled by the thought that it almost shows on my face. That train of thinking is...is highly unprofessional.

"Now, punch me" he orders. I hesitate, but don't lower my fists.

That's also unprofessional, and yet look at us.

"Are you sure?" I ask, and he simply nods. I shrug, "Alright then."

I throw the best punch I've got, but he dodges it easily and grabs my fist in his hand. Before I know what's happening, his leg hooks around my vulnerable one that I stepped with and he throws the momentum of my punch back at me so that I crash to the ground. I know that if he'd done that little move fully my back would've slammed into the ground along with my skull. Instead, he follows me to the ground and wraps an arm around my waist, breaking my fall and easing me to the ground as he hovers above me.

I know he means to say something, but words must die for him too when the all too small space between our bodies is realized. I can barely breathe and it's as if time itself has stopped. I watch his fingers flex on the floor by my head, almost as if he's going to reach out to me but chooses against it. All too soon, the moment is broken when James stands and extends a hand down to me. I take it and let him pull me up to standing, disappointment and relief mingling in my stomach.

"That move can save your life, especially against someone bigger than you." James says, a little bit more distantly than he was before.

I thank him quietly and watch him clear his throat and walk back to his office. He pauses when he reaches the door and looks back over at me.

"Y/N, I want you home in an hour tops." He orders. I nod, still slightly breathless.

"And if I stay longer?" I taunt, not even knowing where the words come from. He tilts his head at me, a challenging gaze taking over.

"Then I'll throw you over my shoulder and walk you out myself."

I almost think he means it from the mischief lingering in his gaze.

Sure enough, I go home an hour later.

|||

Five months later

It wasn't until about a year after I joined in on the mob business that I realized how well I was beginning to know James.

And how much more he was becoming to me.

"Y/N, can you get me-"

I cut off my boss by setting down two steaming coffee cups.

"Two triple espressos with low fat cream," I announce, before fishing the folder out from underneath my arm and setting it on the desk before him, "And the monthly finance report. The guys in finance weren't finished when I came by yesterday, so I made sure they had it done for this morning's meeting."

James stares up at me in shock for a moment. That shock is still lingering when he says, "And the meeting schedule?"

"Already in your computer, I emailed it to you last night. I also sent it out to everyone who's coming and made sure to tell Mr. Martinelli 10:30 instead of 11:00 so he arrives on time." I respond, clasping my hands before me and giving my boss a light smile.

"Oh," I exclaim, turning around suddenly and picking up the package I left by his door, "And this gift basket came with a heartfelt apology from Mr. Lankov. It did have an assortment of toffee-filled chocolates which I went ahead and removed for you."

Mr. Barnes reaches over and slides the basket I set down on his desk towards himself before looking up at me. He looks almost impressed, which is high praise enough.

"Will that be all, Mr. Barnes?" I ask when he just stares at me for another minute. I feel my entire body burning under his gaze and, as usual, the air is thick and palpable whenever we're in a room alone. His gaze hardens again into the cold, meticulous mob boss he is and he nods once

"That'll be all, thank you Ms. Y/L/N."

I nod and turn to walk out only to be stopped by his voice calling out to me again.

"Y/N?" James announces, making me turn to him again. I don't know what I expect him to say, but it certainly isn't what comes from him, "I think you are too close of a friend to be calling me James and Mr. Barnes by now."

My heart stutters, but I keep the emotion that surges from his words from splaying all across my face. He considers me a close friend, not just his secretary. When did it ever become more?

When did I ever convince myself it wasn't more.

"What would you like me to call you?" I ask, and the question seems all too formal. The corner of his lips tug up and the movement makes my stomach flip.

"Most of the people closest to me just call me Bucky," he informs, and a rush thrills my entire body as I nod and try to keep my smile small.

"If you need anything else let me know, Bucky." I reply, and something darkens in his gaze.

I'm frozen for another moment, his stare binding me to where I am. Phantom electricity skitters across my limbs and I realize how much I have to restrain myself from walking closer to him. It's almost as if he's the Earth and I'm the moon, caught in his gravity and unable to pull away, All at once I come to my senses and leave his office quicker than usual. I make sure the door is shut behind me before I press my back up against the cool surface.

My heart is pounding in my chest. That was too personal, that was all too personal and wildly unprofessional. Nothing that was said was but the way he looked at me, the way I melted in my spot at that gaze. It was all consuming, and I didn't think I could breathe in that room. He's a mob boss, my mob boss, and I'm his secretary. James...Bucky is naturally a brooding, intense sort of person so the way he looked at me wasn't unusual. The way my entire being reacted was.

And he's so much more than my boss, no matter how much I may try to ignore it.

As the day goes by, I try to rationalize it all. In the end, I know everything there is to know about him—what he likes and dislikes, his routines, his daily patterns. It's my job to, but he doesn't know that about me.

If he did he'd know that today is my...

I think that same thing over and over to comfort myself that everything is normal and okay, but it only just makes a part of me sink. It's almost as if the thought that I'm not more to him has the potential to break me.

You can only be broken by things that hold you.

I'm jarred from that thought when Bucky's voice sounds over my business phone speaker.

"Y/N, my office" He says simply, his voice holding that natural authority and sharp edge that it usually has.

I get up and am walking into his office moments later. Once I'm inside, I take notice that Bucky's hard at work on some document before him and doesn't even spare me a glance until the door clicks shut behind me. At this sound, he looks up and sets down his pen. He stands slowly and adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket. That small movement sends my entire body into a downward spiral.

"You tried to hide something from me, Y/N," Bucky rumbles, and my stomach hits the floor.

I did? What did I try to hide?

"Sir, I'm not entirely sure what-"

My word die out as he stalks around his desk and up to me. My entire body is trembling, but not from fear, when he stops before me and stares at me so deeply that I feel like he's taken my heart straight from my chest with his bare hands. I'm not so sure he hasn't.

"It was a valiant effort, really," he muses, and I still have no idea what he's talking about, "But even if I only know you half as well as you know me, there was no way you could've hidden it."

My brows are furrowed when he finally reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out an envelope.

"Happy birthday, Y/N," My boss whispers, and the moment feels all too intimate as he hands me the envelope.

He knew it was my birthday. That thought sends a thrill through me that I wish I could forget. I look down at the envelope and back up at Bucky who stares at me with the hint of a genuine smile on his lips.

"You didn't have to..." I whisper, but he gives me a 'really' sort of look.

"You do everything for me, and I'm pretty sure my world would fall apart without you. Now open it."

That only makes my heart race harder and I can't keep away my smile as I open the envelope. Everything seems to fade away when I pull out what's inside. There's no card, just a single slip of paper. When I flip that paper over, I realize that I'm in love with him.

Because it's a round-trip ticket to Kinsale, Ireland. A place I mentioned only once months ago that I've always wanted to go to.

I look up at him, my eyes wide and already filling with tears that I refuse to let go.

"How did you know?" I breathe.

"You said it was one of your dreams to go, and it's hard to forget when you speak about something so passionately." Bucky's reply softer than I've ever heard him be.

I've seen him kill people, torture criminals, and threaten politicians. I've seen him command his mob and rule with certainty and ruthlessness. And yet here he is, giving me one of my dreams because I mentioned it once.

I love him. I know it then, and I don't think I'll ever escape it. I've loved before, but never has it felt like this. This is encompassing and devouring and scary. It's real and deep and world-shifting. How much in love I realize I am with him is the kind of love I never thought I'd get. And yet...

I know it's unprofessional, but I can't stop from stepping forward and getting on my tip toes to wrap my arms around his neck in a sudden hug. He freezes, and for a moment I wonder how long it's been since he's been hugged. Bucky gives in almost instantly and wraps his strong arms around my torso, tugging me closer to him. I decide in this moment that this is my favorite place to be. Kinsale might have been one of my dream places, but this, in his arms, has just as quickly topped the list.

All too quickly I realize the intimacy of this position and pull away, no matter how much it leaves me feeling cold and alone.

"Thank you," I whisper, clearing my throat and taking a step back, "No one's ever done anything like this for me before."

Bucky just stares at me with that all-encompassing gaze.

"Then they're all idiots," he murmurs, and my traitorous heart surges again.

This man is my boss. He's the most powerful person in this city and the last thing he'll do is care about someone as powerless as me. And yet...and yet, and yet, and yet. I can't stop.

|||

Eleven months later.

Eleven months later and I'm still just as totally screwed.

I can't stop the feelings that bubble through me, that take me over and encompass everything I am and hoped I could escape. I tried convincing myself he was nothing, tried to fall for someone else, anyone else, but I can't.

James Bucky Barnes is intoxicating in the most wonderful and awful way. And I can't quit him.

That's why I'm here at Angel's Fall, the bar every corporate associate and beat cop or detective in our slice of town finds themselves at after work. I haven't been in a while, not much liking the smell or taste of alcohol, but after spending nearly ten straight hours with Bucky that serve as a reminder that I'll never have him, I needed to take the edge off.

"Anything else I can get for you, babes?" The bartender asks as she takes a stop in front of me, giving me a friendly smile. I return the gesture and let out a long sigh, finishing out the last of my whiskey sour.

"Scotch, straight," I request, giving her a tired smile, "Thanks."

"Sure thing," she replies, instantly beginning to make my drink, "You seem like you've had a long day."

I scoff, running a hand through the hair that I freed from my low bun, "Long few months."

"That bad, huh? Well I'll keep these going till you say when, sweetie," she replies, sliding my drink to me. I give her another quiet thanks before she leaves to her job.

"Y/N? Y/N is that you?"

I furrow my brows, not putting the voice to a face. I turn towards the sound of the man to find him standing beside me. Once my eyes land on his features, my entire being runs cold. Instantly what little alcohol I had in my system sobers out and my blood freezes in my veins. It's as if I've been dunked in ice water and I find it hard to draw in breath.

"Ian. It's been ages" I comment, my voice thankfully not trembling like I expected it to be. Ian laughs before me, leaning on the bar and drinking me in with his eyes. I squirm under his gaze, which only serves to make me uncomfortable.

"Damn right," he comments, smirking at me lazily with that smile that wrecked my life nearly three years ago, "I've missed you, baby."

I bristle at the nickname, my heart flinching even if my body doesn't. I know he's probably missed me, I had to move to a new state to escape him the first time. I thought I'd done good, too. I'd gotten settled here for a while and then worked my way up to a job at Bucky's company. The past almost two years in Bucky's business have been so good for me that I almost forgot my life before it, the reason why I was so ready to take on the life of organized crime.

The reason stands before me, proof that our demons never die. They just hide away until we're vulnerable again.

"What are you doing in New York?" I ask, trying to make polite small talk and avoid the obvious elephant in the room.

The elephant being that the last time I saw him, I smashed a lamp over his head before I scrambled out of his apartment and to the nearest cab that whisked me far far away, leaving behind all of my belongings except for a wad of twenties and my cellphone.

"I got a transfer to a firm a few blocks from here not too long ago. God, you look great Y/N," Ian averts. He says my name again, almost as if he can't believe I'm standing before him. I nod, wringing my wrists and shoving my forgotten drink away from me.

"That's great, Ian." I keep it simple, knowing that if I talk too much I'll lose myself again. I spend my mental energy searching the thickening crowd of people for a way out. I even consider signaling the bartender that I need an escape.

I'm barred from my thoughts when his hand, a hand I'll never forget, skims over my arm. I jerk my attention back to him, ripping my arm away from him as fast as I can and taking a step back.

"Woah, calm down baby. No need to be so jumpy" Ian placates, that same easy, manipulative smile that would bring me crawling right back to him every time stretching across his features. It makes my blood turn to ice and my stomach roil.

"Do not touch me," I command, surprised at the strength in my tone. It's a strength I didn't have before I got this job, "You lost that right long ago."

Ian's shock is not easily hidden. He realizes in that instant that I'm not the same girl I was three years ago when he broke me and used me and ruled my emotions. I've grown and gotten stronger because someone saw the potential in me to handle power with ease, to be a part of something bigger and stronger than anything I'd been in before. It may shatter me to be around Bucky every day, but he still saved my life in ways he'll never know.

I used to see the world as good and evil, black and white. Now, after my work in the mafia, I know it's gray. There's evil in the good and good in the evil. No one is ever truly both, and sometimes the ones you think are the villains are truly the heroes.

"I-" Ian cuts himself off with a surprised laugh, his eyes incredulous upon me, "I'm sorry, when did you convince yourself of that lie?"

"What lie?" I grit out, and I almost slap myself for indulging him. I'm quickly unhinging, though, and I know that if I stay in this conversation much longer I'll break back into a remnant of who I was. I try to swallow my bile at the thought. I refuse to do that.

"The lie that you're strong. The lie that you can survive in your own, the lie that you'll be anything or anyone without me," Ian seethes, his words sickly sweet like unsuspecting poison. His words cut me so deep that I almost shatter right there as old wounds I thought had scarred over rip open. Instead, I remind myself of the strength and control I've garnered these last two years working for Bucky Barnes.

And then I slap my ex so hard across the face that my hand stings.

"I am not some helpless little girl that's still in love with you," I grit out, my tone sharper than I've ever heard it before, "You broke me once, you are not going to do it again."

His shocked eyes are so wide upon me that I almost don't register his hand raising to strike me back until my head whips hard to the side and pain explodes across my cheek. When I snap my gaze back to him, my eyes brimming with tears of rage and instability, I see him open his mouth to say something. His words don't make it out.

Not before the crowd of patrons splits and a hand closes around Ian's throat so fast and with such force that his back is slammed into the bar.

Oh, I must've forgotten to mention this before. The Angel's Fall is one of the bars the White Wolf owns.

And here the wolf is himself.

I'm so shocked by Bucky's sudden intrusion that I'm left speechless as his grip tightens on Ian's throat and he brings his face that's flooded with an icy rage close to Ian's clearly terrified one. No one lifts a finger to protest or stop my boss, because they all know who this place belongs to.

"You touch her again and I'll kill you," Bucky growls lowly, and Ian is smart enough to believe him as he nods quickly.

Something warm and bright twists in my chest at his words, even when I know any normal person would be screaming or calling the cops. I've never seen Bucky like this before, not about me at least. About his business, sure. But not me.

"When I let go, you're going to leave this bar and this city," my boss commands, his tone leaving no room for negotiation, "If I ever see you again, I will not hesitate to slit your throat."

Ian whimpers, a sound that I hadn't realized would bring me so much wicked joy, a sound that satisfies the thirst for vengeance that I hadn't even realized I held.

"Now, thank me for my mercy and apologize to Ms. Y/L/N," Bucky orders, his grip loosening enough on Ian's airways to let him gasp out the commanded words.

Once he does, Bucky lets him go. His hand isn't off of Ian's neck for two seconds before my ex-boyfriend is scurrying out of the bar. The noises resume as usual, everyone carrying on as if a man's life was not just threatened. Bucky turns his gaze, still filled with that icy rage, towards me and it softens in a way that melts me.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

I avoid the question completely, hoping he'll forget to inquire about it again.

"Thanks for that," I manage out, ignoring the burning of my now very tender cheek, "I honestly thought I had it under control but then I just had to go and slap him."

"That gives him no right to lay a hand on you," Bucky asserts, taking a step closer to me and running a gentle, calloused hand over my hurt cheek. The simple motion sends electricity surging through my entire body and I somehow feel empty when he clenches his jaw and drops his hand.

"You didn't answer my question. Are you okay?" Bucky asks again, not taking a step back.

My heart is pounding and my body is overrun with so many different emotions that I don't know what to focus on or how to stop it all. I may be looking directly into those steel blue eyes, but I'm miles and years away. Memories of Ian and a version of me I often try to forget flash through my mind and I can't stop them.

"Who said you could parade yourself around like a whore when you are mine?" Ian growls out, making me flinch back and wrap an arm around my torso.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

My head whips to the side with the force of his hand. The sting sets in with the silence for a few moments, suffocating me and drowning me in my own pain. Then I hear him sigh and walk up to me, his hands now gentle as he turns my face up to his.

"Baby, I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry, baby. I didn't mean to do that, can you forgive me?" His words are sweet and his eyes genuinely sad. I look up at him warily and almost pull away when that breathtaking smile tugs onto his lips.

"For me, baby? I promise I'll never lay a hand on you again. I don't deserve you"

"Okay" I whisper, letting him kiss my lips and then the cheek that he'd hit again and again and again and as long as I'd keep forgiving him.

I don't even realize I'm not at the bar anymore until there's a soft click of a door behind me and I register a warm, strong hand encasing my own as Bucky leads me into what looks to be an office in the back of the bar.

I hadn't even realized I'd zoned out. I haven't done that in...in a very long time.

He lets go of my hand only to capture my face in his surprisingly gentle hold. When my eyes meet his, everything seems to quiet in the blue of his irises. Still, my mind is aching to send me back to three years ago, to broken bottles and shattered hearts patched with false kisses and pretty words.

"You're safe," Bucky assures, his face softer than I've ever seen it, "You're safe and you're here. I don't know where you went just now but I need you to come back to me, okay?"

Bucky's soothing voice brings me back to reality and grounds me to the moment until all that's left is this room and him and me.

"That's it, there you go, doll. Stay right here with me," he breathes, making my heart flutter. We stand in silence like that for a few moments that stretch for eternity, with his thumbs running across my cheeks until the consciousness returns to my gaze.

"You gonna tell me what happened?" Bucky asks, taking a step back and pulling his hands from my face. I almost make a noise of protest at the loss of contact, but stop myself. Instead, I just shrug.

"It was nothing, really. Just an ex of mine who doesn't know boundaries," I respond, but I can tell that he doesn't buy a word of it.

Bucky takes a slow step towards me again. This time when I tilt my head up to keep his gaze, something tender and almost tangible crackles in the air between us, tugging and pulling and yanking us together. In the steel of his eyes is a dichotomy of emotions, ranging from a breaking softness to a stifled rage that I don't think is directed at me. It sends shivers racing down my spine.

"Y/N," he starts, and my knees almost turn weak at that one utterance, "I think you're not telling me because you know what I'll do. But I need you to understand something before you leave this room and we go back to our daily routine."

One of his hands hooks under my chin, and his thumb grazes ever so lightly over my lip and so swiftly that I almost think I imagined it.

"I don't care who I have to kill or what I have to do. I will do anything if it means protecting you. Anything." He vows, that rage still lit in his eyes. But when I look closer, it seems to be fueled by something so much deeper, so much richer.

I don't know why the words slip past my lips but it does before my mind can stop them.

"Ian manipulated me for years," my voice is trembling and unsure and so unlike every other time I've spoken with him, "He'd use me as his punching bag and then cry on his knees for me. I was stupid then, I always came crawling back. It wasn't until this job that I learned to stand up for myself."

Bucky's entire body is as rigid as a board and I know that look in his eyes. It's the look that appears when he grows unhinged and closer to losing himself to the rage and carnal violence. His jaw clenches and he seems to compose himself.

"What do you want me to do to him?"

It's a simple question, but in his eyes I can see what Bucky wants to do. I can see it as clear as day and it sets my entire being on fire. I choke up, though, because as much as I want to open my mouth and ask for him to kill him, I can't seem to. He sees my hesitancy and nods, taking a step back from me and adjusting his suit.

"Just let me know, Y/N," Bucky states, sounding more professional again as he turns and heads towards his office door.

A sudden sense of urgency overtakes me and I dart forward, grabbing a gentle but insistent hold of his arm that makes Bucky freeze and turn back to me. His arm is in my grasp and I realize that I'm holding on to it for a sense of stability as I try to get the words out. I think he realizes it too because Bucky lets me hold his arm, his eyes boring into mine and that professionalism dropping for a moment. I open my mouth, but close it again, my entire being trembling as flashes of every horror I endured with Ian overtake me.

"I want him gone," I finally manage out, my voice barely more than a whisper, "Please,"

Bucky's eyes search my face for a moment before a certain softness overtakes his gaze. I can see in his eyes that he knows exactly what I mean, even if I can't say the words out loud. He pulls his arm from my grasp only to take a hold of my hand and bring it to his lips. My heart nearly explodes from my chest when he places a kiss to the top of my hand. My skin is ignited where his lips touched it and I almost can't think straight.

God, I'm so in love him. I love him so much it hurts.

"Done." Bucky vows, his eyes never leaving mine.

Ian's mutilated body turned up in an alleyway the next morning.

|||

Two weeks later

I don't know how everything could have gone so wrong only a few weeks later. It all just happened so fast.

"Yes sir, the catering should arrive about 7:00 pm...yes sir, thank you sir. See you then,"

Once the phone is hung up, I take the pen from behind my ear and check off the catering company from my list of gala preparations. In just a few days, the company is going to be holding its annual Employee and Beneficiary Gala. My last few days have been consumed with making sure it runs seamlessly.

"Excuse me, miss. I have a 3:15 with Mr. Barnes." A man's voice I don't recognize calls out to me.

I look up from my paper, smiling warm at the business man who stands before me. My smile falls slightly when I see that he doesn't seem all too happy at the moment, but I set it aside.

"Yes, Mr..." I pause, looking over at my computer screen and scanning for his name, "Stark?"

"That's me." Mr. Stark responds.

"Alright. I'll let Mr. Barnes know that you're here and you should be right in," I inform, giving the man a polite nod before calling Bucky. While I inform him that his appointment is here, I can't help the uneasiness in my chest at Mr. Stark's grave expression.

"You can go on in," I inform once I get off the phone, giving the man a quick smile before turning back to my work, my entire being crawling for some reason.

The meeting's normal for the first few minutes, but pretty quickly their voices begin to raise.

"You need to be careful, Barnes! Pierce and his men are looking for any in to attack our organization."

Alexander Pierce, that's the boss of Bucky's largest rival—Hydra.

"Trust me, Stark. I am careful and perfectly capable of taking care of my business." Bucky grits back. I lift my hands off my keyboard, my attention slipping to listening to the words.

"No, you're not, you're being reckless. You're getting too close and you know it! She is a weakness!" Stark practically shouts. I hear a sudden screech of chair legs on the floor and a brief silence.

Whatever is said next is too hushed for me to hear, but I'm able to catch the last few words.

"I'll take care of it. You know I will," Bucky says, and the office door opens.

"I know you will, buddy. I just needed to get you there," Stark replies, shaking Bucky's hand before turning and walking past my desk without so much of a glance.

"Have a nice day to you too," I whisper beneath my breath.

"Ms. Y/L/N, my office" Bucky says abruptly from his office. His tone seems...almost cold, unfeeling. And he called me Ms. Y/L/N.

With furrowed brows, I get up and make my way into his office, closing the door behind me per his request. I settle down in one of the chairs before his massive desk, an inexplicable worry washing over me. Nonetheless, I ignore the feeling and carry on as normal. Thinking this to be one of the many previous briefings we've had on the gala, I begin to give him my report.

"The catering company is all set for Saturday as is the decorating committee and half-orchestra. All that's left is to-"

"I'm letting you go." Bucky interrupts suddenly, his voice so nonchalant and his gaze so flippantly down on the papers before him that I almost don't register his words.

As in...he's...firing me?

"I'm...sorry?" I question, to which his jaw clenches tightly.

"You are formerly fired, Ms. Y/L/N. Effective immediately," Bucky clarifies, and it feels as though the floor's been ripped out from underneath me.

I can barely breathe let alone hear over the sudden roaring in my ears. He's firing me, after all this time?

"Bucky, I don't-"

"Sir," he interrupts, finally snapping his gaze up to mine. His tone and glare are so ferocious that I almost think he'll pull a gun on me anytime soon.

That one simple correction makes my heart shatter. He hasn't been 'sir' in I don't even know how long. And the way he's looking at me right now...it's almost like he couldn't loathe anyone more in the moment. Like he doesn't even know me. Like he didn't just kill a man for me.

Like he didn't let me fall in love with him.

Tears burn my eyes as I steel my face and straighten up in the chair, clenching my hands so hard together in my lap that they turn white.

"Sir," the word is bitter on my tongue and I feel sick to my stomach more so than I ever have, "May I ask why?"

"Your work is sloppy and your intentions with my business, both legal and not, are undecipherable. I have decided that the best intention for me and my business is to part ways irrevocably with you, Ms. Y/L/N."

It takes everything within me to not let my mouth drop open in shock. The hurt that flashes through me is so piercing and raw and real that it arrests my chest. I can't...I don't know what I did wrong.

"You're just going to let me walk away," I breathe, my jaw clenched tightly, "With everything I know about you and your mob. You've killed people for less."

His cold, calculating eyes study me for a minute before he leans back in his chair, his features the picture of nonchalance.

"You won't tell anyone. You and I both know I wouldn't hesitate to kill everyone you love and then you." Bucky informs blatantly.

That's when my heart splinters. Because I can see in his eyes that he means every single word. Emotion blocks my throat as I simply stare back at him, no longer working to hide my shock or pain. I nod once and I stand, smoothing out my silk blouse.

"I've lost everyone I love, you're out of luck there."

The lie burns so strongly on my tongue that it nearly makes me physically sick. I say it to make it true, to trick my mind and heart into believing it. I should hate him. I should loathe him with every fiber of my being. But I just...can't.

With tears that I refuse to let fall swimming in my eyes, I stare down at the man who changed my life, who stole my heart and is now breaking it.

"Whatever it is that you've been relentlessly pursuing these past years, whether it's power or money or blood," I whisper, not daring to bring my voice above it for fear that it will shake, "I hope you find it."

Bucky's gaze bores into mine, something unreadable that's nearly akin to conflict flashing through his eyes. Without a word, I turn and leave, stopping only at my desk to grab my things before leaving. Leaving this office, leaving the mob, leaving him.

And as I drive home with silent tears streaking down my cheeks, I can't ignore the gaping, pain-filled hole in my heart. I hadn't realized how much I needed that business, that man. But I have to move on. I have to.

And yet, I have this awful feeling that I'm not going to be able to.

|||

A few days later

It's the day of the gala, and it's all I can do to keep myself composed.

I've been an emotional wreck the last few days, and as much as I've tried to deny it I can't any longer. I'm in love with Barnes, I have been for a while and as bad as I want it to, it's not just going to go away. Losing the job was like losing Bucky, and I hadn't realized how much I leaned on him until he was ripped away.

"Oh come on, you stupid computer," I grumble, shoving my laptop aside as it launches into an update I didn't ask for.

When I woke up today, I decided it was time I start looking for another job. No matter how much it hurts, I have to move on if I have any chance of continuing on with my life. I was job searching when this piece of junk laptop started to reboot.

My attention is glued to my television and the show I have playing while I wait for my laptop to finish the update. I get so engrossed in the show that I almost miss it when the screen goes bright and it turns back on.

"Finally," I breathe, pulling it back to me and typing in my password.

As soon as it opens to my desktop, my laptop begins to pop up a bunch of random windows from my most used apps, just like it usually does whenever it's powered down and back up suddenly. I close them out with mild irritation, but freeze when my spreadsheet window opens up, displaying the spreadsheet I was working on last.

The guest list for the gala.

My heart stutters. I'd done so good all of today avoiding thoughts of the event only for my stupid laptop to bring it to the forefront of my mind. My heart wrenches as I can't stop myself from scrolling briefly through the list of invited guests. Near the end, I notice my name and stifle the sudden rise of emotions that inundate me.

With hasty, almost frantic fingers, I rush to delete my name from the sheet. Before I can erase my name, my eyes catch on four names at the bottom below mine. Strange. My name was the last one added. I know because I edited and set up this spreadsheet and only added myself when I had double and triple checked that everyone had been added.

Maybe Bucky found four more to invite. I try to accept the thought, but my curiosity takes the better of me and I can't stop myself from pulling up the internet on another window and searching up the first of the four names.

Xavier Taft. 34 years old, works for a bouncer service...wait. Criminal record.

My heart stutters again. With events like this, we're always so careful to keep the criminals down to only our own, and I've never seen this man's name in our regiment before. With furrowed brows, I search up the next one.

Lance Salone. Bouncer. Criminal record.

My heart is racing when I search the third.

Amanda Vice. No criminal record.

I frown, my adrenaline seizing a little bit. Maybe I was too hasty, maybe those two were just-

Oh my God.

My entire body freezes when I notice an article underneath Amanda Vice's search. She's a personal assistant, like me. But she works for Pierce Enterprises, the cover business for-

"Hydra," I whisper beneath my breath, feeling as though someone's taken the world and spun it around me.

With trembling fingers, I navigate back to the spreadsheet and look to the fourth name. I don't even need to search it up to know.

Alexander Pierce.

My heart is in my throat as I fly my cursor up to the top of my spreadsheet and check to see the editing history. My eyes scan the hundreds of entries by me until they rest in the last entry, one done by an email I don't recognize.

One I never gave permission to edit the document.

"They hacked it," I piece together aloud. Nothing seems real as I throw my laptop off of me and shoot to my feet, the world still spinning. The two bouncers, obvious muscle with the clear ability to kill.

I know I should hate Bucky, I know that I shouldn't give a damn what will go down tonight at the gala, but I can't stop myself from reaching for my phone and dialing the number I saved to my phone of the weapons dealer Bucky's mob used. The man I spoke with on Bucky's behalf many a times picks up on the third ring.

"Y/N. I haven't heard your voice in so long, how are you?" the dealer, a man by the name Nick Fury, asks.

"Nick, this is going to sound so random but I need to know if there's been any movement from Pierce or his men in the last week or so," I rush out. There's a beat of silence on the other end before Nick speaks again.

"What's this about? I thought Bucky fired you," he points out skeptically. My desperation is taking the better of me and I nearly snap.

"Damn it, Nick I just need to know! Has Hydra done anything unusual lately that you know about? If anyone would know it would be you," I practically beg. He must hear the urgency in my tone because he doesn't question me again.

"I caught word they were hanging around upstate earlier this week, they're not usually over there," Nick announces. I furrow my brows.

"Where upstate?"

"Some place called The Sky Palace. Heard they were there for a good bit of time snooping around before they got booted out," Nick answers, pausing for a moment, "Y/N, what's going on?"

I can barely breathe, let alone work up a response. The phone nearly slips from my limp fingers.

"Y/N, are you-"

"That's where the gala is tonight" I whisper, an aching, yawning sort of sensation ripping in my chest at the sudden realization that slams into me.

They're going to kill him. They're going to kill Bucky Barnes and they're going to make a move on our mob.

"I have to go," I rush out, my voice trembling and my stomach roiling with nausea, "Thank you, Nick"

"Of course."

I end the call, rushing to grab my purse and throw on the first pair of shoes I can find. As I rush out of my apartment and into the streets of New York as the sun sets low behind the buildings, I no longer think about the betrayal or hurt. I don't ruminate that I'm fired or that Bucky doesn't care for me like I do him. All I can think about is that my family isn't safe tonight, and I have to do everything in my power to protect them. All of them.

As I whistle for a taxi, my phone is already pressed to my ear and ringing as it tries by I reach my ex-boss. The call goes unanswered as I sit inside the cab.

"Where to?" The driver asks.

I almost say the venue, but pause. I set up Bucky's schedule for today, he should still be at his mansion upstate getting ready. He always did like to make grand entrances. Even if I'm wrong, it's only a ten minute drive to the venue. I give the driver Bucky's address and dial his number again as the driver speeds off.

"You've reached the voicemail box of-"

"Oh come on!" I groan out, pulling my phone away and ending the call. My heart is racing so fast that I can practically feel it trying to run out of my chest. I feel utterly powerless right now knowing that Bucky could die and I can help. What if I don't make it in time? What if he's already gone?

Tears blur my vision and sudden heart ache seizes my chest at the thought. I shove it all down and keep myself composed as I try his number again, but to no avail. Thankfully, we're pulling up to his mansion now. I pay the driver and rush out, putting in the gate code and sprinting to his front door. I don't even waste time knocking, knowing he's probably in the garage or his room, and dig up the spare key from its hiding spot to let myself in.

"Bucky!" I shout as soon as I'm in, slamming the door behind me.

There's no response.

"Bucky please! Are you here?" I shout again, but the silence rings in my ears.

One quick check of his room shows he's not here and when I sprint into the garage, I see one of his twenty cars missing.

I missed him. He's already gone.

I curse, checking my phone to see that he's running fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, something he never does. Of all days to be more punctual to his own event, tonight was probably the worst. I hesitate for only a moment as I ponder what to do.

"You'll forgive me later," I mutter to myself before I spin on my heels and jog to the key rack by the door. I swipe the first set I find and press the button only to find his brand new, cherry red Tesla lighting up.

If things weren't so dire, I'd squeal in excitement.

I don't waste time with giddiness, though, and sprint to the car. I'm inside and have the engine running in record time. Not one minute later, I'm peeling out of the garage and onto the road with screeching tires. I press the gas pedal nearly all the way to the floor, the engine roaring in my ears as I whip into the traffic.

I have to make it. I have to.

|||

And here we are, all caught up.

I hope you understand now more than you did before why I'm so desperate to get to Bucky in time. I hadn't realized it fully in the moment before, but now that I just might lose him, I know that he's everything to me. I wouldn't be half the woman I am without him and his constant assurance that I was strong and skilled and perfectly able to stand up for myself.

I can't lose him, not when he's so much more than a boss to me. So much more.

I cut the ten minute drive to the gala down to four. My headlights cut thought the pitch black night as I swerve up to The Sky Palace that's teeming with cars and richly dressed guests. The Tesla screeches as I grind to a halt before a group of gasping patrons and a wide-eyed valet.

His eyes grow wider when he sees me step out of it in a pair of jeans and a hoodie.

"Don't scratch this car if you want to live," I advise as I toss the young valet the keys. He must think I'm joking because his gaze flashes with humor.

He doesn't realize I'm being dead serious.

I don't care a modicum about the horrified, disgusted looks I'm getting from the elite who are still making their way to the Palace's entrance nor do I care about their cries as I break into a sprint and shove past them all.

I can't let him die, I can't let Pierce hurt my family. I can't.

I only stop running when I reach the two men guarding the front entrance with iPads to check in guests. I know them both, since both happen to be members of Bucky's mob. Their eyebrows furrow once they see me approaching them.

"Y/N?" One asks, his eyes nearly popping from his head, "Boss won't like it that you're here."

"Let me in, Sam," I order, my chest heaving with breath, "He's in danger, you're all in danger."

The two men's eyes widen and they share a look for a moment before glancing back to me.

"Y/N," the other begins, but the panic is getting too much and I cut him off.

"Listen, you're all in trouble. The business is in danger of being thrown into chaos, and your boss-" my voice cuts off with sudden emotion, tears swimming in my gaze, "Your boss is going to die if you don't let me in right now."

They only hesitate a moment longer before they step aside. Relief like I've never known it crashes through me. Just before I walk in, though, Sam catches my arm.

"I don't know what the hell's going on, but we're already falling apart without you. We...he needs you, Y/N," Sam whispers.

My heart tugs painfully in my chest and that same hole opens again. I miss them all, I miss the mob and the meetings where we'd all mess around like kids. I miss Bucky.

And with that last thought, I give Sam a nod before turning and jogging into the Palace.

Classical music wafts into the air, broken up only by soft chatter, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. The gala is classy and elegant and beautifully well-done, but I don't take time to admire any of that. Instead, I race through the room in search of Bucky.

I receive more than one disgusted glare and scoff at my apparel and messy, unkempt hair. I don't give one damn as I try to blend in as much as possible to not alert Pierce or his men while searching for Bucky.

I stop when I reach the grand staircase that leads to an upper balcony, taking the advantage of the steps and climbing a few to see the room from a birds eye view. It only takes me a few seconds to spot Bucky near the center of the room. My heart squeezes in my chest and I almost sob in relief to see him alive and safe. Just before I move to rush down the stairs and towards him, I hear a click from the top of the stair case.

I whip my gaze up in time to see one of the two bouncers from the list, Xavier Taft, begin setting up a sniper rifle atop the dimly lit balcony that no one but him stands atop.

My heart stops. Time freezes. My stomach hits the floor and all I can think about is that I can't lose him.

"No," I breathe, snapping my gaze down to see the gun trained on Bucky.

When I look at him, I see Sam at his side and speaking in rushed tones, probably about me. Knowing I don't have many options left, my mind works in overdrive to figure out the best way possible to do this. I need to cause a distraction, one to catch Xavier's attention long enough for me to finish climbing the stairs and get that gun away from him. At the same time, though, I need Bucky to see it happen, I need him to know his life is in danger so Lance Salone, the other bouncer, doesn't surprise attack him.

Bucky's just snapped his head towards Sam, his brows furrowed and his jaw tight when I make my move, my nerves humming.

"BUCKY LOOK OUT!" I shout, my voice piercing and carrying out over the room. Instantly, Bucky's head snaps up to where I am on the stairs and his entire body goes rigid.

I don't waste time watching him any longer and begin to sprint up the last of the stairs and towards Xavier who curses. He wasn't ready to shoot yet, I timed it perfectly. Beneath me, Bucky sees the gun trained at him and he sees Xavier, who now has his gaze on me. Bucky's entire body changes again into a mode of desperation, but I don't see it. I'm focused on closing the distance between me and the gun that's almost ready.

"Y/N!" Bucky roars, but I'm barely listening over the chaos in my brain.

"Bitch!" Xavier growls, cocking the rifle hastily and wrapping his finger around the trigger. He's too late, because I finish bounding up the stairs and crash into him, knocking him off of his feet and shoving the gun off balance enough so that the bullet he intended for Bucky slams into the roof instead.

Xavier's body slams into the marble tile as I tackle him, but he quickly overpowers me, flipping us over so I'm beneath him. Below us, I can hear screaming and glass shattering, but above the panic I swear I can hear a voice bellowing my name.

I scramble out from underneath Xavier before he can pin me, shooting to my feet and sprinting to the sniper rifle still sitting on the balcony. Just as I hear Xavier get up behind me, I knock the rifle over and send it careening down into the panicking crowd.

"I'll kill you for that!" I hear Xavier spit from behind me, and I whirl just in time to see him throwing a fist at me.

Time suddenly slows, and it's like I'm back in the office that day ages ago where Bucky tried to teach me self-defense. My body remembers the way he grounded me from my punch before my mind does, and I snap back to reality just in time to dodge Xavier's punch. Just like Bucky did to me then, I hook my leg around his and use his momentum to shove him to ground. I crash down on top of him and practically feel the slam of his head into the marble below him.

"Y/N!"

My entire body jumps at Bucky's voice, now close to me. I snap my head around to see him bounding up the stairs, blood splattered across his tuxedo as if he killed a man himself down there during the chaos. I almost sob in relief. He's okay. I melt beneath his gaze that bores down into me as he stoops down to reach out to me.

His hand is inches from me when his eyes snap up to something behind me and horror flashes through his face a millisecond before a hand wraps around my waist and wrenches me to my feet and away from Xavier's unconscious body. I gasp, and the world suddenly goes very still and very quiet as the cool of a gun presses underneath my chin, forcing it up slightly. My stomach hits the floor and I hardly find it in me to breathe.

Bucky stands ever so slowly in front of me, his jaw clenched and his eyes spelling murder.

"Leave her alone, Pierce," Bucky orders, and sudden fear clamps over me.

Alexander Pierce has me at gun point.

"Why? I'm actually quite taken with your girl," Pierce responds, tightening his hold on my waist. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment at the disgust and fear rolling through me before looking back at Bucky. He catches my slight movement and his fury heightens.

"Pierce, I swear to God if you kill her I will skin you alive," Bucky growls.

"See, now we're getting somewhere," Alexander announces, but I can hear the annoyance in his voice. This isn't what he wanted to happen, "What are you willing to give for her life?"

Immediate tears spring to my eyes and I meet Bucky's gaze again.

"No," I beg immediately, not daring to shake my head because of the gun beneath it, "Let me die. I'd rather die."

Bucky works hard to keep the cold exterior upon his face, but I can see between the cracks that he's...he's terrified.

It's only when Alexander moves his arm that restrains me to cover my mouth that I realize my slim window of opportunity. Without thinking, I slam my free hands into the gun that Pierce holds to the underside of my chin hard enough that it knocks his hand away. His hold loosens in sudden shock and I rip away at the same moment that Bucky darts forward and grabs ahold of me, ripping me to him and immediately crushing me into his side for protection as he rips out his own guns and shoots before Pierce can even recover.

The bullet finds its target perfectly, right between his eyes, and it's over.

My entire body is trembling so violently that I cling to Bucky, scared that my knees will give way from the adrenaline. I've never been in a situation like that before, never been so close to death. Bucky drops the gun from his hold and switches his full attention to me, probably realizing just how pale I've turned and how badly I'm shaking.

Keeping one arm secured around my waist, he runs the other through my hair, his steel blue eyes taking in every feature of mine.

"You saved my life," Bucky murmurs, his hold on me so tight in the most protective sort of way, almost as if he's just as terrified as me, "Even after I fired and threatened you."

I shake my head, tears of relief pooling in my eyes.

"I couldn't let you die."

Bucky's jaw clenches and before he can react I throw my hands around his neck, hugging him close to me. He reacts instantly, wrapping both massive arms around my waist and pulling me close to him, holding me tighter than I ever have been.

"Don't ever do that again, doll," Bucky mumbles into my hair, clenching my hoodie in his fists, "Don't be willing to die for me. I don't deserve it."

I don't know why tears are gathering in my eyes but I find I can't blink them away. I only tighten my grip, nuzzling my head into his neck.

"I don't think I can promise that," I breathe, and my next words come out before I can even stop them, "You'll always be deserving."

Bucky pulls away so fast that my heart lurches into my throat. His eyes examine mine so frantically, so dangerously, so desperately as he holds me out from him. His chest is heaving, almost as bad as mine.

"I did it to protect you, you have to know that. Everything that happened before, it was all to keep them away from you," Bucky swears, and my heart stutters at the look in his eyes, as if the police and ambulance sirens filling the air alongside the shouting don't exist.

"Why?" I breathe, hoping on everything he'll say what I think he will. Bucky brings a hand to cup my cheek, shaking his head at me with something almost close to tears in his eyes.

"You're my only weakness, Y/N, and they know it. Everyone knows it," Bucky murmurs and I swear I stop breathing, "If it came to you or the world I'd pick you every time."

My chest is so tightly constricted that I can hardly draw in any breaths. My chest is moving just as fast as his and butterflies are pressing into my stomach in anticipation for whatever is thick in the air between us.

"Don't ever fire me again," I order, and a low chuckle leaves his lips. My humor drains in a second though, and suddenly it's hard to speak without my voice trembling, "I don't think I'll survive it."

Something breaks in his gaze, softens it and turns it so tender and passionate that my skin tingles. He brings his other hand to cup my face to, so I feel completely under his control.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" He asks carefully, his eyes searching mine, "This life will never slow down. Someone will always want to take you from me."

"I'm sure," I whisper, not even hesitating.

His lips are on mine before the words are even fully out of my mouth. My heart leaps out of my chest as I melt into him, pulling him closer as our lips move in perfect harmony. My entire body feels like liquid and lightning all at once and he's the only thing left in the world. One of his hands finds their way into my hair, leaving me completely at his mercy. When he finally pulls back, he leaves a breath of a kiss on my nose and then my forehead before tilting my chin up to meet his gaze.

"You've been more to me for a long time now, doll" Bucky breathes, and a shiver rushes down my spine. He's so beautiful. A smile twitches onto my lips as I caress his stubble-covered cheek.

"I think how I feel is pretty obvious, considering I did tackle a fully grown man for you," I remark, and a surprised laugh rumbles out of him. The sound nearly turns me weak.

"And it was probably the scariest and hottest thing you've ever done," Bucky assures. This time I laugh and kiss him again, but we're both more serious after it.

"This life may not be safe," he begins, his thumb running over my lip, "But you always will be. As long as I'm here, you'll always be safe."

"I love you, Bucky" I whisper, my words a promise. He freezes, something new and bright flashing through his gaze. I don't think he's ever heard those words before.

"I've always loved you, and I always will," he swears, and for a moment my life is completely and totally content.

It doesn't matter what's happening around us, it doesn't even matter that I nearly died a few times in one day. With Bucky by my side, I feel invincible, I feel strong and capable.

"I don't think I can be your secretary any more," I whisper, and his smile is back, turning my insides to butterflies.

"No, I've got a better idea," he smirks, kissing me quickly.

The next day, Bucky would introduce me to the mob as his equal partner.

The King and Queen of crime.

And it would stay like that for the rest of our time.

I don't know when exactly Bucky Barnes became more than my boss, maybe it was always. Maybe I should have known I was in trouble from the beginning, but it's the best kind of trouble. So, if you ever get the chance to do something a little crazy, maybe something you never thought you would, but it just feels right, then you need to do it.

You never know who will become more to you in the process.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #angst #oneshot #au #bucky oneshot #bucky x reader #bucky #mob!bucky x reader #mob!bucky oneshot #mob!bucky #mob bucky barnes #mafia!bucky x reader #mafia au #mafia bucky #mafia!bucky #fluff #avengers #bucky barnes angst

[respectthepetty]

Non is either dead, he's dead and now an evil spirit terrorizing the boys or he is alive and the main killer. Thai horror films leans heavily on ghosts and supernatural but the creators of DFF seemed to have also taken inspiration from western horror/slasher films like I Know What You Did Last Summer, The Blair Witch Project, Scream and Friday the 13th.

If they are following western horror tropes then the obvious killer(s) or accomplice(s) would be Phee, Tan or both. If that is the case then Jin is clearly the classic final girl.

White has no personal stakes at this point or role in the story. He would be a pretty underwhelming final girl because I think hes boring so far. He's either cannon fodder to be slashed or he only survives because the killer is defeated. I would love if they changed my mind but we are already on episode 8. So unless we get more backstory on White that seems to be where his storyline is headed. Tee has been the more interesting character of that duo.

If they actually want to "surprise" the audience then revealing White as the killer or an accomplice would be a cool twist.

Anon, have you realized that I'm being UNREASONABLE about Dead Friend Forever? You've seen my Wild Ass Theories, so you must know I'm losing my mind with my little whiteboard and red string trying to connect the dots, right?

I'm prepared for all outcomes because I'm unhinged about his show, but . . .

"I think [White's] boring so far"

White slander? In my inbox? On a Tuesday?!

White is either an innocent bystander like his name implies caught up in this fuckery because his boyfriend Tee SUCKS, or he is a killer whose big doe eyes and kind demeanor tricked all these boys into believing he was there for love and not for *murder*, but either way, White will survive.

White realized there was no cell service.

White found the walkie-talkie.

White got the walkie-talkie working.

White found the knife.

White found the gun.

White saw part of the video.

White keeps dragging Tee's ass back when Tee wants to run.

White saw a rash on his skin.

White didn't know Tee's uncle was going to jail.

White wasn't supposed to be there.

The boy is propelling this plot forward, and it could very well be because he is Non's brother and is lying about not knowing anything about Non or Tee's uncle, which is why he swindled his way onto this trip so he would be the least suspicious and take Tee's ass down!

But what keeps me stuck is he is actively dating Tee. White is having shower sex with a man who roped his brother into money laundering, watched him get beat up, and possibly left him for dead?! Is Non's brother actually that crazy?!

In my mind, Jin could be a killer before White! But Jin is being extra creepy about Non, and I think it is being easily dismissed. Too easily.

Jin keeps touching Non. Jin keeps staring at Non. Jin convinced Non to stay with his bullies. Jin took a video of Non and planned to upload it, so regardless if the upload happened or not, the boy is still not Final Gay status.

I have not liked Jin or Tee since the first episode. Tee told White he was being disobedient and Jin had too much attitude to be on a trip with his buddies. In the words of Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz, "if yo ass wanna act, then you can keep your ass where you at."

So if Jin was sooooo upset to be on this trip, why did he come? As a killer? Possibly. But as the past as shown us, Jin does what the group does. He might protest and make side comments, but Jin is always going to do what the group wants. That's not Final Gay behavior.

This is Jin's going away celebration, so he really could be a killer and planned this entire ordeal to get everyone back together before he kills them all and peaces out to America.

But at this point, I'm completely biased.

Jin is my #1 enemy

Tee needs to die by White's hands

Tan and Phi are in this together

Non is alive

White will be the Final Gay because Phi and Tan wouldn't take out an innocent boy who wasn't even supposed to be there

And I'm quickly losing my mind

White lives.

Or else.

#dead friend forever #dead friend forever the series #Wild Theories #I have theories for days #and they only get wilder #but why do y'all keep asking me about them #I'm being unreasonable #I cannot see the light #because I don't want to #White will live #or else!

[gerrystamour]

here i have found some peace of mind

Rated E | Steddie | 7 Chapters | Complete WC: 60,000

Additional tags: Modern AU, Transmasc Steve Harrington, Switch!Steddie

Steve Harrington works at a hotel in Chicago, responsible for making and managing reservations for groups of all kinds: corporate, tours, entertainment, you name it. When some famous metal band signs a contract for rooms three months ahead of their concert date, Steve is swept into a flirtatious back-and-forth with someone he as been led to believe is the tour manager, Chris Cunningham, and quickly finds himself falling for the man... Eddie Munson is a rockstar still riding the high of Corroded Coffin finally, finally making it big, but with the fame he finds himself almost lonelier than he was before. So when he answers his tour manager's phone and a nice guy with a cute voice starts calling him "Chris," Eddie plays along and maybe gets a bit carried away...

[ READ ON AO3 ]

Links to read on Tumblr below the cut.

spent all winter waiting for the sun to arise

longing for isolation, for starlit skies [[ART]] [ CW: contains grief/loss, brief transphobia ]

dreaming of the forest, the whispering pines [[ART]]

soon as the summer comes, i will step out of time [ CW: contains smut ]

now i'm going out into the wild [[ART]] [ CW: contains smut ]

for once in my life i feel alive [ CW: contains smut ]

here to stay until the day i die [ CW: contains smut ]

OFFICIAL CORRODED COFFIN SETLIST

#steddie #steve/eddie #steve x eddie #transmasc steve harrington #transmasculine steve harrington #steddie fic #gerry writes #peace of mind fic #peace of mind fic masterpost #Spotify #TransmascSteve.

[class-1b-bull]

What do you hc for class 1b's backstories? Also this blog is literally giving me a supply of 1b crumbs and I thank thee 🛐

Thank you so much <3

Not proofread we die like men

Awase - he grew up in a small town that was 90% men. Probably fisherman. Also I think he has an older sister that he calls a bitch all the time but he would die for her. Pretty basic past.

Sen - ya know those basic ass dudes that get 20+ love letters a day. That was him in middle school. Other than that he had a normal past with a normal family (including his 'annoying' little siblings that think hes the coolest person alive <3)

Kamakiri - hes either an only child or the oldest of like 12 kids. He always had to take care if his younger siblings since his parents stayed at work all the time

Kuroiro - he was the only goth in a small ass town. Everywhere he walked old ass farmers would judge him for the way he dressed but now that hes at UA with a few other goths he doesn't care about being judged as much (bro is forklift certified btw)

Kendo - she had a very supportive family and was always praised for her good deeds which made her want to become a hero. Nothing to exciting shes pretty much always been surrounded by love and affection.

Kodai - other than maybe being teased when she was younger for being so quiet shes always been the same as she is now. Normal family and home life lol. I do like to think he family is loud asf tho (not like always yelling but they just have booming voices yk)

Komori - she was probably an only child. And while she was more popular in school than some she preferred to stay home with her parents or walk around in the woods to find mushrooms

Shiozaki - she definitely went to some christian private school her whole life and was probably really sheltered so thats why I think she would be a little akward when meeting new people

Shishida - lives with his rich ass grandma. Idk what happened to his parents but they aint in the picture so he was raised by this sweet little old lady instead and it shows

Shoda - idk why but I think he was raised by one of those hella social single moms. She always went out to partys and had friends over. Having so many new people around him all the time scared little him ngl

Pony - we all know most of her life she lived in America (i think California) so she spent a lot of her life by the ocean. She probably knows how to surf lol. Other than that tho she has a little brother and her parents that lived with her til she transferred to japan

Tsubaraba - his past is 50/50. Either he had a normal life with loving parents in a stable home up til UA or it was fucked up. No in-between (Ya know how class clowns almost always have fucked home lives.)

Tetsutetsu - bros biggest problem in life is having a hot mom. Hes an only child raised by a single mom and though most of his life is normal he cant have friends over because they just talk about how strong his mom is lmao. (She works out often and is the reason tetsu wants to be so strong)

Tokage - if she does have siblings its 2 older brothers and she was raised by her dad after her mom died when she was too young to even remember her. She doesn't mind not having a mom because her 2 older brothers gladly fill in that role for her lmao

Manga - yk how the mha universe is biased against people with mutation quirks. I think mangas birth parents put him up for adoption after seeing his quirk but in less than a year he was adopted by two artists after they saw his love for art <3 he had a normal and happy life since (this is also why his main goal is to make all the kids in the world smile)

Honenuki - Honestly he had an alcoholic single mom or something. She would always come home tired and with bad headaches so thats why hes so good at most house tasks (cooking, massages, cleaning, ect.) Kinda neglected so he matured earlier than he shouldve but he still loves his mom

Bondo - he was adopted by lesbian moms and they raised him to be the gentlemanly giant he is today. He loves his parents so much for how they raised him. His past is pretty normal and the only reason he was put up for adoption was because his birth mom not being financially stable enough or something of the sort. (She does visit him every so often tho)

Monoma - we already know he was bullied for his quirk most of his life but did you know he also lets you save 15% or more on car insurance? (Idk what to put here we already know his past rip)

Reiko - her parents divorced when she was around 8 and her dad won custody of her and she honestly couldn't be happier. Her dad looks cool asf but hes nice as hell to anyone and everyone. He also loves spooky stories and is the main reason reiko loves spooky things. Pretty normal past other than having a cool ass dad.

Rin - he transferred to Japan for two reasons. To go to UA and to get away from his parents. Dont get me wrong his parents were good people but they were kinda disappointed when rin said he wanted to be a hero. That disapproval only made him more determined to prove them wrong tho.

(More on koseis in tomorrows post)

#class 1b #bnha headcannons #bnha headcanons #mha headcanons #awase yousetsu #sen kaibara #togaru kamakiri #shihai kuroiro #itsuka kendou #yui kodai #kinoko komori #ibara shiozaki #jurota shishida #nirengeki shoda #pony tsunotori #kosei tsuburaba #tetsutetsu tetsutetsu #setsuna tokage #manga fukidashi #juzo honenuki #kojiro bondo #neito monoma #reiko yanagi #rin hiryu

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Other Woman | Steve Rogers

▹ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader | Implied potential Bucky x Reader

▹ Genre: Angst

▹ Words: ~3.4k

▹ Summary: Steve had told you Peggy was his past, yet when time travel becomes an option, it turns out you were the other woman all along.

▹ Notes: I just like to be sad I guess. I have also decided to open my requests! I think I need some new inspiration while I work on some other pieces :)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

You were trapped, stuck in a fantasy you'd created on how things were supposed to be. Time seemed to drag on. It could've been an eternity or just a minute that passed, you wouldn’t have known the difference. 

You stared out the window, mesmerized by the water as it washed away any remnants of the past five years. The meteorologists were predicting this storm would be one of the worst of this year. It was poetic, almost like the flood in Noah's Arc, if you believed in that sort of thing. Droplets clung to your window and obscured your vision making everything outside blurry and unimportant. Incense hung thickly in the air, the smell of smoke from the match you struck burning your nostrils. A lukewarm cup of hot chocolate rested on your side table, relatively untouched. You’d lost the appetite for it shortly after making it. It had been a force of habit, an old routine you hadn’t quite shaken.

Four months, and all you had to show for it was sleepless nights, tear stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes. You still couldn't find it in yourself to begin the process of moving on. To pack away the photos that littered your home. To get rid of him.

You half expected your front door to swing open. For him to burst in with his winning smile and bright eyes. He’d grab you in his arms and hold you tightly, thankful that the both of you had made it out alive. Two rounds with Thanos and neither of you died. Everything would be fairytale perfect: the world was safe, you weren't fugitives anymore, and Steve finally had Bucky back. That's how it should've been.  

But he didn’t.

Steve never came back. Those fantasies and dreams were dashed and divided, like glass shattering on the hard floor. Millions of shards created thousands of open wounds.  

He didn’t die a heroic death, sacrificing himself as Nat and Tony had. He chose to leave you. To stay in the past, a world he assured you he long ago made peace with losing. Swore to you that Peggy was nothing more than a fond memory he cherished like his old war buddies. 

‘She’s nothing compared to my girl.’ he’d always say. The words that used to quell your deepest fears and insecurities now felt hollow. You were always the other woman. It just took you four years to discover that. All the years you’d wasted, the opportunities you’d passed up when you'd gone on the run for him. It had all been pointless. 

He never even said goodbye. Steve couldn’t even bring himself to look you in the eyes as he broke your heart. You had to learn the truth from Bucky, a man you only knew by association. Sam had been there too, hand on your shoulders, holding you up as your whole world crumbled. You were barely coming to terms with the fact that Nat was gone, and now you’d have to live in a world without either of them. 

Figures formed in the haze of the low fog the rain had brought. It brought buried memories to the forefront of your mind. Tears clouded your vision, making everything out of focus. A single tear fell, your first meeting with Steve playing behind your eyes like a movie.

----

“So it’s true then, Captain America is defrosted and ready for action.” Your voice was soft, a bite of snark hidden deep under the sweetness of it. You crept up behind the super soldier, but he’d known you were there. You weren’t a trained assassin, nor did you ever claim to be. Just someone good with a gun and even better at executing orders, even if not in the manner originally intended.

Steve turned, a polite smile on his face. He seemed confused and disoriented, like an old man trying to keep up with technology. An accurate description of Steve Rogers. The sun shone in his eyes, making them shine like light against blue waters. He was attractive, obnoxiously so. With perfectly tousled blonde hair, a strong jaw, and lips that looked too soft to not want to kiss. 

“Ready and willing to jump back into action when I’m needed,” he said, holding a hand out for you to shake as you closed the distance separating you. He was even taller up close, nearly a foot taller than you. Which was new, you weren’t exactly short. “But please, call me Steve.” 

You took his hand in yours, enjoying the sensation of his calloused and much larger hands in yours. All too quickly the handshake ended and he was retracting his touch. 

“Y/N.” It was all you said, allowing yourself to stare into his blue eyes for one last moment before steeling yourself to distractions. This was a mission, not meet your local fossil at the Smithsonian. But that train of thought was harder to hold onto every time his arm gently brushed against yours.

“There’s quite the buzz around here, You’re all anyone can talk about,” you said, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, mindful to keep your gaze professional.

“I didn’t think I’d be that exciting of a topic,” he said, an easy smile on his face as he looked around the helicarrier. 

“Please, America’s hero melted and returned to modern America is cause for talk. Coulson swooned so hard he nearly fell to the floor,” you said, a whisper of a laugh at the edge of your words. Steve paused, turning to face you and you mirrored the action. You could feel the warmth radiating from his body, he was much closer than he had been a minute or so ago. 

“And you, Agent Y/N?” he asked, a slight red hue dusting his cheeks. The grin on your face widened, eyes softening as you allowed yourself to get lost in his eyes one more time. “How do you feel?”

“Very happy to have you with us today, Captain.” 

The grin on his face turned softer as the flush on his face got brighter. At that moment you noticed small flecks of green in his eyes.  

“You always were my favorite part about learning about WWII in school.” 

With a single pat on his shoulder, you continued making your way to the meeting room Fury and the others would be waiting in. 

---

Christmas lights glistened in the large room, chatter and laughter in every corner. The room was grand, ostentatiously so. With vaulted ceilings, marble floors, and pretentious art that only had value because a bunch of rich people decided it did. Women in beautiful dresses of various dark shades were lit up with glittering jewels while men wore extravagant suits that were probably more expensive than your rent. The holiday gala had been in full swing for two hours now. The alcohol had made everyone's eyes glossy and lips loose. 

You hung close to the bar, swirling the straw your drink had been served with. Your free hand rested on the bartop, manicured nails tapping against the wood. You were never good in events like this, all the glitz, glamor, and underhanded words. You were awkward and unsure of yourself outside of the battlefield. Fancy galas and parties exasperated that clumsy attitude. So you preferred to stick to the bar, hoping to get through the night with as little interaction as possible.   

“What’s a pretty gal like yourself doing all by herself?” the voice of Steve Rogers said, interrupting your awkward fidgeting. You turned, a pleasant smile overtaking your frown. Steve was standing right behind you, dressed in a simple black suit. In comparison to everyone around him, the outfit was plain, but Steve made it look anything but that. He made everything he wore look breathtaking. It was infuriating.

“Just waiting for a fella to come sweep me off my feet,” you said, a coy grin pulling on your lips. One of your hands smoothed down your knee-length black dress. Steve’s smile broadened and he held out a single hand. 

“Then how about a dance?” 

You didn’t answer him, simply taking his hand in yours. He pulled you towards the center of the room, the sound of your heels matching the pace of your heart. People parted for the two of you like the Red Sea, all the attention on you and Steve. Anxiety began to rise in your stomach, nearly causing your throat to close up. But you glanced up, meeting Steve’s blue eyes that were as deep and vast as the ocean. In the most cliche way, everyone in the room became formless blurs. All that mattered was Steve and his hands that circled your waist, pulling you closer to him than probably necessary. You relished the proximity though, his heartbeat matching pace with yours, his warmth heating your chilled skin. 

Your hands wrapped around his neck, the tips of your nails gently grazing his skin. Slowly, the two of you began to sway with the gentle piano that filled the room. The both of you wore matching smiles that were brighter than any lights in the room. Steve raised his hand, coaxing you to spin. The wind caused your hair to fan out, creating a halo effect as you did. The spin was more clumsy than you would’ve wanted, causing a shy giggle to leave your lips. 

“I’m not very good at this,” you muttered a dusting of red on your cheeks. Steve’s grip tightened slightly, amplifying the butterflies that had been exploding in your stomach since he first approached you.

“It’s okay, neither am I,” Steve said. His smile quelled the insecurities that lingered in the back of your mind. In and out, you took a steady breath.

“You seem to be hiding it better than I am,” you said in a slightly sardonic tone, your nose scrunching for a moment. Steve shook his head, a whisper of laughter leaving his mouth. The soft sound sent your heart racing and caused your mind to turn white. 

“Trust me, I’m not. See.” Steve unwrapped one of his arms from your waist, holding it out to you. You grabbed it, feeling his hand shaking. “You’ve got me seeing stars, doll.”

You’re silent for a moment, a dumb smile stuck on your face as you looked at Steve with adoration in your widened eyes. You grasped at straws, trying to think of something clever to say. But there was just static. You’d secretly been hoping for your friendship with Steve to blossom into more, and now it seemed you were getting your wish. You wanted to pinch yourself if only to see this was a dream. 

Steve didn’t talk, content to watch you struggle with breathing properly. His smile was lazy, head tilted slightly to the left like a cute puppy. His eyes were filled with adoration that was directed at you. Something you’d wanted from the moment he first spoke.

“How long have you been holding onto that one, Cap?” you finally uttered after a few seconds of long silence. 

“The moment we met, back on the helicarrier. Just been working up the courage to let ya know,” he said, his cheeks as equally as rosy as yours.

“Well--” you lifted Steve’s hand, spinning once again. This one was much smoother than the previous, Steve’s confession giving you a burst of confidence. “If it took nearly a year for you to tell me that, how long until you ask me out?”

After you spun, Steve's hand wrapped around your waist, both hands holding you close. You reveled in the feeling of being trapped in his arms, chest to chest and eye to eye.

“I’m free this Friday. We could go out to dinner, maybe go dancing after if you’re up for it,” Steve said. 

“Oh I’m up for it Rogers,” you said, resting your head on his chest, inhaling the scent of his cologne. He leaned his head down, pressing a kiss on your forehead. It was gentle and over quicker than you would’ve liked, but you closed your eyes, imprinting the moment in your brain.    

---

Something was wrong, you could feel it. There wasn’t anything tangible that set the paranoia off, no action or word was spoken that would stoke your fear. You shouldn't feel this way, but the pit in your stomach wouldn’t go away. 

You brushed it off, the death of Nat and Tony had shaken you, especially with them being so close together. That had to be why there was a lump in your throat that wouldn’t go away. It had to be why you were imagining that Steve hadn’t been able to look you in the eyes for two weeks now. Or why he would brush you off when you’d try to grab his hand or hold onto him for comfort. None of those things were happening, you were just imagining them. 

But even as you were thinking it, you knew it was pure delusion. You could read the writing on the wall.

Steve had been off the moment he returned from retrieving the stone. You’d been so wrapped up in losing Nat, that you never lingered on the implications that could have for the future of your relationship. There had been some complications and Steve and Tony had to go farther back to get the Tesseract. If you’d had a clearer mind, you would’ve understood the distant look in Steve’s eyes. 

He’d seen her, Peggy. That sighting was all it took to give him doubts. You never confronted him, of course, too cowardly to face that your relationship was crumbling. You loved Steve, you'd stuck by his side for four years, enduring the worst so you could keep him. The thought that it would've all been for nothing was terrifying. So instead you tucked yourself into bed every night, promising you’d bring it up the next day, only for the cycle to repeat.

Most days you awoke hoping this had all been a terrible nightmare, but that never happened.  

‘Just one last thing, and then everything can go back to normal,’ you told yourself. Steve, Sam, Bucky, and Bruce were all outside, a little ways away from the small home Pepper had. Steve was going to return the stones, and then this whole thing with Thanos would finally be put to rest. 

You were at the sink, handwashing the same five dishes. It was therapeutic to have something to focus on. It kept your mind off of thoughts that you’d done your hardest to shove into the darkest recesses of your mind. Tears pricked at your eyes and your grip on the ceramic cup tightened. You clenched your jaw, inhaling then sharply exhaling.

‘Don’t cry, not here.’

Morgan and Pepper were somewhere nearby, their voices filtering into the kitchen from somewhere deeper in the house. You wouldn’t want either of them to walk in on you having a breakdown. Because if so, then you’d have to explain why you were sobbing in the middle of the kitchen. It would legitimize your fears, making the inevitable end of your relationship real.

By chance you glanced up, seeing Sam and Bucky standing with each other, but no Steve. Their backs were to you as they looked at something you couldn't quite see. A moment later Sam walked forward, slowly and almost unsure. 

A glint of metal in the light caught your eye, causing you to drop the glass in your hand. The shield. Steve’s shield. You could make out the bold, red, white, and blue coloring with the large star in the center. Even from this distance, it stuck out like a sore thumb.

'No, no, no, no--'

Panic surged through your body, the lump in your throat getting worse. You could hardly breathe as you forced the door open, rushing outside. The cold air hit your face, making your hair whip around. Clumsily you ran down the steps of the porch, bare feet touching green grass.

Closer now you could see an old man. Sam and Bucky were with him, helping him get into a car. The air was knocked out of your lungs and you nearly fell over. Tears broke through the damn you’d created, staining your cheeks red and splotchy. You inhaled sharply, gasping for air. 

The old man was Steve. You stood there like a fish gasping for air as you realized the man you’d loved had abandoned you without so much as a word. It was only after the car was out of sight that your mind fully processed what had happened.

Bucky and Sam turned, seeing you standing there completely still, the only noise you could make was a choked sob.

'He left. He just--'

  ---

 You opened your eyes, grabbed the mug of cold hot chocolate, and walked towards the sink. The drink poured out of the cup and down the drain, washed away with warm water. In complete silence, you stood there with your head in your hands. The breath you’d been holding left your mouth, slowly. A few stray tears lingered, and you scrubbed your face, trying to destroy the evidence of your crying. 

A knock on your front door chased away the silence. It was startling, pulling you out of your melancholic state. You straightened your back, hands smoothing your clothes and hair as you walked to the door.

In and out. 

You let out one last breath before opening the door. 

Bucky Barnes stood on the other side, his previously long hair cut short, more like the style he wore back in the 40s. He was dressed in simple jeans and a t-shirt. His metal arm poked out from the sleeve of his leather jacket causing it to gleam in the dim lighting. A large grin lit up his face, making his ever-tired blue eyes brighter than usual. He held a grocery bag in his dominant hand and leaned nonchalantly against your doorway. 

“I thought we’d try our hand at making something for once instead of ordering out,” he said. A tentative smile blossomed on your face, stepping aside for Bucky to freely enter the apartment. He’d started coming by two weeks after Steve left, mumbling something about not wanting you to have to be alone. Though you both knew he needed the company as much as you.

“Oh, you might regret that Barnes. I don’t think either of us has the natural talent to cook,” you said, following him into the kitchen. He took off his jacket, setting it on the back of one of your chairs.

“I’ll have you know I make a mean batch of pancakes,” he said as he pulled grocery items out of the bag. 

“That doesn't mean shit. Everyone knows that waffles are superior,” you smugly said. Bucky rolled his eyes, shaking his head as his lips pressed into a thin line.

“What? Not even close, waffles are so hard and difficult to chew, pancakes are so soft and fluffy,” he said. 

“Waffles are fluffy too!”

“Not like pancakes!” Bucky fired right back. 

“Besides, waffles are not hard, you just always burn them,” you said. 

“That was one time!”

The two of you continued to playfully banter, poking and prodding each other with quips as you cooked in your tiny kitchen. It was a relief to not have your thoughts constantly wander to Steve every five seconds. At some point he melted away completely, leaving only you and Bucky in the candlelight glow of your apartment. At some point, he'd become your rock, the one thing keeping you from going completely adrift. The time spent with Bucky was an escape, a chance for you to pretend you hadn't been completely shattered. 

You smiled at a stupid joke he'd made, a sarcastic quip snapped at him like a whip. You both sat on your couch, eating the food that had taken far longer than necessary to make. But you weren't mad, in fact, you hoped the raging storm outside would be enough excuse for him to stay the night. If only to avoid the feeling of drowning that always followed Bucky's absence. 

Yet you couldn't ignore the flutter of your heart or the lightheaded feeling whenever Bucky laughed. You didn't acknowledge it, simply relishing in the moments spent together. The hole Steve had left behind slowly filled each day Bucky smiled at you like that.      

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers angst #steve rogers imagine #captain america #steve #steve rogers #stever rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve x reader #steve x you #steve x y/n #steve rodgers fluff #steve rogers/reader #steve rogers/you #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america x y/n #captain america angst #captain america/reader #captain america/you #avengers #avengers angst #avengers x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes imagine

[ltbarnes]

Anachronism - Part II

Or the placing of persons, events, objects, or customs in times to which they do not belong

Summary: Sprained ankles, snowstorms, blood-thirsty wolves and feral super soldiers. What was supposed to be a peaceful walk in the woods surrounding the cabin you're staying in with your best friend Steve quickly turns devastating, forcing your path to cross with the mysterious and burly man who can't seem to grasp social cues and the concept of privacy. His past is a puzzle that can't seem to be solved and your feelings for the sweet and giant man quickly develop from friendly gratitude to something neither of you can't quite grasp.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader, Steve Rogers x fem!reader

Word count: 5.8k

Warnings: a little bit of nudity and some sinful thoughts, bears!!, manhandling, Steve panicking and Bucky being the sweetest

A/N: I made it!! Never thought I would be able to finish part 2 in time but it’s done!! The love on the first part has been amazing and please give me any and all thoughts on this part <3 I love talking with you!

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

You had been gone for six hours by the time a barely functional Steve ventured out to search for you a second time.

15 minutes. That's how long you said you would be out, and Steve started glancing out of the window for you already after 13 to see if you were back.

And he tried to go out and search just half an hour after you left, but even for a super soldier a harsh snowstorm like this one is impossible to navigate in. His phone service was not working and contacting the compound was futile—they can't do anything as long as the weather is this bad.

He's fucking panicking. You're probably out here freezing to death if you already haven't. Leaving you to die like that is no option. For twenty hazy minutes Steve gathered anything that might be needed if he finds you half-alive in some ditch—warm water bottle, blanket, food, tracking device if Sam or Nat or anyone in the team feels like helping him some time.

Steve knew he shouldn't have let you go. He felt it this morning when he watched you walk out of the door with those ridiculously large mittens and the puffer jacket that could soften a fall from fifty feet high. But god, he can't say no to you even though he persisted for more than an hour in your argument. A flutter with those eyes of yours and he folds quicker than he can take another breath.

He's Captain America—a man who survived a world war, alien attacks, robots trying to take over the world and countless fights with the world's most notorious villains. He prides himself on having integrity equally strong as his vibranium shield and morals practically written in stone. Steve Rogers is an unmovable man and still he just throws away all logic and sense out of the window as long as you have a smile on your face.

His chest is heaving, out of breath. It doesn't happen a lot anymore now that his days of being an asthmatic, 90-pound sick man are long past him. You manage to make his goddamn body malfunction in a different way each time he meets you—today just happened to be the worst he's ever experienced. If you died like this while he sat inside looking over fucking sketches over the compound grounds he's not going to be able to live with himself much longer.

For so many years he's been able to keep you out of situations too dangerous for your own good. It's hard sometimes when you prance out in traffic without looking both ways or take shortcuts through alleyways on the way home from work in the middle of the night, but Steve's still been able to keep you safe. He has been there each time.

God, you fucking infuriate him. Sometimes he wants to throw you over his shoulder and lock you inside some closet where you can't get up to any trouble. Trying to negotiate your way out of being shot by a madman robber by offering him fucking cookies? Yeah, Steve was furious that day, but he adores you for it. Don't get him wrong—you're not some sunshine fairy girl like that teacher with glasses and colorful dresses in the sitcom you always watch, but still you offered a man with a gun to your head cookies. You barely even bake.

Honestly, Steve was annoyed by you for a whole two years before you slithered your way into his traumatized and lost heart. The 21st century is a labyrinth of parasocial relationships, too advanced technology and so much suffering existing along the endless progress that's been made since the 40's.

It all was just too much for him for a good while, and his range of emotions kind of just shut down. Work was all he had and the closest thing to a friend was Natasha, who he did not know at all at the time. Tony was a goddamn asshole and Fury was too vague and Steve was missing Bucky, Peggy and the Howlies so much that all woken time was either spent on grieving or fighting.

You were the first close friend he made in this century. One who he could spend entire nights talking to, and took him out on midnight pizza runs and showed him what the hell streaming was. A friend who showed him that things are better now in many ways.

But he knows now why Bucky was so goddamn irritated at him all the time—you aren't even throwing yourself into fights like he did, and still do, but instead manage to be so goddamn clueless and intelligent at the same time. And he doesn't want to find you stubbing your toe on the same treshold at least once a week as amusing as he does. Or that he looks forward to Monday meetings because he gets to walk past your little office, stacked with strange romance books you can read when Tony doesn't need help in the lab or Bruce has no samples to be incubated or whatever he does.

For a long time you were the only one he missed when he was gone on missions for weeks. Now the team is as much family as his real one ever was, and he loves them too, but you're still the first person that comes to mind when he drags himself half-alive and beaten to a pulp onto the quinjet after a gruesome fight.

Mostly he likes that you don't really need him. In reality you do so wonderfully fine by yourself, without anyone, and Steve loves your independence. He just seemingly likes worrying and fuzzing like a mother hen because he can. Because you let him.

You do stupid things sometimes and for those situations you really do need someone to either pull you away from the moving car heading towards you or scold you for being reckless, but you could live on a reclusive island entirely alone and wouldn't mind in the least. Maybe it's because Steve always wanted that quiet life—settling down in a house he built himself with a person he loves somewhere people won't bother him.

The snow is goddamn insatiable with working against him as he tries to find his way just a few feet away from the cabin. But he's been through worse and Steve would gladly cut off all his limbs and bathe in scolding lava to find you alive.

To hell with snowstorms and duties and work—he's going to find his best girl even if it makes a 100-year old super soldier hypothermic.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Your bladder is about to fucking burst.

For what must have been half an hour you've been laying awake to the sound of Winter's breathing, contemplating wether to go outside and potentially wake him up or just die.

But he's holding onto you so tightly, squeezing you to his chest with his nose buried in the crook of your neck, that you contemplate just holding it until he wakes. You feel like a stuffed animal he can't fall asleep without, the way Winter has tangled himself up in your limbs.

It makes you realize that you haven't felt closeness from a human like this in years. Maybe ever. You've never seen yourself as touch-starved but receiving such affection without any conditions or terms triggered some epiphany inside of you—you want to be held.

But ultimately, despite how heartbreaking it is, you are not willing to lay your life and dignity down for his and your own comfort in this moment.

The first movements of your newly awoken body generate cracking sounds that are a little too loud to not be concerned about. Good morning.

Somehow, in a manner you did not know you possessed, you slide out from his hold down onto the cold wooden floor without waking him up. You would've guessed he was a light sleeper.

A soft, breathy whine escapes his lips. You have to silence yourself with the palm of your hand to not laugh. Also desperately hoping that it's the loss of you on top of him that makes him upset in his sleep and not just the sudden lack of warmth.

His hair has been matted and tangled during the night, stray strands swept over his face, and he still he looks so good. You sit there on the floor staring at him for a good minute before you try to crawl away, struggling into your thermal pants and socks with a few silent curses slipping from your mouth.

If you're honest, you thought your foot would be fine by now. You clearly remember thinking to yourself that it would be over in five minutes when you fell. It's been a day and it's still swollen and hurting like a bitch—crawling to the door is the only way, though undignified.

You kind of miss being carried around while trying to haul yourself up to a stand with the help of the doorway. And you're also thinking about how Tony would have this picture printed and framed if he had a camera in his hand right now.

Outside it's still snowing, and the moderate layer of white, shimmering crystals covering the ground has grown to being outrageous during the night. It reaches up to your knees as you shuffle out just a short distance from the porch.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why am I doing this? Goddamn shit, ow," you whisper to yourself while trying to go about this in a dignified way that won't permanently disable you. "Ah. So cold. So cold."

And you're so hungry and tired and also might cry soon if things don't get better. Have you always been this sensitive? It feels like you're not. Circumstancial changes to your personality, hopefully.

Three days ago you were playing chess against Bruce in his lab while waiting for an analysis to process—that was, up until then, the most aggravating and complicated quest you had ever taken upon yourself (mainly because you do not know how to play chess). Right now you're peeing half-naked with snow up to your knees and a sprained ankle outside of a stranger's house who is most likely some kind of supernatural man and also very handsome. Is it weird that you're attracted to him?

Despite the rugged lumberjack-Tarzan type sleeping twenty feet away, you have a hard time seeing the silver lining in your misery. You're stuck and probably proclaimed dead. If you were a more positive person this could be counted as adventure time and great storytelling-material in the future—autobiography material, really. New York Times Bestseller List if you write it good.

But you're scared. You don't really know where you are and Steve might be out there looking for you. Yes, he is a super soldier, but it's not safe wading through a snowstorm without proper gear and knowledge. Steve can get cold too, despite how much he denies the slight shivers you've seen him develop during freezing walks in the winter. God knows he might wander off in the wrong direction and give himself hypothermia. Also a panic attack because this has to give him flashbacks to his time in the ice, right? Nightmares about being frozen solid like a popsicle?

By the time your teeth has since long started chattering, and you struggle to get up the zipper of your pants with your stiff fingers, a rustle in the trees surrounding the grounds forces you out of your daytime overthinking. The goosebumps on your skin instantly escalate to tiny mountains as you look around frantically for whatever threat is about to devour you.

Black fur emerges from between the branches, accompanied by a bark-like sound bordering on a happy chirp. You have to steady yourself to not fall over from shock as a bear cub wades through the snow, fuzzing up the powdery flakes as its dark coating slowly turns white from the steady snowfall.

Tears are dangerously close to being shed as you crouch down with your mouth agape. That was the last drop. A bear cub? Seriously? Sorting your thoughts through the big, blinking 'that is the cutest thing I have ever witnessed' is absolutely hindered by the fact that the bear is the cutest thing you have ever witnessed.

"Hi, baby," you say through a chuckle, stretching your hand out despite knowing that the bear could very well kill you. Because bear cubs are still dangerous, right? No?

It must be quite a few months old, if not a year, but the urge to hug it overpowers the underlying carefulness telling you to step away. Why did you ever think you had useful survival skills? A walking teddy bear comes into your sight and you abandon any reason.

The bear is hesitant as it catches sight of your figure, but it seems like the curiosity is stronger for it too. Slowly, and a bit clumsy, the cub makes its way through the deep snow until the wet nose nearly touches your fingers.

"Oh, you're so cute," you whisper with a blinding smile breaking through the chattering. "Where's your mother, huh? Have you gotten lost?"

It feels like maybe the soul of a tame cat has possessed this little bear as it latches on to your leg, paws embracing you with its nose snuggling into the stiff fabric. A shocked laugh escapes your lips as you gaze down at your new favorite being, possibly triumphing both Steve and Winter. Maybe it's too soon to decide wether or not Winter gets a place in your favorites category, but this one certainly does.

A shriek sounds through the air as your balance, which was compromised to begin with, falters and sends you to the ground with an especially hard nudge from the bear. Newly fallen snow wells up into the air as you hit the cold and soft layer with a thud, giggling like a little school girl as the bear releases a happy chirp.

"You want to play?" you ask, reaching your arms out while completely forgetting to be freezing cold like you should be. You didn't really have time to put on a jacket on top of your Henley before.

The bear pushes up snow with its nose, sending flakes into your face as if it splashes water jokingly. You throw some back, earning a shake of its fur to rid itself of the white formations.

But the door to the cabin is thrown open harshly, smashed against the wall, before you have any more time to resume your playtime. Winter barges out with his large and threatening build so tense that you fear he might pull a muscle. His eyes flicker over the scene, searching for your figure until he finds you half-buried in the deep snow with a bear hovering over you.

The panic is instant—you see it clearly from where you're craning your neck to catch sight of the sudden commotion. He's not wearing any shoes, but he runs out into the snow without hesitation anyways.

A growl sounds from his chest, puffing himself up to appear more threatening. For the first time you see the power he possesses—the real underlying danger inside of the man who has been so sweet to you these past 24 hours. But you're still not afraid of him.

"Wint—"

You begin calling out his name, try to explain that the bear wants you no harm, but the attempt is futile. Winter is fast, and before you can even say the whole of his name he has dragged you up from the ground with one arm while the bear fearfully runs away.

His hold is too tight for you to get a word out as he hastily brings you inside again, smashing the door shut and setting you down on the floor. This time he's careful of your foot, letting you hover just a few inches above the ground before slowly easing you down as to not lay any unnecessary weight on your ankle.

Winter's hands instantly find your face, eyes roaming over your body with frantic desperation.

"You—no hurt? Okay? Good?" he asks, tilting your chin up while inspecting the small patch of exposed skin on your neck.

His breathing is heavy. And you can understand what it looked like—he must've thought you were being mauled to death. Even though the bear was far from full grown they could still be dangerous, you think.

"I'm okay." You can't help but smile, despite it being a small one. "The bear just wanted to play. It was a really kind bear."

Winter furrows his brows into a frown, letting his gaze wander up to your face. A few seconds pass of him inspecting your expression, as if he's assessing wether or not you're sincere, before he lets out sigh.

A small pout grows on his face, drawing a giggle from your lips. He's cute like this.

"You were gone...so scared. Then I heard scream and saw bear," he tells you while shaking his head, tilted down towards the floor.

The smile on your face eases out into a sigh, hand instantly finding his forearm with a soft touch. "I'm sorry, Winter. I didn't want to wake you up and I had to pee. The bear just came out from between the trees and came up to me."

"But—no hurt?" he asks you once more.

You shake your head. "No. I'm completely fine. Just a little cold."

Winter lets out a puff of air from his nose. "Always so cold. All the time," he says, taking a step back from you to drag a chair out in front of you, before turning towards the fireplace.

"I am not. It just happens to be freezing outside and this cabin does not have any heat," you protest while sitting yourself down.

You watch as he reaches for the chopped wood stacked upon each other right beside the fireplace, throwing in a few more to feed the fire.

It crackles loudly, hypnotizing you for a few seconds before you start to feel the wet fabric clinging onto your skin.

"Do you have any other clothes?" you ask, arms encompassing yourself. "This shirt is all wet and cold from the snow."

Without any hesitation, he plucks his wine-red shirt off his back to reveal a tight, black long sleeve underneath. His right arm reaches the shirt out to you, meeting your doe-eyed gaze.

On a continuous roll, Winter has shown you kindness upon kindness ever since you woke up. It's all too much and you don't really know how to repay him. He's taken care of you so well, protected you and fed you and kept you warm and now given you his clothes. He barely even knows you.

With slight hesitance, you turn to the side and cling onto the hem of your shirt. You have to remind yourself that Winter probably won't mind if he sees you half-naked. He's already seen the bottom half of you in just underwear without having any significant reaction, so it'll be fine if he sees you in a bra too.

The collar gets stuck for a few seconds, and you struggle to get your head free for a good while. Gracious as ever. When you're exposed to the world again, you instantly feel the intense gaze of Winter on you.

His stare is zeroed in on your chest, the dark blue lace covering your breasts leaving little to the imagination when it comes to your nipples. No, you did not expect a single soul to witness your underwear on this trip while packing. But you kind of like dressing up for yourself a little bit too.

Winter parts his pink lips, drawn closer without even blinking. You sit there, gazing up at him while forgetting to take a breath. It's okay—he's just curious about the anatomical differences rather than the sexual aspect of it. You think.

"Touch...please," Winter murmurs as he stares at your breasts nearly spilling out of your bra.

And you have to suppress the sudden giggle that wants to escape. Winter looks like a kid staring at a lollipop, like he will burst any second if he can't inspect your fucking boobs.

"Ugh, they—soft. Look soft. Pretty," he whispers.

With a giggle you nod, giving him the okay to touch. You shiver now even before, despite feeling rather calm about it.

He uses his right hand to reach out. Ever since you flinched away from him that first time he's been hesitant to use his metal one while touching you, even though you don't mind. You have to tell him that.

"Never seen before—so soft. Oh."

His genuine excitement over having his hands on you draws a chuckle from your lips until he squeezes a little too hard.

"Be gentle. It hurts when you use too much force, okay?" you tell him.

He nods in answer, focus not straying from your breasts even once. He's mesmerized—he's never felt anything this pliable and cuddly on a person. In Hydra he only met rough men, consisting of hard muscle and rough handling. The entirety of you is just so soft.

"Off. Want away."

A tug at the strap of your bra paired with a wide-eyed gaze and pupils covering the entirety of his eyes signals that he'd be much happier without the offending fabric covering you. But you're not sure. It feels like a step too far.

Your fingers clasp softly around his, pushing them away from you gently. "Not today."

"Why?" he asks you with an expression bordering on a pout.

"Because I'm not comfortable with that. Do you remember when I explained that word?"

Winter nods while lowering his head to watch  his left hand as it flexes open, leaving a whirring sound after him. He looks a little bit upset about it, but doesn't pressure you any further. The truth is that you're worried he might not know what it implicates—what it might lead to. Because you sure as hell have a hard time controlling your feelings right now, and from what you've seen of Winter he doesn't have a lot of boundaries or impulse-control himself.

You put on his shirt in the silence, even though he's still looking at you. The cold temperature has made your nose runny and the only sounds in the room are now your sniffles, the crackling fire and Winter's whirring arm.

"I, uh, have to find—eat," Winter says, bringing his fingers up to his mouth while parting his lips. A soft smile cracks through your solemn exterior, relaxing into your chair.

"Food?"

"Yes. Food."

He looks down at you, eyes raking up the entirety of your figure, before reaching for a large fur that he drapes over his shoulders. You almost think you hear Winter whisper a "so small" to himself as he exits through the door, sending a gust of cold wind inside that makes you shudder.

As you follow him with your gaze through the window, he nearly looks like Leonardo in The Revenant with the rugged long hair and large fur as the snowflakes steadily rain down on him. Sam made you and Steve watch the movie a few weeks ago.

You wonder if Steve's been able to contact anyone. He definitely tried, if you know him as well as you think you do. Everyone back at the compound probably thinks you're dead by now, and might not look for you. If it weren't for Winter, you would be dead after all.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Two long and despicably boring hours drag on before you hear footsteps outside on the porch. And you can't help but stand up from where you've been sitting on the floor, limping towards the door as it's thrown open.

Winter has three fishes hanging from his hand. Slightly comical and also a little gross. There's probably some lake around here that he's been able to drill a hole into or something.

Your amused smile meets his stoic face that lights up just slightly when he sees you. Butterflies and heart eyes or what not—if he had been just a tinge more adapted to social cues he would've noticed the impact he has on you.

Winter's break in resolve quickly disappears as he realizes just what you are doing. He told you to not move a finger while your foot was still hurt.

"No. No standing," he seethes, nodding towards the tattered couch. You just give him a teasing smile in return. "Y/n. Little bunny," he sighs, laying down the fishes on his table and a handful of red berries that roll away.

"What, Winter?" you ask, trying to will the heat away from your cheeks. If you're honest, just standing like this is completely fine. It's walking that hurts like a fucking bitch.

With slow steps he nears your figure, towering over you with his massive build. You have to crane your neck to see his face, shuddering with the quiet growl sounding from his chest.

"No standing, I said. Only I carry you," he tells you, pointing his finger into your chest.

A gulp. An exhale that makes you realize how dry your mouth is all of a sudden.

"No?"

"Not listen to me. Makes me not happy—angry," Winter says. "Foot will be more bad if standing on it all the time."

Two dozens of minutes later he has obviously gotten his way. You don't think you could say no to him when he flashes those blue eyes of his without even trying.

Comfortably sitting on the couch that has been moved closer to the fire with a fur blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you watch him prepare food for the two of you once more. An old copper pan is filled with snow that has since long melted, now boiling so you can both drink some water for the first time in almost two days.

The palm of your hand is filled with cranberries that Bucky picked just for you—he told you so himself—that you've been snacking on. They're a little bit sour, but you're so hungry that you'd practically eat anything.

"Winter, can I ask you something?"

He turns his head around, facing you while laying down his knife.

"What did you do before coming here? Who were the people who called you, uh, who called you an Asset?"

A frustrated breath of air comes out of his nose, like merely the thought of his past angers him. And you begin to suspect that he has all right to feel that way.

"They made me kill. Have made many people dead with this arm."

Winter stretches it out in front of him, inspecting it like it is the first time. With disgust and a distaste so deeply ingrained that you can see his pained thoughts from here.

Within the blink of an eye he turns his attention towards the fire again, turning the fish so it doesn't get burnt. You don't say anything.

"They made me forget also. I did not want to, so then use special words and machine to make me do things." His back is tense now, the outline of his muscles distinct through the fabric of his shirt. "Hold me there for so long. Can't remember anything now from before."

The sound of a knife scraping against metal pierces through the air. It's the tip dragging against his arm, without creating as much as a dent despite the pressure.

"I do not want to hurt. Not you ever," Winter says.

The breath gets stuck in your throat, eliciting a choked, high-pitched sound as you try to find an answer worthy enough of the horrific crimes just confessed to you. All this he has been through, all the things he has done for the past two days, and he has the nerve to assure you that he means no harm.

"Winter," you whisper, barely noticeable when your throat is so thick and dry that you can barely speak. "Look at me. Please."

A sea of blue and sorrow and hatred and so much softness meets your own eyes. God, this man.

"You deserve good things. And I am not afraid of you, nor should you be of yourself. Honey, you've suffered enough. Don't let yourself be another source of pain."

Your palm comes to rest against his cheek, eyelids fluttering shut as he leans into your touch. You don't know if he understood every word, but it doesn't really matter as long as he understood the meaning behind them. And you think he does.

Winter cries. Tears, though few, leak down onto your skin as he silently grieves what life was taken from him. You don't know much about what he's lived through, but you know enough now to mourn for him too. You know enough to hold hate larger than you ever have for the people that used him.

That evil in the likes of villains on a screen exists among humanity is not new. You've heard about it in mission reports, in conversations between agents and seen it up front. Though nothing new, it hurts and aches in parts of your heart you thought were permanently disabled. Empathy has never been your strongest point but it might just break you right now.

"C'mere," you whisper while holding your arms out for him to escape into.

Winter drags himself forward to close the few feet between you, arms wrapping themselves around your waist as he buries his face into your lap.

What must be half an hour passes by with your fingers tangled up in his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp, and Winter's soft breathing warming up your legs. His own must be numb by now.

The food is long forgotten and probably burnt. You haven't really taken your eyes off of him for the entirety of this time. And despite what must be a routine lacking any sort of hair care, Winter has strands softer than a kitten's and a newfound source of jealousy for you. In these moments you don't particularly mind when your hands are the ones who get to feel his dark brown hair sift through your fingers.

But it hasn't been silent. No, you've rambled on about anything he might find interesting about your life to keep him distracted. He doesn't say anything, but you know he's listening. During things he doesn't like he squeezes your thigh, and sometimes he lets out quiet sounds as reaction.

"I love reading. I've probably read fifty books this year outside of research for work," you tell him, leaning your head back against the couch. "But not any classics, those are too hard to understand. I like simple stories with clichés and happy-endings. Makes me believe that I might find happiness like that someday too."

A particularly noticeable puff of air escapes Winter, hitting your leg with the warmth of it. An agreement, maybe? Or a silent plead for you to shut your mouth for a second?

"Oh, and I cook a lot too. But mostly the same three dishes. I'm not really that good, but I've perfected this tomato sauce I've been doing since I was 18."

You lift your hand to scratch your nose for only a second, and Winter still lets out a nearly silent whine for your absence. It makes you laugh, tugging on a few strands in answer.

"Do you want me to talk more?" you ask him.

He nods, holding onto you a little tighter.

"And is it really comfortable sitting on the floor? Don't you wanna come up to the couch?"

A shake of his head. Still. A nod.

Winter places his hands on either side of you, pushing himself up from the floor until he's standing tall right in front of your figure.

It only takes a pat of your hand on the cushion beside you for him to sit down. You push yourself into the armrest, legs crossed to your best ability with a foot that still has good swelling to it, to give him enough space. The couch is too small in reality and had its shining moments before you were born, but when Winter unfolds your legs and drapes them over his lap the two of you fit well enough.

“Thank you,” his rough voice croaks out after a silence so long you nearly forgot the meaning of speaking. The comfortable silence is always going to be good enough communication for you.

Your eyes are closed and too heavy to open again. What time it is you have no idea about, but it’s dark and you’re exhausted, but find some sliver of energy to answer him.

“What for?” you ask, soft voice on the verge of being slow.

“You are very…kind. Kind and uh, cute. Pretty.” His hand strokes up and down your leg, as if the thought of not touching you is unbearable. “Also smell so good. Want to be close all the time.”

The entirety of your body tenses up and you don’t know why. Why do your limbs turn to stone when his words burn in your veins, sends heat to your face and ears and heart that beats faster with each passing second?

You want to answer, but Winter beats you to it. Instead of expecting you to say anything in return he pets you on the head gently.

“Little bunny so tired. Already sleeping almost,” he says, more to himself than for your sake. You already know how tired you are.

The solid couch disappears from underneath you as he carries you with him to the bed. And just like last night, he maneuvers you until you’re laying flat atop of him.

A pleased hum sounds from your lips, snuggling into his warm hold with a tired smile adorning your face.

“Winter, tomorrow I would really like some pasta. A big pot that nobody else gets to taste but us,” you mumble. “Not even Steve.”

And Winter doesn’t really understand what you’re babbling about, but you can feel his smile despite your eyes being closed.

You could get used to this, and you haven’t felt like a life without Steve constantly nearby is something you could ever be without before. Two days and nights is all it took.

It scares you.

Part III

#marvel fanfiction #marvel fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fluff #bucky barnes smut #beefy!bucky #anachronism

[a-friend-of-mara]

Hey uh

I'm leaving my mask at the door for a minute

If you enjoy the image of myself I put forward, the happy cheery autistic trans girl who doesn't dwell on her issues

Please just ignore this post

If you are uncomfortable with mentions of self harm, talking about non prescription drug addiction, suicide rates of trans kids

Please just go

Look

I say my biggest fear is that I'll be forgotten

It's easier than saying that I'm scared to death of myself

I'm worried I'll give up on life and stop eating... considering I can't gain or maintain weight I'd have a week before I was dead at the most

I'm afraid that I'll give up trying to look like the person I want to be rather than being stuck, trapped in a body that isn't mine but I'm wired up to like some sick torture method

I don't want to fall into drug use or self harm hoping that it'd pull me out of this pit of self hatred and hopelessness

I don't wanna be another tally mark on the trans suicide charts

I don't wanna die

I feel like I'm suffocating

That I can't move my legs... only the ones attached to me

I don't even know if I matter at this point

I just

I wanna be me

Not some false image that I was born with

Nobody understands how it is for me

My dad almost killed me with th fact he understood so little he put me into survival mode where I cared about nothing but staying alive because of how much damage his insistence that my body was in fact his son and not the cage that trapped his daughter

He used to have twins now he just has one kid with her twin sister... my sister

Now I live with my mom who doesn't understand, how could she? She's never wanted to tear her skin off because it wasn't hers... she understands how much I hurt though

She's able to see through my mask that I'm really suffering inside

Without her yall wouldn't have ever known I existed

You would've heard a news article of a trans kid who killed herself by diving off the balcony at her school although the media would misgender me.

I've almost done it

Sitting on the edge of a lethal drop fighting with myself to not do it

Not sure if I was lying when i told myself things would get better

I'm not sure if they are

Everything just keeps getting worse and worse

I can't even cry anymore

I don't care about so many things that I used to

I used to love

Then I was heartbroken

I used to care for my friends

Until I moved away

I used to enjoy helping others

Now I'm so tired I can't

Just

Fuck

It's kinda funny

How part of me thinks it's all my fault

How I'm not sure if it's something I did

But then I have to think

What could I possibly have done that'd make this torment justified?

How can any higher power exist when I've prayed to every God and Goddess I've ever learned of and not once has a goddam thing happened

How would a higher power let the world get this fucked up

Fuckin hell

My trans siblings are getting murdered for being themselves

Innocent people who live in unfortunate places are being killed because of stupid ass reasons

Fucking hell in America most people aren't free enough to take a month off work without becoming homeless

Decades of prejudice make people think women are weak and need defending but don't pay them well because... fuckin I don't know why!

It's pathetic that men get away with rape while women get away with false rape accusations usually destroying every relationship the man ever cared about

People look at others and treat them differently based on the color of their skin

YA KNOW HOW FUCKIN STUPID THAT IS?!

ITS DUMBER THAN PICKING ON SOMEONE WHO WORE A BLUE SHIRT PURELY BECAUSE OF THE SHIRT

What for?!

WHAT THE FUCK IS ALL THIS FOR?!

The privilege to go through 12 to 20 years of school to earn the right to have to work a job I'll probably hate until I'm like 60?!

Right now I'm pretty sure my life is gonna end before I reach 30!

What's the fuckin point?!

America for fucks sake

The land of the free

Yeah free to work or die because the 0.01% run the fucking nation like their playground

People wonder why I've responded to hostility with hostility in the last 3 years

Simple

I've bottled my emotions for so long the bottles are all full

Yelling and ranting always make me feel a little better

If anyone comments on this negatively I hope you die in a vat of boiling vinegar and drown in the yolks of rotten eggs

That goes for all the phobic people too

If you made it through this whole essay sized emotional breakdown and don't think I'm a complaining winey bitch

I can only say I wish the world was made of more people like you

Alright

Time for sleep

#tw: depression #tw depressing stuff #tw self destructive behavior #trans #trans woman #me #depressing shit #trans struggles

[tdciago]

Fargo: Operation Eagle's Nest

Theory in collaboration with @thefutureiswhat. SPOILERS ahead. We're down to the wire, so let's talk about this fictional Ronald Reagan movie, introduced in season 2. Young Molly Solverson watches it on TV; Peggy watches it in the cabin; and Ronald Reagan talks about it to Lou. A French couple, Marie and Pierre, hide from a Nazi in a basement. The Nazi starts a fire to smoke them out. Pierre is going to act as a shield for Marie, but Reagan's character arrives to save the day, shooting the Nazi and apparently killing him.

PIERRE: If we stay here, we burn in our own little hell. As Reagan and the couple escape, the Nazi wakes up and follows them. We are left to wonder about the outcome. Even Reagan himself doesn't recall. "I remember back in '42, America just joined the war. I was working on, uh... 'Operation Eagle's Nest' for Paramount. I got dropped behind enemy lines trying to rescue Jimmy Whitmore and Laraine Day from this SS commando. Bob Stack was on loan from Selznick. That Nazi bastard had us cornered. We were done for, but in the end, with a little American ingenuity, we managed to, uh...Oh, no. No, no, wait a minute. Um... Come to think of it, I don't think we made it out of that one. Or did we? Oh, shit, I can't remember. Well, either way, it was a fine picture." In season 5, as Wayne enters his home after Dot has been kidnapped, we hear on the TV that "Operation Eagle's Nest" will be starting. In "The Tender Trap," Vivian Dugger and his pals leave the strip club talking about France. "You're gonna get in trouble, man. Then move to France. The French, buddy? No. You're, like... The French would like me better than you." Later in the episode, Lorraine mentions Vivian's son starting at Notre Dame, which is French for "Our Lady." Does the uncertain outcome of "Operation Eagle's Nest" foreshadow a similar scenario in "Bisquik"? Will we see Roy apparently killed, only to have him appear alive in prison? Will Reagan's uncertainty about the ending of the film parallel our uncertainty about the ending of season 5, calling into question "the true truth"? We've had references to "Rashomon" in "Linda," and to the short story "The Lady, or the Tiger?" In episode 5.5. Both have ambiguous endings. We've also had Nazi references, with Odin questioning whether Roy is Hitler at the Reichstag or Hitler in the bunker, where he committed suicide. Erwin Rommel, another Nazi mentioned this season, also committed suicide, and it was coerced. He was given a choice. Stand trial for being complicit in trying to kill Hitler, which would drag his family through the mud and end in certain conviction and death; or commit suicide, being hailed as a war hero and leaving his family untouched. He chose suicide. So I wonder if Lorraine will offer Roy a similar deal, writing a check to ensure that Roy's children will not be "futureless," if he agrees to eat Munch's sins, perhaps in the form of biscuits so laden with 500 years' worth of sins that they are toxic. And maybe, somehow, the story will be that Roy died a hero, a martyr to his right-wing cause. A Rommel deal. LORRAINE: You tuck your kids in at night, never telling them that they're-they're in the cage, too, because, when you die, your debts become theirs. "Though thou exalt thyself as the eagle, and though thou set thy nest among the stars, thence will I bring thee down..."

#fargo #fargo fx #fargo season 5 #fargo spoilers #roy tillman #lorraine lyon #Rommel #Operation Eagle's Nest

[ghostmaldo]

🍉 This is it, For Palestine🍉

I don’t know where to start. I’ve never done something like this before. Never knowing if my voice out of millions will be heard. But none of that matters anymore. I’ve put all that fear aside and even if one person shares, if one person can find it in their heart to help. Even if one person shares this for their followers to see. its worth it.

People are dying and have been dying for five months. Dead, no longer living, no longer alive. No longer able to see the light of day, to enjoy their lives with their familes, their children, their loves ones or chase after their own dreams. All taken in less a second. Lied to about safe zones, trapped, and killed is a lesser manner than cattle. And for what? Tell me FOR WHAT? Because they simply live different then we do? Religion, money, somebody please tell me BECAUSE I DON”T UNDERSTAND. I am beyond the notion of angry. I look at them and I see people just trying to survive. They’re just trying to live like everyone else. We have the same hearts, same limbs, eyes, mouths, dreams…Whats the difference between their children and our children. Nothing. It’s hard for me to look at my own child and image if this horror was happening to us without breaking out into a sob.

Yet, the media, the nations their doing everything in their power to keep it all quiet. Like its not some serious ordeal to bomb a few several thousands of innocent people. Fuck they try to make it seem their doing the world a favor. I hate this stupid fucking nation and I mean that with my entire chest. I may have been born here but I do not stand with this governments. These old ass cruel and evil men and women who have the power to stop this with the snap of their fingers. But they DONT. THEY REFUSE. And still the nation parades themaround like show dogs. I’m amazed, baffled how a little green rectangle comepletly bewitches you old fucking white men.

Please, please, please, I’m begging on my fucking knee’s for anyone reading this to hear Palestines cries. America has tried to convince us we don’t matter in all of this but we do. We matter the most. We HAVE to spread this like wild fire and we have to do it NOW. No one deserves genocide. No one deserves to die under a bomb buried in ruble. And I an’t stress this enough, children included. Children brutally mustered before their lives have even begun. What they’ve done to the people of Palestine is everything evil and vile. I’ve tried my best to compile a list of resources that will help the people of Gaza/Rafa/Palastine. And please feel free to add more, this is it. If you’ve been waiting for a sign, for a moment. This is it.

I’m sorry I had to use the tags in my favor. I have to make sure this reaches as many eyes as possible.

https://afsc.org/news/6-ways-you-can-support-palestinians-gaza

A list of 6 ways to support Gaza. Including contacting your congress and DEMAND cease of fire. Participating in marches (Please so stay safe while doing so), keeping up with corporations supporting the genocide and immediatly boycotting and holding them responsible for their participation. And many others

https://www.savethechildren.org/us/where-we-work/west-bank-gaza

If you have the means to do so heres a donation pool for helping children and medical resources for Gaza

https://www.itsnicethat.com/news/gaza-resource-list-creative-industry-031123

Heres a well put together list of ways we can also support Palestine.

https://fmep.org/resource/ways-to-support-palestinians-in-the-gaza-strip/

Another list to support Palestinians

If anyone can find the accounts of the familes, journalist, anyone speaking about Gaza please, Reblogs and put their names in. Thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope this finds someone. Anyone.

~Maldo

#free 🍉 #🍉 #palestine 🍉 #watermelon 🍉 #all eyes on rafah #palestine #free gaza #gaza strip #anime imagines #imagines #my hero academia #jujutsu kaisen #marvel #movies #sonic the hedgehog #hazbin hotel #markiplier #jacksepticeye #books #media #writers on tumblr #artist on tumblr #baldur's gate 3 #maldo writes #sonic x shadow generations #shadow the hedgehog #Disney #twisted wonderland #Gojo #nanami

[heavensbeehall]

"Catching Fire", Chapter 18

Part 2: The Quell

Chapter 18: Katniss is very worried Cinna will be killed. For his interview, Peeta tells the world Katniss and he are married and she is pregnant. All the victors hold hands in an unprecedented show of unity. Then the Capitol shuts everything down. Haymitch has some final advice. "Stay alive," as always but also something new: "remember who the enemy is." The next morning they head to the Arena. Cinna is beaten. Katniss is raised into a water Arena.

End of Part 2.

[Cinna] makes a small, gracious bow. And suddenly I am so afraid for him. What has he done? Something terribly dangerous. An act of rebellion in itself. And he's done it for me. [...] and I'm afraid he has hurt himself beyond repair. The significance of my fiery transformation will not be lost on President Snow.

We all agree that Cinna is part of the Rebellion, right? That this was not an accident or coincidence? Snow was trying to shame Katniss with the wedding dress and Cinna transformed that into something else. That alone would be something. But to turn her into the symbol of the rebellion?

Cinna should also leave the Capitol now. But he doesn't. He gives his designs to Plutarch, so it's not like he didn't have advance warning. It's such a strange thing. To think he must have gone to school, studied fashion, worked his way up in the Hunger Games system somehow--I assume they start as preps? I'm not sure--He finally gets to design for a tribute and he picks Katniss, makes dresses for her for a year, and then makes a dress he knows will get him killed. Not just end his career. End his life.

But there is a sense that this is what he wanted the whole time. Maybe he just expresses himself through fashion and he feels this is how he "says" his piece.

And the description of his beating is just a paragraph, really. Katniss is the only one surprised, I think, and even she knew he was in trouble.

There. He's done it again. Dropped a bomb that wipes out the efforts of every tribute who came before him. Well, maybe not. Maybe this year he has only lit the fuse on a bomb that the victors themselves have been building. Hoping someone would be able to detonate it. Perhaps thinking it would be me in my bridal gown. Not knowing how much I rely on Cinna's talents, whereas Peeta needs nothing more than his wits. Katniss is Peeta's biggest fan. If you did a shot everytime her inner monologue is about how good, nice, or smart he is, you'd be drunk after one chapter.

I sense Peeta reaching out for me. Tears run down his face as I take his hand. How real are the tears? Is this an acknowledgment that he has been stalked by the same fears that I have? That every victor has? Every parent in every district in Panem?

You know what this made me think of, which is kind of unrelated but hear me out. In America we have a school shooting problem. Kids die every year. But I have read that the way the news media has covered the school shootings--by highlighting the killer or killers' story and narrative--that it encourages more shootings. This is how you become famous. It go so bad that after the Parkland shootings students had to ask the media to please not use the shooter's name and instead focus on the 17 kids who were killed.

But the way the Hunger Games coverage focuses on the victor (do they get a "winner's edit"?) it diminishes the lives of the Fallen.

And here Katniss thinks about Rue's family, and wonders if Peeta has the same fears of having children as her. Now I think Katniss' aversion to having children is probably an extreme example but I bet every parent in the districts has thought about their child being reaped. And every kid has had nightmares about it, or thought about what they'd do.

Like how kids have to do school shooting drills now in America.

I also wanted to say something about the Capitol caring more about a fictional unborn baby than poor-already-born kids. Because that is so like rich people.

I have too many thoughts.

I should cut this. (And I do apologize for comparing shooters to winners, but more about the media coverage, k?)

#thg #everlark #peeta mellark #baby bomb #victors #johanna mason #cinna #fashion

[oliwonders]

Hamilton lyric changes (or just changes in general) (feat me n my brother's s/is :p)

adding Oliver and Max to the "We fought with him" part (Alexander Hamilton)

Lafayette urging Oliver to join their little idk freestyling?? session only for her to shake her head and just watch + she says "Who are YOU???" at the same time as John (Burr, Sir)

again, Oliver doesn't sing for this part, but John recognizes her in his part by looking over at her during the "You and I; do or die," verse (My Shot)

in the majority of the songs they're together in, John ALWAYS has an armed tossed around Oliver's shoulders. so as they're all out of breath in the beginning of this song, he's got her leaning against him as he makes the toast to freedom, and acknowledges her more than once (Story of Tonight)

Alexander acknowledging Oliver when Washington makes him his right hand man "Ollie, Laurens, Mulligan, Marquis De Lafayette; okay what else?" (Right Hand Man)

you know that part where Angelica and Alexander look at each other for a bit at the ball? imagine that but also with Oliver and Eliza (Winter's Ball)

despite how she feels, Oliver stays sober (along with Alexander and Aaron) so she can watch over the boys as they always do,, mostly John, but the other two are drunk, too, so. (Story of Tonight Reprise)

Oliver staying behind with John to write stuff with him and Hamilton, but leaves just in time for Charles Lee's epic appearance (Stay Alive)

near the end of this song, John turns and sees Oliver with a look he knows all too well on her face and goes after her after she walks off stage, as everyone else chants "Meet him inside" (Ten Duel Commandments + Meet Me Inside)

during the war and some moments prior to it, Oliver, as lieutenant, and Alexander, as second in command, work really well together, and get along well,, but for this song? this song is their spiral downhill, as John was Oliver's childhood best friend- and her first friend upon coming to America, and was,, like, Alexander's lover. big part of their lives. so the foreshadowing in "We fought with him," is like Oliver saying she fought alongside Alexander during the war, but, after this song, she still helps him out with his political shit, but they're always at one anothers throats. the only times they can get along is whenever they're hating Jefferson. other than that? not even Eliza can get them in a room together properly outside of work anymore. (Laurens' Interlude)

hmmmmm methinks this of a kinda duet with Burr and Oliver,, "Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Soon, that attitude may be your doom." "Why do you always say what you believe? Every proclamation guarantees free ammunition for your enemies." (Non-Stop)

During the "I've been in Paris meetin' lots of different ladies" part, Max rolls his eyes as Jefferson says it, and when Jefferson winks at him afterwards, he shakes his head in exasperation and waves him off, prompting the other to laugh. and during "Sally, be a lamb, darling, won't you open it?" part, it's now Max instead of Sally, and he rolls his eyes but opens the letter and deadpans as Jefferson dances around him (What'd I Miss?)

(bonus: "Now who's waiting for us when we step in the place? Our friend, James Madison, red in the face!" as another change of lyrics for "What'd I Miss?" which acknowledges Max, too)

(my brother came up with this one) when Alexander says "Don't lecture us about the war, you didn't fight in it!" Max almost jumps in because he literally helped supply them the shit they needed while he was in France but Madison grabs his arm before he can push Jefferson to the side (Cabinet Battle #1)

When they're showing Phillip the pamphlet, Oliver gently gets Phillip away from all that, and while she's walking Phillip out she GLARES at Hamilton. because she gave up her hopes for having something with Elizabeth so that she could be happy with Alexander, only for him to have an affair. multiple times. in his own house. (The Reynolds Pamphlet)

(my brother came up with this one too :D) Oliver outlives everyone with Eliza, and helps to tell their stories,, im adding on that Max also outlives with them. Oliver mainly helps with speaking out against slavery, Max mainly helps with the orphanage, and all three of them interview the soldiers that fought at Alexander's side. Max dies first but it doesn't take Oliver long to follow, but as Max was to die at Oliver's side, Oliver dies at Eliza's side <3 (Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story)

#WOOOOO IM DONE #oli wonders; hamilton

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Salut, S!

I was trying to write a medium amount of evanstan but uh, I think I might have blacked out and written this instead? Either way, I thought you would like it.

Chris and Sebastian met two weeks before the start of filming on the first Captain America movie, and here they are, three years later, working on yet another movie together.

But it’s different this time. There’s a thicker brand of tension in the air, settling between the two when Chris looks him in the eye with a downright hungry look when the others aren’t aware. Sebastian doesn’t know what it means, but what he does know is that if Chris ever looks at him any differently, he might actually die.

It makes Sebastian feel alive. It’s better than any drink or drug, and it terrifies him. He wasn’t aware anyone (much less someone of the same gender, but he’ll unpack that later) could have such an effect on him. Chris does this downright mean slow up and down look at Seb, making a primal urge to fall to his knees in front of an entire press team burst from his chest. He has no idea what this man is doing to him, but he craves more.

Sebastian is snapped back into reality when Chris looks at him with a wolfish grin and asks him the question he’s been begging to hear the entire night.

“Seb, darling, do you want to get dinner with me? We can get a pizza or whatever you want.” He asks, and Chris’s choice of pet names makes him weak. It’s not really unusual, he’s called everyone on set darling at least once. But the way he says it now is frightening.

They end up in the car together, Chris’s hands steady on the wheel, Sebastian’s places nervously in his own lap. Chris glances over at him, a smirk etched onto his face.

“Seb, is anything on your mind? Anything you wanna talk about?” He asks, and Sebastian squeaks out a no far too quickly.

“Really? Because if I’m honest, the way you’ve been looking at me might suggest otherwise.” Chris says, and the confidence radiating off of him is so heavy Sebastian might be crushed by it.

“No, Sir.”

Sebastian goes red. Fuck, he never meant to call Chris that, oh no-

Chris groans softly, almost imperceptibly. Sebastian looks over at him, eyes wide. They’re turning into the driveway of Chris’s home and his knuckles are white on the wheel. He parks without a word, and Sebastian’s fear and confusion are growing. He turns to Sebastian and looks him in the eye with eyes that make Seb’s brain short-circuit.

“Baby, I need to know if we’re on the same page. Can you tell me what you want to happen once we get out of this car? Tell me honest, I’m not gonna judge you.” He says, and his voice is low and rough, and it takes a minute for Sebastian’s mouth to cooperate with his brain.

“Fuck, Chris, please. I want you to do whatever you want to me. Honestly, I don’t care, I just- oh my god, Chris, I need you to touch me. Please.” He rambles, and Chris waits until he’s done and kisses him with a fire that Sebastian never wants to be put out.

“Good boy.” Chris murmurs, and Sebastian whimpers, causing a predatory grin to spread onto the older man’s face.

Somehow, they make it into the house, where as soon as the door is shut Sebastian is slammed against a wall and kissed so ravenously that Sebastian might combust. They stay there for an uncertain amount of time. Seb is very bad at keeping track of time when all the blood in his body is flowing south.

“Chris-“ He whines, and the response is immediate. The blonde starts to bite and mark up his neck and collarbones, making Sebastian whimper and bite his lip so hard it draws a little bead of blood. Chris looks up and sees his lip, the blood trickling down it, and slowly moves up Sebastian’s neck, pressing soothing kisses on each mark he’s left.

There’s an outright moan from Seb when Chris leans down and licks the blood off of Sebastian’s bottom lip. His bones turn to jelly and Chris just laughs. He goes back to running his hands up and down the younger’s chest while bruising up his neck, and they both know that they’re going to get a talking to from the makeup team, but neither of them care.

“Oh fuck, Chris, please, I need you!” Sebastian groans, head thrown back against the wall, eyes screwed shut.

“Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you, baby. You’ve been real good, you deserve a reward.” Chris says, voice impossibly low, and Sebastian’s heart might seriously stop working. He whines, high pitched and needy, desperately trying to keep his grasp on reality. Chris takes both his and Sebastian’s shirts off, throwing them randomly on the floor, and it’s the final straw.

“Sir! Please, need you to touch me, ‘ve been good, please!” Sebastian gets out, letting go of everything tying him to this plane of existence.

Chris groans into his shoulder. “Yeah, sweetheart, you have. Said so myself, didn’t I? You’re my good boy, aren’t you?”

Sebastian moans, nodding his head feverishly. Chris picks him up by his thighs, kneading the flesh as Sebastian lets his head fall into Chris’s neck, pressing sloppy kisses into the skin.

He’s thrown onto a bed before he even realizes he’s moving, and immediately feels Chris take off his sweatpants and strip him of his boxers. He whimpers again, and Chris kisses him fiercely, making the younger man melt.

Slowly, he feels Chris’s hands drift lower and lower on his body, and he can’t hold back the noises that fall from his swollen lips.

He wouldn’t trade this for the world.

putain de merde, je vais à l’enfer.

I hope you liked…whatever that was, S 😅

Yours, 🍒Anon

I LOVE whatever that was! 😮‍💨🥴

I love this domineering, confident version of Chris you've written. There are many times that Chris just fucking screams Daddy, these looks he gives (especially when he was looking down and then glances back up, eyelids heavy), and you're so on the money with this drabble.

Fuck, yeah.

This particular part really, really got me, though, "Chris does this downright mean slow up and down look at Seb, making a primal urge to fall to his knees in front of an entire press team burst from his chest. He has no idea what this man is doing to him, but he craves more."

This 👏🏻 is 👏🏻 so 👏🏻 good 👏🏻

Thank you for these drool-worthy words!

#asks #🍒 anon #chris evans #sebastian stan #evanstan #rpf #real person fanfiction #anon provided writing #sub seb #sub sebastian #subastian #dom chris

[rageprufrock]

Whittled Down by Another War (pt 1/?)

I just started a new job a few weeks ago, so obviously I am sublimating all of my imposter syndrome into writing a story where Korn dies before the events of KinnPorsche begins.

Korn's death tears through the city like a bullet: the exit wound a gory mess.

The first 72 hours, Kinn doesn't remember sleeping. He calls all his men back to home base, sends the most vulnerable into safe houses deep into the countryside. He has Chan lockdown the compound, the offices, the fallback in the city. Kinn shoves Tankhun—actively dissociating in mute panic—into Kim's arms at the service entrance of the mansion and sends them out of the country.

"What about you?" Kim asks. He's shored up in black jeans and a black muscle tee, wild around the eyes with a gun in the waist of his pants and a knife tucked in his combat boots. "Everyone in this city is going to be going be trying to kill you."

Kinn smiles at him, dizzy—from exhaustion? terror? from grief, because this may be the last time he ever sees Tankhun, this may be the last time he ever sees his baby brother; because after everything, even if this is how they end it, it will be more than Kinn had expected, shivering awake from the worst of his night terrors.

"Everyone's always trying to kill me," he says.

"If you eat it I'm going to be fucking pissed at you," Kim tells him, backing away now, toward his car, where Arm and Pol are flanked on either side of Tankhun in the backseat. "If you die, I'm burning your guitar collection."

It's as close to tenderness as Kim can manage, Kinn thinks, heart heavy and overfull, watching them drive away.

"They'll be your guitars then, you little shit," he says, to the afterimage of the tail lights, disappearing into the gray dawn. He scrubs his hands across his face, and a noise comes out of his throat that has the shape and density of a sob, but that's a hoarse scratch across his voice.

Kinn thinks, now, I'm an orphan. Kinn thinks, now, I'm truly alone.

Chan comes to get him, he says, "Khun Kinn—it's time," and the press of his hand on Kinn's shoulder feels like stones in Kinn's pockets, weighing him down in deep water.

***

It's two weeks before Kinn sleeps in his own bed again, lying down. Four days after that, Kinn shoots his uncle in the head. In the first month, there're dozens of attempts on his life, and six that get close enough to leave a mark. It's three months before he's done burying bodies, another two before he finishes auditing the legacy businesses. Six months after Korn dies, Kinn lets Kim bring Tankhun home.

Kinn's known—vaguely—that they were bouncing around Europe and North America, never staying anywhere too long for their safety. Tankhun left empty-handed, near-catatonic; he comes back with six suitcases of newly acquired clothes and a separate sea shipment of souvenirs he insists that Kinn needs, a phone camera full of photographs and videos of places and people and things he thinks Kinn would like to see.

"This is the musical instrument gallery at the Metropolitan Museum of Art," Tankhun lectures. "Here are some weird old pianos that look stupid, but that I guess you love."

He does. "I do," he says, and he's staring at the side of Khun's face as he says it: his older brother's darker from the sun, wearing an orange jumpsuit and a rope of turquoise beads criss-crossed across his chest. Kinn's missed him so much it hurt like a gut wound; Khun feels like a little miracle, sitting here on the floor of Kinn's bedroom, showing him pictures of weird old pianos because he knows Kinn will love them.

"You look like absolute garbage," Tankhun tells him.

"Work's been murder," Kinn says, and Khun punches him in the arm for it, which Kinn figures he deserves. Tankhun's back; Tankhun's safe. Kim's alive, and as hostile as ever, suffused with feral cat energy and armed to the teeth, sleeping off the time difference in Kinn's bed still fully dressed, clutching a butterfly knife and drooling into Kinn's pillows.

"If you'd died, I would have killed you myself," Tankhun says, hands folding into his lap, phone screen going black. "Are you eating? Have you slept?"

Kinn laughs; it comes out wet, shaky. "No," he admits.

Khun nods, practical, determined. "Well, we'll feed you, and once Kim wakes up, we'll keep watch and you can drool on those pillows, too."

Kinn wants that so badly his bones hurt, his eyes get hot. "Okay."

"And have you decided?" Tankhun asks, going sharp now and reaching over to cup Kinn's face in his hands. "What you'll do with our father's empire?"

Kinn's never let himself imagine it before. The chasm between what he wants and what he can have has always been the gulf of the Pacific, the depth of the Atlantic. Even as a boy, at barely 14, when his father had said, "This ring, and its responsibility, will be yours now, Kinn," he'd known that what he wanted no longer truly mattered. He'd sharpened his bones intro blades, cut away at himself until he'd been the shape of a perfect weapon.

Two decades later, skin thin, the possibility makes him dizzy.

"I'll need your help," Kinn hears himself say; he sounds strange, far away.

"We'll both help," Khun promises him, close and low. "Let's bury our father—and then let's bury what he built."

From the bed, Kim says, "Fuck, don't volunteer me for shit," raspy and irritable and vibrantly, amazingly alive.

Kinn's laugh kicks out of him like a reflex, and he goes lightheaded with it, and he lets Tankhun strip him out of his disheveled suit, lets Kim shove him under the snowy white covers, still body warm from his little brother, and lets himself—finally, finally—give in, give way, into the consuming arms of sleep.

***

According to Kim, he sleeps for 16 hours, during which time Tankhun does routine wellness checks to ensure he's alive, ask if Kinn needs a bedpan, and does he want anything from Starbucks because they're putting in a mobile order.

"And what the hell were you doing that entire time?" Kinn asks Kim.

He feels simultaneously incredible and incredibly shit, making his way through a liter-size bottle of water and shaking out the numbness of his right arm where he slept on it like the dead. Someone had undressed him and redressed him for shits and giggles at some point during his coma, so he's slumped against his headboard in black boxer briefs and a XXXL green t-shirt that says MOVE I'M GAY on it in white letters.

"Masturbating," Kim says, the same time Tankhun carols out, "He was tenderly threatening to shoot anybody who tried to wake you up and trying to break into your phone."

It turns out Kim had been successful in breaking into Kinn's phone, which is why his inbox—creaking under the weight of an eye-watering 703 unread messages at the time Kinn finally lost consciousness—is down to a merely demoralizing 207.

"What happened to the other 496 messages?" Kinn asks.

"We delegated, you sociopathic control freak," Kim retorts.

Tankhun hands Kinn a frappachino. "Drink this before your blood sugar gets any lower and you start shooting."

Kinn doesn't realize he's hungry until the coffee milkshake hits his system, and then he's ravenous, a bottomless maw. He relocates himself into the family quarter kitchens and sits at the long metal worktable on two overturned plastic milk crates, stacked together, barefoot and still in the green tent of a t-shirt. Kinn eats three mangos, a dozen sticks of pork satay, a bowl of rice with three fried eggs and soy sauce, and drinks another bottle of water while he's at it, the gnawing pain in his stomach fading by degrees.

"Did you not eat at all while we were gone?" Tankhun scolds, cutting up another mango, frying him another egg, adding rice to Kinn's bowl.

Kinn ate while Khun and Kim were gone. He ate and drank and must have slept because of the biological imperative of the thing, but he can't remember any of it, only the high-pitched howl of panic that sang through him the entire time. It had left him numb of pain, immune to suffering, what was left of his heart traveled outside his body and possibly already lost. For the first time in six months, Kinn feels the expansion of his lungs, the throbbing soreness of his left knee, the stiffness of his neck: brought excruciatingly back to sudden, startling life.

"I was waiting for you to cook for me," Kinn says to Khun, bratty, smiling, and ducks away from from a smack, grabbing Kim by the scruff of his shirt and throwing him into the line of fire—absolutely shameless.

They're orbiting stars, the next few days: Khun, Kinn, and Kim locked into one another's gravitational wells. They take turns sleeping. They take turns feeding each other. Tankhun and Kim take turns wrestling Kinn away from his cell phone, his laptop, the landline in the bathroom. It's the longest time Kinn's spent with his brothers since Kim turned 17 and fucked off, since he and Tankhun stood shoulder to shoulder in front of their father to make sure Kim could. It's both terrible and amazing; terrible and amazing to be so loved, terrible and amazing that this is the shape and substance of their lives—terrible that this is how Kinn gets his brothers back; amazing that they've returned to him, that they would peel apples and pull triggers for each other.

"If you hadn't gotten all emotional at Uncle Gun, you could have just left him the whole lot and we could call it done," Khun sighs later.

If Kinn hadn't gotten all emotional at Uncle Gun, Gun would have likely gotten all emotional on Kinn, and where would they be now? Tankhun presiding over a pyre of Kinn's guitars; Kim hunting down the senior ranks of the minor family in Doc Martens and skinny jeans, eyeliner flawless.

"I lost my temper when we couldn't reach contractual terms that didn't include our dead bodies in the river," Kinn says, light. Vegas and Macau are still at large, vanished beyond the border into Myanmar, two unanswered questions—one indistinct, one psychopathic. It's a problem for tomorrow, for all of their tomorrows.

"I'm also not sure our Uncle's management style would have been in alignment with not causing absolute fucking chaos," Kim chimes in. "The Lithuanians still have a kill-on-sight order for Vegas."

The Lithuanians can get in line.

"Oh that means the Russians must want him, too," Tankhun says thoughtfully.

"I think it's generally a fair assumption that everyone who has met and been forced to interact with Vegas wants him dead for some reason or another," Kinn says.

His cousin was an annoying kid who was shaped by the weight of their family legacy and Gun's fists into a necrotic wound of an adult. Vegas is too smart, too dangerous for Kinn to ever truly pity him, but he stands on the opposite shore, recognizes that in ways that are too harrowing to admit even to himself, he and Vegas are phantom echoes. The difference is Vegas thinks he can unfuck himself if they upend the family structure—Kinn knows better; he knows they're both ruined.

"Enough about our cousin—we should talk about Papa's funeral," he sighs.

In the immediate chaos of their father's death, Kinn had been too busy trying to prevent the cataclysmic collapse of the Theerapanyakul empire, smuggle his brothers across borders, and shooting his uncle in the face to see to the appropriate funerary rites. In this, as in so many other things, Kinn's been a disappointment of a son and heir.

So now, six months later, he ignores Kim's suggestions that they throw Korn into the river and has Chan pull him from cold storage. Kinn's seen too many dead bodies in his life, but it's a gut punch all the same, all over again, to see his father's face without its panoply of microexpressions—each one a separate area of study and source of paranoia—in the mute peace of death, Korn looks like the after image of a parent Kinn once imagined having: kind, forgiving, safe. The stroke that killed him was fast and comprehensive. It's probably kinder than he deserved, and Kinn—making calls in the background while Tankhun tries to convince Kim that as the youngest, he's honor-bound to be ordained for the services—is grateful: that his father didn't suffer, that he's capable of gladness for it, that as much of a wreck as he is, as complicated as he feels, that at least this dimension of grief can be clean.

"This is our father," Tankhun insists.

"Exactly why I'm not shaving my fucking hair and eyebrows, you clown," Kim yells back.

Kinn schedules the bathing rites for the next day, and it's only himself, Tankhun, and Kim in attendance. Chan is there, but Kinn's not sure in what capacity. The closest thing Korn had to a friend, toward the end? Watching over Korn's legacy? They put a coin in Korn's mouth and lay him out under a sheet, at the high table, wreath him with flowers, heaps of blooms that fill the room with the smell of their garden at dusk. Kinn's still too tired to think about it—he's so deep in the red on his sleep deficit he's going to die tired—to do anything other than pour jasmine-scented water over his father's unmoving hand and to pray for more kindness that Korn doesn't deserve.

It's typical to hire four monks for the seven days of daily chanting, but their family needs every possible fucking merit, so Kinn gives in to all of his worst impulses and hires 16 for the full seven day cycle. Kinn knows that in some families, there are visitors and happy stories, food and dancing; for the Theerapanyakuls, there's just Khun and Kinn and Kim, getting shitfaced on their father's collection of botanical gins and conspicuously avoiding conversation about how angry they are to mourn this man. It's the worst part of family, that someone so arbitrarily assigned to you can both hurt and love you in such concussive, devastating ways. Millennia from now, once Kinn has worked through the karmic debt of this existence, he hopes he's born into a normal family, where when his father dies, he doesn't have to carry a gun to the fucking cremation—where he can feel something other than a gash in his throat.

They go in age order, up to the casket with their wooden flowers, and so Kim's the last to give his bloom away to the fire as it's lit.

"The ashes will be ready for you tomorrow," the funeral director promises, terrified. Chan had done the security briefing, so Kinn doesn't blame him. "Will you—will you want to keep them at the temple?"

He says this in a way that makes it abundantly clear he can think of no more horrifying outcome than for Kinn to inform him that they would like to keep their father's ashes at the temple.

"We'll take him home," Khun says, somehow still the best socialized of them all. "Thank you for taking care of our father."

They're nearly at the door, nearly back into the waiting shadows of the two dozen guards that Chan had sent along for the ceremony, when Kim says, "Give me a second," and disappears back inside for ten seconds, fifteen.

When they get the ashes back, Korn's remains are mixed with sun bright Ratchaphruek petals, fragrant jasmine, their father's favorite flowers. Kim sticks the urn in the back of a cupboard in their father's study, embarrassed by his brief detour into filial tenderness and working triple time to be an asshole in compensation.

"The king is dead," Tankhun says, late into the night. They're all sitting in the garden in the dew-wet grass, passing around a cigarette and staring at Khun's fancy carps; Elizabeth and Sebastian hovering close as if they can sense their owner's distress. "Long live the king."

Kinn snatches the cigarette away from him. "Don't say that."

"Yeah he prefers emperor," Kim says, which earns him a punch in the kidney. "Fuck."

"You deserved that," Khun tells him, and turns back to Kinn. "Well? What next?"

When he and Khun were boys, and when Kim was a (more) annoying blob that screamed all day, Kinn had spent a lot of time trying to figure out how they could escape their fate. Khun could become a famous artist, and they would live in New York, where there were already so many mafias surely Thai organized crime would find no foothold. Kinn could become a famous singer-songwriter, hire his brother as a stylist, and they would travel the world on tour and have no time for calling in debts. They could run away somewhere no one knew them, and then Khun could do whatever he wanted, and Kinn wouldn't have to watch their father turning his brother into a weapon. Once the ring had been on Kinn's finger, he'd stopped imagining the alternatives; he was old enough to know then that the alternative was Kim.

"I don't—I mean, where would we even begin," Kinn says finally.

"Wherever we can, with whatever we have," Kim says, taking the cigarette back. "Unless we've completely misread this situation, and you actually want to keep running the fucking mafia."

Kinn closes his eyes, presses his face into his knees. "I don't know how to do anything else," he admits. I'm scared to hope for anything else, he thinks.

"Kinn, you have an MBA," Khun says. "You majored in accounting."

"I think he means, 'who do we break the news to first,'" Kim says, but he's grinning, savage, bright-eyed. "I vote we start with the Lithuanians."

***

The Lithuanians, once they find out that Kinn has no idea where Vegas is, comprehensively do not care. Their existing partnership is largely limited to coordinating profits off of luxury car thefts—a rounding error on the Theerapanyakul family balance sheet—and they're more than happy to take it off of Kinn's hands. This leads to an existentially bizarre sidebar that Kinn ends up having with the second in command about whether or not this means his cars are now fair game.

"If you have to steal one of ours, steal the purple one," Kinn tells them.

"That one's your fucking lunatic brother's," Boris says. "You think I don't know that rabid little shit will try to chew my throat out?"

Which lunatic brother, Kinn doesn't ask, but only because Khun doesn't drive.

But the Lithuanians are easy, small fry in Thailand, and honestly Boris is probably the closest thing Kinn has to a work friend. It also helps that they both want Vegas dead.

In a sort of grim distillation of Kinn's entire adult life, dealing with the people who want to steal his cars and kill his cousin is actually the least shit part of this entire exercise.

The Theerapanyakul empire goes six generations back, and his father had married into the lineage with a chip on his shoulder and an explosive, obsessive love for Kinn's mother, who Kinn can't be sure ever loved him entirely back. But she'd loved her sons, and it was Rachini who'd put the first gun in Kinn's hands, who'd taught him what it meant to be a Theerapanyakul, and ensured—from as soon as Kinn was old enough to understand—that given a choice between his family and the outside world, he would never hesitate to take the shot. She taught her children the same thing her father taught her, that there's power in controlled violence, that there was a right and a wrong way to be mafia, that they might die young, so to take ruthless, ravenous bites out of life while they could. She'd blow dry Kinn's hair, tender, with the same hands she used to stab someone in the throat. Kinn's keenly aware he was born wrong, raised wrong, that even though her death had felt like an amputation, the phantom pain he feels is both anger and mourning. Their parents had turned all three of them into bullets.

The rot is deep at the heart of the enterprise, so inextricably tied that even at the root of their legitimate businesses, some vein of corruption flows through. The hotels and resorts they own are convenient cash sinks to launder funds from their lower-overhead activities; the shopping centers and hospitals topline PLCs that conceal in their labyrinthine corporate structures holding companies where their casinos funnel cash, where their sideline in brothels and escorts pay dividends, where their import-export hustle dumps free cash flow. They'd gotten out of drugs during their father's generation—too tight a market, too high risk, too low on returns—and dumped their considerable connections into vendor service for the cartels instead. Kinn had combined his expensive MBA, penchant for fucking closeted Chinese nationals out blowing daddy's ill-gotten politburo gains, and struck gold laundering drug money through the brisk tourist trade in vacation hubs like Phuket and Bangkok.

"The Sinaloas will be very angry if we close up shop," Khun meditates.

Kinn pours himself a Pappy on the rocks, because he's fucking earned it, and presses the cool crystal of the tumbler to his forehead. "Let's not—worry about the Sinaloas for now," he says. "Let's start with the easy exits."

Of course, there are no actual easy exits, only less shitty ones. Kinn throws a metaphorical dart ands on the Italians.

"That's going to be a shitshow," Kim says, when Kinn tells him.

"Take Pete," Khun frets. "Take Arm and Pol."

"Pol is absolutely useless," Kinn tells him. "And I want Arm and Pete here in case anything goes sideways and you need actual competent protection—I'll take Chan."

Taking Chan does not ameliorate the broader truth that dealing with the Italians is a shitshow. It starts with snide commentary on gelato and ends in a hail of bullets, Kinn running panicked down the filthy back streets around Thonglor Soi being chased by Sicilian shitbags who are pissed he doesn't want to ferry around their cocaine anymore. It would be absolute poetic justice if he ends up getting shot to death behind a club where he'd once separately facefucked two guys who turned out to be a couple and who'd then started screaming at each other about cheating while Kinn had been trying to put his dick back in his pants.

#kinnporsche #fanfic #wip

[haggishlyhagging]

“Western history does not show us any evolution toward greater spirit, greater meaning, greater culture. The Western Roman-Christian contribution to the world, when we look at it, has been almost entirely in the area of technology, and of analytical intellect; combined with a notorious spiritual and cultural alienation, and perhaps the loneliest individuals the planet has ever seen. What there still is of spirit, of poetry, of coherent meaning, of symbolic truth in the world did not come from "us." It was there at the beginning, among our Stone Age ancestors. Their vision, their cosmology, their intuited truth and sacred analogies run like bright red threads through the tapestry of Western history; whatever is still alive and vibrating in patriarchal religions, especially Christianity, when traced to its source, is found to be one of these bloody living fibers retained (stolen) from the original Paleolithic cosmology, woven by these Ice Age people out of their primal pagan experience of the Great Mother and her magic world.

What has followed them, in the mythic, religious, spiritual, and psychic realms at least, has been no great advance, but a devolution—a corruption, a narrowing and hardening, an atrophy of vision and heart. Our Stone Age ancestors would have no trouble understanding the words of Smohalla, a Nez Perce who sang the primal truth to the "white man's world" of nineteenth-century business- and resource-development-oriented America:

My young men shall never work. Men who work cannot dream and wisdom comes in dreams. You ask me to plough the ground. Shall I take a knife and tear my mother's breast? Then when I die She will not take me to her bosom to rest. You ask me to dig for stone. Shall I dig under Her skin for bones? Then when I die I cannot enter Her body and be born again. You ask me to cut grass and make hay and sell it and be rich like the white man. But how can I cut off my mother's hair? It is bad law and my people cannot obey it. I want my people to stay with me here. All the dead humans will come to life again. We must wait here in the house of our ancestors and be ready to meet in the body of our mother.”

-Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor. The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscovering The Religion of the Earth.

#monica sjöö #barbara mor #western civilization #nez perce #stone age #ice age #paleolithic #feminist spirituality #anti christianity

[strange-dreams-are-made-of-these]

I Can’t Deny The Way I Feel

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Widow!reader

Word Count: 1,998

Summary: Stephen writes the Widow (red room/ black widow) reader a letter expressing everything he wants to tell her. This is an AU in which Tony is still alive, but Natasha did die.

Warnings: Minor DSMOM spoilers, fluffy angst?

A/N: This is a gift for my 100 followers! I hope you enjoy this gift!

His hand scratched through the sentence he finished writing, thinking it to show his lack of dignity. He picked up the paper, crumbling it up before tossing it into the little trash can next to the desk he was working at. The can had several wads of paper in it, and a couple of paper balls were littered around the can. The pen rested between his fingers, over his thumb and middle finger, and under his index finger. He had been trying to write this letter for two hours now, and he was getting nowhere.

The sound of a pair of sneakers coming up the stairs had pulled him out of his writers' block. America Chavez had worked her way up to the study on the top floor of the Sanctum. She was staying with Stephen and Wong while Kamar-Taj was being rebuilt. She felt guilty that the ancient site had been attacked on her account, but she was finally able to rest and not travel the multiverse. She wasn't having to run from demons and monsters, she could study and practice her powers in a controlled environment without having to stumble into too many different universes.

America walked up behind Stephen, eyeing the paper on the floor next to his workstation. "What are you doing?" She asked him.

Stephen took in a breath before setting the pen down, looking at the new blank paper in front of him. "I'm trying to do some writing." He told her before turning around in his seat, one arm resting on the back of the chair.

"What are you writing?"

He could have thought up something witty, or cover up his true intentions. After everything that they had been through recently, he couldn't bear to lie again. "I'm writing a letter... to Y/n."

America was puzzled. "Writing a letter? Why don't you just speak to her? I'm sure it would be a lot faster."

Stephen eyed her before explaining. "Sometimes, it's nice to have certain things written down for others. Letters are more than just conversations. They can be anything you need them to be. And what I'm trying to do just..... hasn't been right, yet." Stephen gestured to the trash can next to him.

America leaned against the railing around the stairs. "What is the purpose of your letter?"

Stephen grinned, his browns softening as he looked at America. "I'm writing her a letter. To let her know how special she is to me, and how I've been such an idiot to think I don't... I love her." He admitted.

America's eyes widened. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Wow, that's....." She smiled happily, bouncing a couple of times.

Stephen grew a little anxious. "That wasn't confusing or anything. Care to explain?"

The teenager settled down, then gestured to him. "I know you have, or had, your rules about time. But, I've never not known the two of you to not love each other." She was really happy about his confession. "In one of the universes I visited, it looked a lot like this one. Except Earth has rings like... Saturn, I think. Anyway, the two of you are the leaders of Kamar-Taj. You're the Sorcerer Supreme, and Y/n was a nurse at the hospital you worked at before the accident. Christine Palmer wasn't around much, but Y/n had helped you after your accident. She helped you shave your beard, helped with physical therapy, and did the best she could to help. But the day I landed up in their universe, they were getting married."

Stephen looked at her, he had been in awe of America's story. At least in one universe, he hadn't been such an idiot. In this universe, Stephen had known Y/n from a mission with the Avengers. She had been trained as a Widow by Dreykov, a killer engineered by birth. She had worked with the Avengers a couple of times, having been friends with Natasha Romanoff. Since meeting her that day, the two of them had not been able to stay away from each other for long. They would run into each other by some miracle, or the grand calculus of the universe as Stephen put it.

America watched him, starting to feel concerned. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I should learn to keep my mouth shut."

Stephen shook his head, waving his finger at her. "No, no. Don't be sorry." He told her, standing up to walk towards her. "Don't shut up. You wouldn't be kind to yourself by doing that. You should express your feelings unless you want to be like me when you're my age."

America relaxed a little when he spoke. He had been an incredible mentor to her already, despite not knowing him for long. She had also loved Y/n, seeing much of herself in the woman. She had just wished that in this universe she hadn't lived such a terrible life. "You shouldn't have to feel the way you do. I think you should just... let her know how you feel. I have a good feeling about this. I am the expert after all."

Stephen smirked looking at her, rolling his eyes when she called herself an expert. "Ah yes, the grand multiverse traveler has spoken." He joked with her. She did have a point though, he needed to stop bottling his emotions up. He made a half-turn towards the desk, his eyes catching the paper again. "If only I had an expert letter-writer."

America laughed a little before placing a hand on his forearm. "I think you just need to trust yourself. You know the words, you know how you feel. Tell her."

Stephen looked at America, giving her a nod. She had reached out for him, wrapping her arms around him. Stephen hadn't been used to children and teenagers, so he was still slightly caught off guard when America hugged him. He opened up his arms, hugging her in return. America broke away from him, smirking at him. "Chop chop, letters don't write themselves." She spoke before walking back around the railings and then down the stairs.

Stephen watched as she walked away from him and out of the room. He looked back over at the desk before walking towards it. Once he sat down, he picked up his pen again, adjusting the paper on the desk before he began to write.

--

The woman had spent the day practicing combat training. She may have finally escaped the red room, but the red room would never leave her. The tinnitus would remain forever, but she learned how to change her ways. She was working with the good ones now. Tony Stark, Sam Wilson being the new Captain America, Bucky Barnes, and all the others who were going about their lives keeping the world safe.

Then there was Stephen. He wouldn't be Doctor Strange to her. He never was in the beginning. He was arrogant, believed he was better than everybody else, and his stupid knowledge of music drove her insane. It was no wonder why Stark and Strange were on the same team, they were two ill-formed peas from the same pod. The same man in two different fonts. But Stephen? He was selfless. She hadn't known many people who would willingly freeze time to die over and over again in an indefinite time loop to save billions of people. He saved lives, and she killed hundreds of people in her lifetime. In such a short lifetime.

The woman arrived home to her apartment in New York City. Natasha had helped her find the place before she died saving the world. It was a nice space, perfect for her to live in. She hardly stayed in the apartment for long, enough to shower, eat, sleep, and get dressed. She had set her items down on the counter of her kitchen, walking towards her bedroom. All she wanted was a nice ice bath to soothe her throbbing muscles and then to go to sleep. To her surprise, she noticed a piece of tanned paper on her pillow with a bouquet of flowers next to it. The woman looked at the flowers, her fingers tracing the petals delicately before picking up the letter. She turned, taking a seat on the bed. She picked the letter up, opening it to read it.

"To my dearest Y/n,

I have tried writing this letter several times to no avail. I've been distant over the past week, something I wish I could have changed. I was caught up in a maelstrom of events, doing everything I am physically capable of. Yet, there was one thing that I could not stop thinking about... You. I wish I could have told you this sooner, or expressed in any amount to you what you mean to me. I have never met somebody like you before. Somebody who has plenty of reasons to go against the status quo and continue living as you had been. You are more than just a somebody in my life. You are more than just another person in my life. You make me want to do better, if not for me then, for you. You hold such joy and pride in life, showing me there is more than just hanging onto the things in our lives that got us to our current states. You find the little spark of magic in life every single day, and you make sure to keep that spark alive in others.

You have shown an unyielding interest in me, something of which I am humbly in awe. I have found it incredibly impossible to deny the fact that I love you. I love you, Y/n. I have loved you for some time now. It is foolish beyond this point to keep this from you. I want you to know that I see you for more than just what the others see you for. You have changed the way I have seen the bad in people. You hold so much compassion in your heart. The spaces between your fingers fit mine perfectly, a jigsaw puzzle I could never solve. Not until I found the missing piece. YOu are my missing piece, Y/n. I could not imagine losing such an important piece ever again.

I want you to know that you are the stars in the sky. You are the stream that feeds the flowers. You are the sun that shines, breaking the storms apart. I don't want to live another day without you in my life.

I love you, Y/n.

From, Stephen”

The woman remained silent, tears welling in her eyes. She held the paper a little bit away from her in case any tears fell from her face. She had never read something more beautiful in her life. She didn't know she held such an effect on him, or that she was capable of inducing such feelings. She read the letter three times, he eyes stuck on the line "I love you, Y/n"

She picked her phone out from her pocket, quickly pulling up her contacts list. She dialed Stephen's number, holding the phone up to her ear. The phone rang once before he answered. "Y/n?"

She remained silent for a moment before speaking, "I..." She had been trying to get the words out. His confession came as a shock to her, her emotional thoughts had been discouraged for so many years that she thought she wasn't able to feel deeply for others. "Are you free tonight?"

Stephen nodded, replying to her. "Yes."

"Come over," She wasn't asking him.

Stephen smirked as he was on the phone. "In an hour."

Y/n smiled brightly, looking over at the flowers. "Stephen?"

"Yes?"

"I love you," Y/n spoke before ending the phone call, not giving him time to respond. She laid back in her bed, holding the letter close to her chest. The flowers were beautiful, the letter was worth more than its weight in gold, and the man behind these actions was priceless.

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