They say I did something bad.

💀 | JACK ROLLINS. All alone. Why do I need friends when I‘ve got plenty of enemies? I have a way of finding out their sins and secrets, bringing them to their knees. The world owes me a debt and now I've come to collect. So don't get in my way.

[tosinwithagrin]

✦ ask. ✧ memes. ✦ carrd.  RULES

✯ IC =/= OOC. Don’t godmode. ✯ ✯ Selective & semi-active due to life.✯ ✯ Will happily write with crosscanon & OCs. ✯ ✯ Do not assume to know muse & call him Jack. ✯ ✯ Please cut your posts & tag all standard triggers. ✯ ✯ I use small text/icons. You use whatever you want. ✯ ✯ No underage, no smut with minors. (mun is 21+). ✯ ✯ Time taken to reply may vary. Do not pressure. ✯ ✯ If I reply with a para; do not give me a line. ✯ ✯ If drama is started; you will be blocked. ✯ ✯ PM me if you have any questions. ✯

[hailhydrasheads]

The door slammed into the wall, but Brock heard the crunch. Saw the way the wood had crumpled at the end when it had been kicked even after he’d opened it. Jaw dropping in shock as he opened his mouth.

“What the fuck kinda bullshit-? I already opened it!” He squawked, not at all afraid of the gun pointed at his face. With everything so burned, it was only their long familiarity that allowed Jack to recognize him. Even still, Brock’s vision was still blurred and discolored at inopportune times and his hearing was impaired. Barely able to stand and hold the knife, though he tried not to show it. Jacks voice coming to him from miles away as he tried not to let on how bad off he still was.

“The helicarriers went down barely a week ago,” his voice wavered, but he was uncertain. To be honest, he didn’t really hold onto time. Not with how badly he was damaged in the destruction. To him, it had only been a short while, but with his injuries, he couldn’t be certain. Not with how bad the damage had been. Not with how much he still needed to heal. He still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to escape as bad off as he’d been. It was so hard to think, “I been taking care of myself. We… we’re supposed to meet here if shit goes bad ain’t we?”

[tosinwithagrin]

‘Yeah, we are.’

The gun lowered, though his grip stayed ugly around it for a second longer, fingers locked too tight to pretend he had any of this under control. Jack stood in the doorway, breathing hard through his nose, eyes dragging over Brock’s face, the limp, the bruises fading into sick colours, the knife held like pride was doing more work than muscle. What hit him came colder than panic. Guilt first, then relief so sharp it made him want to be sick, then anger because Brock had been here, breathing and bleeding and waiting, while Jack had been out there thinking the bastard was ash. ( He looked like he had crawled out of the wreckage on spite alone, and the stupidest part was that Jack believed it. ) The voice cracked, but it was his. No one else could sound offended about nearly being shot.

‘Jesus, you look like shit. And yeah, I know, hello to you too.’

He stepped inside and knocked the door shut behind him with his heel, quieter than the entrance deserved. His hand came up, then stopped just short of Brock’s shoulder, fingers curling once because touching him felt dangerous in a way the gun never had. If he was real, Jack might fall apart. If he wasn’t, he was already losing his mind and could add that to the list of ways this week had screwed him. ( The list was getting long. Too long. Long enough to wrap around his throat if he let himself think about it. ) He swallowed it down and reached anyway, palm landing on Brock’s shoulder with a care that would have pissed them both off under better circumstances.

‘You waited here all this time? I thought you were dead, Brock. I thought you were fucking gone.’

His voice broke at the end, and he hated that, hated the way his throat locked and his chest pulled tight like some bastard had got a fist inside it. The knife, the bruises, the ruined state of him, none of it mattered as much as the warmth under his hand. Brock was standing there, barely, but standing. Jack’s thumb pressed once against his shoulder, grounding himself through the contact because his head was already doing stupid things with shock and hope.

‘Tell me this is real. Tell me I’m not losing it.’

[spuelebud]

SEND ☕ IF YOU WANT MY MUSE TO SPILL THE TEA ABOUT YOUR MUSE. send " tea " if the emoji doesn't work!

[noheroessarge]

Leo had always been fairly good at reading people, an innate knack he'd honed over the years working for the force and then in private security. It was a matter of survival to know whether people were lying or if they were hiding something. It wasn't a foolproof talent, but he'd learned to trust his feelings. He didn't think the guy was faking his confusion. As impossible as it sounded, he looked like he'd just been dropped into this with no preparation. Curiosity tugged at him for how someone could know absolutely nothing about the Purge, even if they didn't live here, but there was no time to chase it down right now.

Instead, he offered the briefest explanation he could. "Not from around here, are ya? You picked a bad night to be a tourist in America. Everything's legal for twelve hours. Murder, rape, torture, you name it. When that siren goes off again at 7AM, the country goes back to pretending it's a civilized place for another year. If that's not bad enough, you got guys like these trying to stack the odds in their favor, hittin' where people can't hit back. Me and my team, we try to even things out a little."

It was a gamble, holstering the gun and closing the remaining distance between them, his hand outstretched. "Leo Barnes. I'm sorry if I don't remember where we met… These nights all start to run together." He had no real reason to trust this guy, especially on a night like tonight, but… he worried about the expression on his face. He was holding it together well, but underneath that, he looked shattered, and Leo didn't think it was from the violence. He didn't seem affected by that. It was something else, and nobody should be out alone on Purge night with that look on their face.

"You gonna be alright out here? I could always use one more on my team. You look like you can handle yourself." It was another educated guess, but people who were used to violence, who didn't worry about defending themselves from it, they held themselves a certain way. It was a readiness in their posture, as if they knew they were the threat. Fear didn't cling to them even while the horror surged around them. Leo had it too. In either case, this guy was an unknown, and Leo preferred to keep an unknown where he could keep an eye on it.

[tosinwithagrin]

Jack didn’t take the hand right away. He looked at it, then past it, studying Leo with the kind of stare that made men check where their weapons were. The sirens had faded, but the violence had not. Screams still carried down the alleys like bait thrown for wolves, and the city kept tearing itself apart with the enthusiasm of people who had waited all year for permission. Jack barely reacted. Gunfire cracked somewhere to the left, close enough to matter, and his eyes only shifted to mark the direction before returning to Leo. ( None of it seemed to hit the place it should have. The blood, the screaming, the bodies in the road, all of it belonged to the same filthy category as every other bad night he had survived. ) His silence had purpose. He was deciding whether this man was trouble, cover, or another problem with a friendly voice.

Eventually, his fingers lifted, calloused and bruised in places that had stories he would never hand over, and he accepted the handshake. Brief. Firm. No warm little squeeze, no grateful bullshit. The contact still jolted something nasty through his chest, because Leo’s face was close enough to memory to make his stomach turn. He gave no sign beyond the twitch of his fingers when he let go. ( The resemblance was wrong in the worst way. Close enough to hurt, useless enough to make him feel stupid for noticing. ) The jaw, the build, the way Leo stood like he expected the world to get ugly and had already made peace with it. The voice ruined the illusion. That should have helped. It didn’t.

‘Jack Rollins. I’m not from here, and I don’t know how I got here. One second I was somewhere else. Next I’m standing in the middle of this hell with no warning and a city trying to rip itself apart.’

He glanced towards the street as movement passed at the far end, too fast to be harmless, then dismissed it when it kept going. Another scream tore loose and stopped short. Jack filed it away without changing expression, which probably said enough by itself. His attention came back to Leo, colder now, more useful. Panic would have been a waste of energy, and he had never liked wasting anything when bullets were involved. The idea of this being normal, of a country dressing slaughter up as policy, sat badly in his gut. Not shock. Jack had seen governments do disgusting things with better paperwork. This just had worse marketing and louder sirens.

‘You’re telling me this is normal? Once a year, the country legalises murder like it’s some kind of fucking national holiday, and everybody just goes along with it? Christ. Do you hear yourself?’

He shifted his weight, enough to test the street, the alley, the angle of Leo’s shoulders. There were exits if this went bad. There were always exits if a man looked hard enough and didn’t mind breaking something to reach them. Leo still had that same steady look on him, the one Jack disliked because it made him want to stay. ( Bad idea. Following a familiar face into a bloodbath because it scratched at an old wound was the kind of stupid that got men buried under names nobody bothered spelling right. ) He ignored the thought, because apparently tonight was full of terrible decisions wearing practical shoes.

‘I’m not looking for a team, and I don’t play well with orders. But I can shoot, move, and cover your flank if it keeps you breathing a little longer. You want another body between yours and a bullet, fine. You’ve got me. I’m not one of your men, though, and if you start looking at me like I am, I’ll walk the other way, capeesh?’

[king-kulina]

[crossxxbones]

His mind cleared steadily while they pulled Jack out of cryo. It was a lengthy process, and once the shivers subsided, the remaining tubes and needles removed, he had time to stretch and warm up his body again. The movement did more for him than the warmest blanket, and he felt almost real again when he finished, though still tired and aching. His body always ached now, either from the cold or from the grueling training sessions and missions that felt back to back to him, even if whole chunks of time were lost to him in stasis. What was also familiar but more difficult to pinpoint was the persistent haze over his mind, a low-lying blanket of fog that never lifted, only steadily deepened. The lost memories weren't notable except for their absence, but he had no reason to call on them anymore. It felt as though there had always been a void there.

He stayed always within easy sight of Jack, watchful over the process to ensure that no mistakes were made and that his partner reacted well. As far as he could tell, it was routine as ever, and Jack didn't lash out at their handlers. "Hey, beautiful." He'd taken the seat across from him, in easy sight while the sedatives wore off. Brock knew he wasn't aware enough to answer him yet, but he also knew a familiar voice and presence would be comforting while he came to, could stave off some of the panic and confusion of being revived. He waited quietly while they continued to work on him, giving him time to wake up fully.

"You look better." He leaned closer, the backs of his fingers lightly brushing his cheekbone before his hand fell away. He still looked like shit, actually, haggard and tired with deep circles under his eyes. The exhaustion seemed to go beyond that of cryo, and worry splintered through him. It was always a relief to see that Jack was awake and unharmed, so why did something about all of this still feel off? He couldn't trace the source of the unease. HYDRA had made sure of it.

Still, he persisted, trying to get to the bottom of this mystery. Jack was loyal, and the techs hadn't been able to satisfactorily explain why he'd resisted. If he hoped to get more answers out of Jack, it was a slim hope. While they were both fully capable of providing a mission report, the details of their lives off mission tended to slip away. "What kind of misunderstanding, Jackie?"

[tosinwithagrin]

He lingered on the sound of his name, holding it in his head like something slippery and breakable. The room was too bright, white walls and strip lights burning into his skull until every blink came with a pulse of pain, but Brock stayed solid through it. Close. Real. Easier to follow than the voices at the edge of the room, easier than the clipboard scratches and the low murmur of handlers pretending he was too drugged to hear them. ( His vision blurred at the corners, pupils slow and wrong, but he could still make out the worry in Brock’s mouth, the tension around his eyes. ) That hurt worse than the IV. They did not want him looking for things like that. They wanted obedience, quiet, a body that moved when told and stopped thinking before thought became trouble.

He dragged in a rough breath and tried to gather the scattered pieces into something useful. Most of it would not come. That part was almost familiar now, which was a filthy little horror all on its own. Whole stretches of time had been scraped out of him, leaving only fragments behind, flashes that did not know where they belonged.( A corridor. A command through the comm. The taste of metal. His finger resting on the trigger. The sick, crawling certainty that something inside him had jammed. ) He remembered the target lining up. He remembered the order. Then his body had locked so completely he might as well have been dead already. After that came shouting, hands on him, the prick of a needle, the cold swallowing everything.

‘I froze.’

The words came out hoarse, scraped thin by the tube and the thaw and whatever chemical muck still sat in his veins. His gaze stayed on Brock because looking anywhere else made the room tilt. Shame moved through him in a dull, nauseous wave, though he could not tell if it was his or something they had planted there.

‘They gave the order. I had the shot. Then everything stopped.’

His fingers curled against the blanket, catching in the thin fabric as if it might hold him together. The IV tugged when he moved, sharp enough to remind him how little of his own body belonged to him in here. He swallowed, jaw working through the next piece, because saying it made it sound like failure and failure mattered in this place.

‘I heard them call it hesitation. Fault response. Programming instability. One of them said recalibration would clear the error.’

He tried to smile, mostly because the alternative was letting the panic show, and that would only bring hands, straps, another needle. The expression barely formed before it collapsed, tired and wrong on his face. ( Recalibration sounded so neat, so clinical, like they were tightening a screw instead of carving pieces out of his head. ) His eyes flicked towards the people in white coats, then back to Brock with something quieter and more frightened creeping through the sedation.

‘Makes it sound cleaner than it was.’

His voice dropped further, almost lost beneath the machine hum. He looked younger like this, stripped down by exhaustion and chemicals, too aware of the gaps in himself to hide them properly. His hand shifted a little towards Brock, stopping short, fingers hovering uselessly against the blanket.

‘I thought they were going to decommission me.’

The admission sat there between them, small and rotten. His throat bobbed as he swallowed again, eyes fixed on Brock now with a desperate kind of focus, like if he looked away he might lose the thought completely.

‘I thought maybe that would be easier. No more tests. No more resets. No waking up with pieces missing and everyone acting like I should be grateful for whatever they left behind.’

His fingers flexed once, still reaching without quite managing to ask. That was the worst of it, maybe. The way they had trained even need into silence. He could take pain. He could take orders. Wanting comfort felt dangerous, like contraband hidden under his tongue.

‘But I remembered your name.’

The words shook, despite the effort he made to keep them steady. He hated that. Hated that Brock could see it. Hated worse that some part of him needed Brock to see it, because if one person knew what was happening, maybe it meant he had not already vanished.

‘I do not know if I said it out loud. I remember thinking it. Holding onto it. I kept thinking that if they brought me back, you would be here.’

His eyes searched Brock’s face, foggy and frightened and stubborn all at once.

‘You would not let them throw me away.’

[tosinwithagrin]

APPEARANCE

▸ Height: tall / short / average? Tall, a little over six foot, built in a way that reads solid rather than impressive. He does not use his height to loom or intimidate deliberately, but it tends to do the job anyway. His presence carries weight because he looks settled in his body, like moving him would require intent and consequence. People clock him less for size and more for the sense that he is already prepared for things to turn ugly.

▸ Are they okay with their height? It barely registers. Height is leverage, reach, advantage in close quarters, nothing more. What tends to unnerve people is not how tall he is, but how little he shifts, how comfortably he holds still, like every movement has already been weighed and discarded as unnecessary.

▸ What’s their hair like? Dark, kept short and uneven, trimmed when it becomes irritating rather than for style. It never looks deliberately groomed, more like something maintained just enough to stay out of his eyes. There is no effort to soften his appearance, and no interest in polishing the edges.

▸ Spend a lot of time on their hair or grooming? No. Clean enough, done. He shaves when it annoys him, cuts his hair when it gets in the way, and does not waste time on mirrors. Grooming is maintenance, not self expression, and anything beyond necessity feels pointless.

▸ Care about their appearance or what others think? Only insofar as it affects control. He dislikes attention, not out of modesty but because attention invites interference. Being admired irritates him. Being pitied irritates him more. He would rather be underestimated than analysed.

PREFERENCES

▸ Indoors or Outdoors: Indoors. Enclosed spaces are easier to read, easier to control, easier to survive in. Outdoors is fine when required, but wide open areas leave too many variables.

▸ Rain or Sunshine: Rain. It dulls sound, keeps people uncomfortable, and hides movement. Sunshine feels invasive, like nowhere to retreat without being seen.

▸ Forest or Beach: Forest. Cover, shadow, places to disappear into. Beaches are too open, too exposed, too honest.

▸ Precious metals or Gems: Metals. Useful, solid, functional. Gems are decorative and useless under pressure.

▸ Flowers or Perfumes: Neither. If forced, flowers. Perfume announces presence and lingers longer than he likes.

▸ Personality or Appearance: Personality. Appearances are easy to fake. Behaviour under stress is not.

▸ Alone or In a crowd: Alone, or with very few people. Crowds put him into assessment mode and keep him there. He does not relax when surrounded.

▸ Order or Anarchy: Order, but chosen. Forced order is just another word for control. Anarchy is inefficient.

▸ Painful truths or White lies: Painful truths. Lies complicate things and tend to rot.

▸ Science or Magic: Science. Cause and effect make sense. Magic leaves too much room for things going wrong without warning.

▸ Peace or Conflict: Conflict. It is familiar, honest, and clear. Peace is acceptable, but he does not trust it to last.

▸ Night or Day: Night. Fewer people watching, fewer questions asked.

▸ Dusk or Dawn: Dusk. The world is quieter, less committed to either side.

▸ Warmth or Cold: Cold. It sharpens him, keeps him alert, makes everything feel cleaner and more controlled. Warmth dulls his edge and makes him restless.

▸ Many acquaintances or A few close friends: A few close connections. Loyalty matters more than numbers.

▸ Reading or Playing a game: Reading. Manuals, tactical material, anything instructional. Games feel frivolous. Knowledge feels useful.

QUESTIONNAIRE

▸ Your muse’s bad habits? Jack does not stop when he should. He pushes through injury, exhaustion, and common sense because restraint feels like surrender. He drinks too much, smokes because it keeps his hands busy, and defaults to aggression when patience would technically suffice. He antagonises people deliberately, pokes at weak spots just to see what happens, and treats tension like entertainment. Reflection is avoided unless it is weaponised. If something hurts, he either ignores it or turns it outward.

▸ Lost anyone close to them? How it affects them? Loss taught him efficiency, not tenderness. People leave, die, betray, or become liabilities. He remembers them, but he does not romanticise them. Attachment is transactional, loyalty earned through action, not sentiment. Loss does not make him softer, it makes him sharper. He learns exactly how much it costs and decides whether the price is worth paying again.

▸ What are some fond memories they have? Moments where violence was clean and decisive. Jobs that went exactly to plan. Cigarettes shared in silence after something bloody and well executed. The rare satisfaction of knowing he did his job better than anyone else in the room. Peace only registers when it follows destruction.

▸ Is it easy for them to kill? Yes. He likes it. Not in a reckless, frothing way, but in the clarity of it. Killing cuts through noise, indecision, and bullshit. It is honest, final, and efficient. He enjoys the control, the precision, the outcome. He does not kill randomly, but when he does, he does not carry guilt about it. Violence is not a failure for him. It is a solution he understands intimately.

▸ What’s it like when they break down? He does not fall apart. He escalates. When pressure builds, he becomes more aggressive, more volatile, more dangerous. The control tightens instead of slipping. Any internal fracture is redirected outward into action, intimidation, or destruction. If he is spiralling, someone else is usually bleeding.

▸ Capable of trusting someone with their life? Rare, and never unconditional. Trust is proven under fire, not promised. He will trust someone to watch his back long before he trusts them with anything emotional. Betrayal is not shocking to him, just disappointing.

▸ What’re they like when they’re in love? Possessive, intense, and deeply inconvenient. He does not soften, he sharpens. Love becomes another thing he protects violently and without apology. He is not gentle, not reassuring, and not safe, but he is loyal in a way that borders on dangerous. If he chooses someone, he chooses them fully, and anyone threatening that choice becomes a problem to be removed.

[crossxxbones]

It wasn't until their lips collided that Brock finally believed he was real. He'd dreamed of them like this, sure, dreamt of stolen kisses in hallways and offices and Jack miraculously surviving, only to wake alone in a cold, empty safehouse, the memories draining away like water in cupped hands. But he'd never dreamed it in quite such vivid detail, covered in blood and grit, cresting the edge of a panic attack, his gun digging into his hip, and the dull throb of what was probably a concussion pulsing in the back of his skull. It was all too real to be a dream, and it was so goddamn perfect he could barely breathe.

He kissed him deeply, a fierce reclaiming. It wasn't gentle, but they'd never been that, and he didn't pull away until his lips were stinging and he was panting for breath. He made a sound like a sob at that first sucked in breath, burying his face in Jack's neck, the heat of unshed tears burning behind his eyes. He hadn't cried when he learned he'd died. It felt inevitable at that point. They both should have been dead. Brock only regretted they hadn't gone together.

He barely had time to process the fact that Jack was seeing him like this for the first time, his hands uncharacteristically gentle but familiar on his scarred face. Under other circumstances, he might have felt something like shame, or maybe embarrassment. He wasn't the Brock that Jack remembered, no longer the handsome, capable Commander. He was nothing and nobody now, a scarred and broken down soldier with no purpose outside of vengeance, and he'd never wanted Jack to see what he'd been reduced to.

It mattered so little in the face of him being here though. All of that shit was just white noise, a buzz at the back of his mind. All that mattered was that Jack was alive, his body warm and solid under his, his frantic heartbeat matching Brock's. "Jack, sweetheart. I'm here. I'm not goin' anywhere," he murmured, kissing away his tears, hardly noticing that his own were joining them. It was relief and love and joy all coursing through him. He held him tightly and stroked his hair, softer when his lips found their way back to his, tasting of salt. "I love you. I love you. God, I fuckin' thought you were gone…" His breath hitched, still in disbelief that he was here. He'd survived. Brock should have been looking for him all this time.

[tosinwithagrin]

He could not answer right away. His breath kept breaking in his chest, too hard, too fast, like his ribs had forgotten what they were meant to do with air. Tears were already down his face, cutting through blood, ash, and whatever filth had stuck to him since the world went to hell. His mouth opened, but the first sound that came out was a wrecked little scrape of breath as Brock’s voice hit him. Sweetheart. That one stupid word got under everything, shoved past the armour, the temper, the ugly survival instinct, and found the place Jack had kept frozen since the moment he thought Brock was gone. ( He had buried that grief with no body, no grave, no decent ending, just a hole in his life and a head full of things he should have said sooner. ) Now the bastard was here, touching him, talking to him, breathing against him, and Jack had no defence left worth a damn.

Brock was scarred and shaking and real enough to ruin him all over again. That voice, that mouth, those hands that had bruised him into pleasure and dragged him through firefights and bad nights and worse decisions were trembling on him now, holding tight like Jack might vanish if he blinked wrong. Jack’s own hands were no better. One fisted in the torn back of Brock’s shirt, the other pressed flat against his ribs, greedy for proof, for warmth, for the steady beat under skin that said the universe had not taken everything after all. ( He hated how much he needed that proof. Hated that relief could feel this violent, like getting punched from the inside. ) He kissed him back through the mess of it, through tears and blood and the taste of salt, clumsy with desperation and too much love shoved into too little space.

‘I never stopped loving you.’

His voice came out wrecked, low against Brock’s mouth, the words cracked open by disbelief and guilt and all the rotten nights he had spent thinking he would never get to say them. His hand climbed to Brock’s face, fingers shaking as they traced the ruined places there, the marks he had not been around to see happen, and something furious twisted through him at the sight. He wanted to kill someone for every inch of damage. He wanted to fall apart. He settled for holding on harder, because that was about as much grace as he had in him.

‘I’m here. I’m yours.’

He kissed him again, slower this time, though there was nothing calm in it. His breath caught halfway through, and he pressed his forehead to Brock’s like that might keep both of them standing. The world around them could burn itself stupid for all he cared. Let it. He had Brock under his hands, alive and broken and his, and Jack’s chest hurt so badly he almost laughed from the cruelty of getting him back like this.

‘I would’ve followed you into hell. I should’ve.’

His fingers slid into Brock’s hair and held there, tight enough to betray him, gentle enough to piss him off if he thought about it too long. The next words came rougher, dragged out with a wet breath he could not quite steady.

‘You’re here. You’re actually fucking here. I swear to God, Brock, I’m not letting go again.’

[milkmemes]

Punch first, think later.

[crossxxbones]

He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the power play between them, the constant shift and grab to end up on top. He couldn't imagine wanting Jack as much if that wasn't the case, couldn't imagine them running as hot and volatile as they did without the push and pull. Brock lived for that shit. He ran his career the same way, his entire goddamn life. It was always a scramble and a fight to get on top and stay there.

He was at a distinct disadvantage when it came to Jack, though, because the guy made him stupid. Stupid enough to risk his career and reputation at HYDRA to be with him. It wasn't forbidden, at least not in so many words, but it had the potential to compromise him. He'd never let anything interfere with his ambition like that before, and it turned out to be the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him. Best because Jack meant more to him than something like HYDRA ever could. Worst when he'd thought he lost him.

Case in point. It was too easy to get lost in him, the heat of his body pressed along his front, teeth scraping at the corner of his jaw. That feral growl sent a spike of lightning through him that went straight to his crotch, and he chuckled quietly at the accusation. "What about it?" He knew better than to let his guard down for a second, but all his higher thinking went out the window when it came to Jack.

He huffed as his leg was twisted out from under him and his back hit the floor, Jack's weight heavy on top of him. His hips bucked beneath him, as much teasing him as he was trying to throw him off. He wasn't altogether sure he wanted to throw him off. He was sort of good here, being slightly crushed by the person he wanted most. He couldn't surrender that easily though, any more than Jack could. A hand slid into his hair and tugged harshly, pulling his head back at an angle. "What now, asshole?" He kissed and bit at his neck, leaving a trail of stinging red marks, daring him to do something about it.

[tosinwithagrin]

‘You think pulling my hair’s going to stop me?’

The words dropped low, every syllable dragged through breath and heat, delivered with the kind of filthy grin that made it painfully clear he was enjoying himself. His head wrenched back beneath the grip, scalp burning where fingers twisted tight into his hair, and he leaned into it like the pain had handed him a gift. ( His spine arched, shoulders locking, a hiss slipping through his teeth before he could swallow the bastard thing down. ) It fed the hunger already crawling through him, turning every nerve meaner, brighter, nastier. This was not control. This was an invitation with knuckles buried in his hair, and if Brock thought holding him like that would save him from consequences, he was about to learn how badly he had misjudged the animal under him.

Jack kept him pinned with deliberate weight, body pressed hard from shoulder to thigh, the whole of him unrelenting. His hips moved with a cruel rhythm, slow enough to punish, filthy enough to make the point without giving too much away. His thighs locked tighter around Brock’s waist, every muscle working like he meant to keep him exactly there until the fight burned itself into something more honest. One hand slid over his torso, palm dragging through sweat and heat, knuckles grazing lower with lazy, arrogant intent. ( He felt the twitch beneath him and almost laughed, because there it was, all that stubborn pride and all that want trying to share the same damned body. ) Brock could brace all he liked. Jack knew need when he felt it.

His mouth dropped to Brock’s throat, dragging over skin that tasted of salt, gunpowder, and bad decisions. He caught him between his teeth without warning, biting hard enough to leave proof, hard enough to make sure the mark would still be there tomorrow when the adrenaline fucked off and left soreness behind.( His tongue followed over the imprint, slow and hot, because he was a smug prick and he knew exactly how to make mercy feel like another kind of threat. ) A rough laugh breathed against Brock’s shoulder, low in his chest, dirty enough to crawl beneath the skin and stay there.

‘That all you’ve got?’

His voice came rougher now, thick with heat and mockery, mouth still close enough to make every word land against damp skin.

‘Thought you’d fight harder if you wanted to be on top. Maybe you just like acting like you haven’t already given in.’

His free hand dragged lower again, thumb slipping beneath fabric, close enough to make Brock twitch and nowhere near enough to satisfy him. He refused to rush. Rushing was for amateurs and desperate little idiots who blew the whole thing too early. Jack hovered there instead, poised and merciless, letting the threat of touch do the work for him while his own control started fraying at the seams. ( The bastard in his hair was making it worse. Every pull sparked straight down his spine, turning his blood hot and his patience thin. ) He shifted closer, lips brushing Brock’s ear, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.

‘You want control? Then fucking take it.’

The words scraped out of him, half challenge, half promise, as his body pressed down harder and his grin turned vicious.

‘Put me down. Wreck me. Otherwise shut up, keep your hands in my hair, and let me show you how good it feels to be owned like a little bitch.’

[c-mulvey]

[opcnhighwaymind]

Did Bucky know that putting his face so openly to the public would mean a higher chance of someone trying to kill him? Of course he did. His campaign team had told him as soon as he had expressed an interest in politics, that people would try and kill him before he even got the chance to step foot in Congresshall.

He wasn’t afraid though. People had been trying to kill him ever since the rumour of the Winter Soldier started. Being a supersoldier meant that he could heal quickly, but he could still die. It would just need to be someone with a good aim to do it.

What he didn’t expect was to hear gunshots and then for a few men to fall to the ground as he walked into the government building. He turned to look round, metal hand scrunched into a fist. The sight of Jack had his heart racing inside of his chest though, stumbling back a little before he was raising a brow at the male. “What the hell are you doin’ here..?” He asked, brows then knitting together. “I thought you were dead.”

[tosinwithagrin]

The racket had carried farther than he wanted, because gunfire always did in places that liked pretending civilisation was something marble floors could buy. Every shot cracked through glass, stone, and those ridiculous rich bastard columns until the whole building rang like somebody had shoved a drum kit down a lift shaft. Jack moved fast anyway, bad leg sending fire up through his hip with every step, irritation crawling mean under his skin as bodies dropped one after another. ( This was supposed to be clean. In, out, done, nobody important any wiser, no public mess, no hero bollocks. ) Instead, the universe had handed him noise, blood, and a fresh pile of inconvenient dead men to step over. He checked each one without courtesy, muzzle tracking the smallest twitch, then straightened like the pain was a debt he had no intention of paying.

Barnes reacted exactly how Barnes would react when the past kicked the door open and started shooting the furniture. A stumble, the metal hand locking up, that ugly little flash of recognition dragging itself across his face before training slammed it down. Jack caught every second of it and gave him nothing generous back, only a flat look and one lifted brow, because apparently surviving assassins, governments, and classified nightmare shit still did fuck all to stop a man from gawping like a stunned idiot in the open. ( He should have been angrier. Maybe he was. Maybe it had crawled so far under the ribs that it had started paying bloody rent. ) The corner of his mouth pulled with tired, mean amusement, the kind that came from life being a persistent arsehole with excellent timing.

‘Jesus. Take a breath.’

His voice came low and dry, more order than comfort, because Jack Rollins comforting people belonged in the same category as honest politicians and edible cafeteria food. He shifted closer to cover, eyes already cutting past Barnes to the windows, the street, the roofline, every little nest where some prick with a scope might be waiting to earn himself a hole in the skull. The gun stayed loose in his hand, pointed down for now, which was practically a cuddle by his standards. ( Barnes looked two seconds from doing something noble and stupid, and Jack had limited patience for that specific flavour of heroic brain damage. ) He planted himself where Barnes could see him without giving the street a clean angle.

‘If I was here to drop you, you’d have been worm food before you got the front door open.’

When Barnes asked if he was dead, Jack gave a humourless little huff, the sound scraped out through his nose like smoke. The rumour had been useful. A dead man could move through certain places without every suit, soldier, and smug little intelligence bastard turning his head. Still, hearing it out loud put a sour taste at the back of his mouth, and he hated that too, because feelings were a piss poor thing to bring to a firefight. ( The grave suited him on paper. Nobody asked questions of a corpse. Nobody expected one to come limping back with fresh ammunition and a worse attitude. ) He shifted his weight onto the bad leg, cursed the flare of pain under his breath, and looked Barnes dead in the eye.

‘Yeah. Turns out that rumour’s a load of shit.’

Another shot cracked somewhere outside, distant enough to buy seconds, close enough to become a problem soon. Jack’s attention snapped towards it, then back again, his jaw working once as annoyance did a terrible job of hiding the spike of alarm underneath. Politics had put Barnes in suits, speeches, and rooms full of smiling parasites, but apparently it had taught him bugger all about staying out of a shooter’s sightline. ( Bloody typical. Survive the worst people alive, get paraded around like proof the world had fixed something, then stand in the open as if bullets respected personal growth. ) Jack jerked his chin towards cover, expression hardening.

‘Standing there like that is giving every moron with a rifle permission to try again.’

The last of the fallen men stopped moving behind him, which at least improved the room by several useless bodies. Jack did not relax. Relaxing was how people got themselves ventilated, and he had dragged his miserable leg too far through the city to watch Barnes decorate the pavement. He stayed put, though, visible and restrained, because the man had enough ghosts in his head without Jack adding another one with bad timing and a loaded weapon. ( Restraint felt like chewing glass. He would rather be moving, hunting the shooter, tearing the bastard out by the throat if necessary. ) Instead, he kept his voice level and his gun ready.

‘You didn’t imagine the shots. Someone wanted you dead today. They fucked it up. That’s all you need right now.’

[tosinwithagrin]

Everything is queued up on here !

[tosinwithagrin]

[mad-hatter-memes]

                     If you think that this is scary                                          You should see the feelings buried                                                                                                   down                                                                                                          the                                                                                                                stairs....

[tosinwithagrin]

There is a part of him that still measures time by damage rather than days. He remembers years not by calendars but by scars, by the weight of a limp getting worse in the cold, by which ghosts were loudest when the lights went out. Rest never comes easily, and when it does, it is shallow and conditional, earned only after exhaustion wins a long, ugly fight. 

He trusts routine more than people, because routine has never betrayed him, never lied, never pretended to be something it was not. When things spiral, he anchors himself in repetition, cleaning a weapon that does not need it, pacing the same stretch of floor, counting breaths until the urge to burn something down recedes to a manageable simmer.

Despite the bite and the vulgar edge, he is acutely aware of the people around him, especially those who flinch without realising they do it. He notices who eats too fast, who avoids certain doorways, who startles at raised voices. He never calls it trauma, never names it out loud, but he adjusts all the same, shifting positions, lowering his presence, redirecting attention with sarcasm sharp enough to cut tension instead of skin. 

He will never describe himself as protective, yet he consistently places himself where the impact will land hardest, as if pain is a debt he expects to keep paying. Improvement, for him, is not becoming softer or kinder, but becoming deliberate. Choosing when to strike, when to stand down, and when to stay, even when leaving would be easier.

[c-mulvey]