#“this is when you stop being the rabbit” and all

[setmeatopthepyre]

wip weekend

finally got some non-spoilery process done on pothos so I'm cashing in the tags I acquired during the past week or so from @owlgirl495, @chimneyz, @trombonechurchill, @bidisasterevankinard and @leashybebes. thank you! np tagging you all right back, as well as @rcmclachlan, @epiphainie, @sugarpenchant, @geddyqueer, @screamlet and anyone else who wants to play.

have some pothos | pathos. precedes this.

-

Buck is dubiously eyeing the heap of dough on his counter, appropriately floured and ready to be kneaded into submission, when his phone rings.

He considers ignoring it. Considers jumping straight back into his latest ancient grain rabbit hole, filling his mind with all the proclaimed health benefits of the barley, millet, organic wheat and poppy seeds he’d splurged on at the new health food store that had just opened up and, more importantly, where they didn’t know him yet. The whole reason for all of this was so he didn’t have to think about his phone and the unanswered text messages and the very very enticing call button right by Tommy’s name, but, well. Maybe it’s important. Maybe someone needs him, and. That’s a distraction too, isn’t it?

It’s Maddie, and sure, she needs him, but not right now, so the interruption still kind of sucks. On the other hand, she’s calling to ask if he can watch Jee on Saturday so Maddie and Chimney can go to some dispatcher’s wedding party, and he’ll never say no to some Uncle Buck time.

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “What time do you need me there?”

-

Saturday rolls around and Buck isn’t sure the ancient grain loaf has been doing much for him at all besides being kind of gritty, but at least he gets to feel sort of healthy about it. The downside is he keeps thinking of Tommy’s sarcastic, “Mm-hm, and what sources does this– Foodie Blogger Brenda– have?” whenever he thinks maybe the, uh, barley or whatever is really doing good things for his… brain? Gut health? He isn’t sure anymore.

He does check, eventually. Foodie Blogger Brenda does not cite sources. He does find a paper on the health benefits of barley - something about beta-glucans and antioxidant gamma-tocopherols - which sound really impressive when he skims the abstract and decides that’s enough for now. He’d keep reading, probably, because he knows it’s important to get the bigger picture and also to see if the study seems trustworthy but, well, it’s really long and he has to get going. Maybe he’ll read up later when Jee’s in bed. Maybe he should bring the poppy seeds to bake some muffins he can leave for Maddie, Chimney and Jee-yun to have for breakfast? Wait, can toddlers have poppy seeds? They’re sort of drugs, right?

Shit, can he have poppy seeds or will that cause issues on a surprise LAFD drug test? Has he been going to work with drugs in his system because of ancient gut health grains?

He really has to leave or he’s going to be late. He fumbles for a pen in his kitchen drawer, hastily scribbles a DRU- on the back of his hand before he thinks the better of showing up to babysit his niece with the word DRUGS on his person, knocks the drawer closed with a slightly-too-hard shift of his hips, pats for his phone-wallet-keys, remembers he still has an apron on and hastily unties it, and finally gets himself out the door two minutes later with shoes half-laced.

Whichever deity determines LA traffic – or maybe it’s the power of the ancient grains? – must be in a good mood, because he makes it to Maddie’s only two minutes later than agreed. Chimney is still bouncing Jee on his hip while he precariously balances on one foot, trying to get the other into a dress shoe, when Maddie opens the door for him.

She takes one look at him, at the flour stains on his sweat pants that he hadn’t noticed until he was stopped at a red light, and hits him with a fond sigh-smile combo. He’ll take it over ‘worried’ any day.

“So, we’ll be back at ten,” Chimney says, now hopping sans-Jee to actually properly get his shoes on.

“Eleven,” Maddie corrects him, glancing up at Buck with a pleading look.

“Yeah, of course,” Buck quickly agrees. “Stay as long as you like. I can always crash on the couch.”

“Thanks, Buck,” Chimney, suddenly looking reasonably put-together and on his way out the door, tells him with a pat on his back. “Though I doubt my beautiful wife will stay awake that long.”

“Says the guy who fell asleep reading Jee-yun her bedtime story yesterday,” Maddie says, eyes twinkling. Chimney grins at her, and it’s so fond and Buck is so happy for them and it still hurts in a stupid way.

“Wait–” he remembers when Maddie already has a hand on the car door. “Can Jee have poppy seeds?”

-

“Alright, what are we gonna do with all this freedom, huh, Jee?” Buck says, keeping out a steadying hand as she clambers onto the back of the couch so she can grab onto his shoulders and swing onto his back, shriek-giggling right into his ear. “We could… make cookies?” he suggests, wincing when she bangs into him with the force of her headshake. “Is that a no to cookies, or a no to baking?”

“Yes cookies! No baking,” she declares, and Buck can’t help but wonder if he’s accidentally traumatized her into a lifelong dislike for baking. Chim has assured him her interests change every other day, but he’s not so sure. What if his own coping mechanisms screwed her up for life? At least she still likes cookies. She could always draw while he does the baking.

He’s about to suggest that when she shakes her bony little wrist in his periphery and declares she wants to make bracelets, so to the craft box they go.

He’d kind of forgotten about it until he sees it again, the bracelet making set tucked into the side of Jee’s craft box. It’s clearly been used before – the beads in the see-through plastic just a little jumbled up in places – but there’s still a sticky note on top. For princess Jee-yun, in Tommy’s familiar scribble.

“You, uh, want these?” he asks her over his shoulder, holding up the box.

Instead of an answer he hears the tell-tale sound of hundreds of beads of assorted sizes spilling out of a not-quite-securely-closed container, followed closely by a squeak of alarm from Jee that quickly melts into giggles.

“Shit– uh, I mean, uh-oh,” he says, and is rewarded with even more giggles. “Don’t say that first word, okay?”

Jee shakes her head, presses a conspiratorial finger to her lips, and then says, slowly and with emphasis, “Shit.”

He rubs at his eyes, lets himself sink fully onto the floor. “Yeah, that’s… Yeah. Just, don’t tell your parents, okay?” He starts picking up beads, one by one. Considers the logistics for a moment. Gets up to grab a bowl, and dumps the beads he’s gathered up so far into it. “Okay. So– I just thought of a fun little game. You, uh, you like colors, right?”

-

The bad news is, it looks like Chimney and Maddie have an ant problem. The good news is that Buck’s got nearly all of the beads picked off the floor and, with Jee’s help, mostly sorted back into their different colors. Jee got bored of the sorting after a little while and instead opted to sit down next to him to start stringing assorted beads together which suits him just fine, because she grabs beads from the unsorted pile and that means less work for him. Besides, the floor isn’t too uncomfortable and Jee seems happy enough. As far as his evenings go these days, it’s pretty nice.

-

+ tag list under the cut ↓

@fiyaerrigan @bisexualbrainrots @leashybebes @louuieferrignojr @rubydaiquiri @teabroomsandbooks @crimsonwildcat-blog @sweaters-and-silly @nochance-noway @manifestingchaoticvibes @hyperfocusthusly @frogsinflannel @beanarie @rcmclachlan @sad-girl-hours23 @ambernotember @apartmentsmoke @bidisasterevankinard @agentpeggycartering @eliotwaughdeservesbetter @daughterofscotland @chococara25 @jujuberry136 @alejaan91 @ferrigno @detectivehorror @a-mel0n @tommysdaddykink

please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed :)

[tenebristism]

surrounded [3]

pairing: nam-gyu (player 124) x reader

part 1 part 2

You were never good at hide and seek, but Nam-gyu tries anyways to make sure you win.

word count: 2,382

i may have gotten a little lazy trying to wrap it up but i still tried LOL

4th day is your final day alive and breathing. You don’t know this when you wake from your bed with your other half’s back against yours, warm and funky-smelling from sweat. He’s curled up like a child, hair sticking out in all directions. He jolts up when the lights turn on and a jingle begins to blare through the speakers. Nam-gyu doesn’t look like he slept at all, like he was just laying there waiting for the day to start so he didn’t have to gaslight himself into sleeping. He walks like a corpse–a corpse that just took more drugs than he needed to after witnessing his buddy get stabbed to death right in front of him. 

The next game is hide and seek. Straightforward, classic, but with a deadly twist. Seekers would be armed, with the hider’s only defense being a key to shut themselves away in one of the various rooms around the maze.

You’re separated when the hiders are let out first, and informed you’d have thirty minutes to find an exit. Your allies scatter into various directions, and you wordlessly follow a group consisting of 3 women, one elderly, one pregnant. Your path diverges at a fork in the hallways. You remind yourself to stay on the down low, but also to not stray too far from the seekers–you'd told Nam-gyu you wouldn’t go too far for convenience. The seekers would likely head straight for the furthest reaches of the maze in order to catch the hiders off guard.

When the timer beeps, and you vaguely hear the doors open followed by a stampede of footsteps, you can’t help but hold your breath. Voices fill the once empty air. A siren for anyone close enough to be caught in the crossfire. You’re surprised that someone hasn’t already been caught, even just by pure chance. 

You’re close enough to hear the ticks of the clock, carefully keeping track of how long it had been since the game started. 

30 seconds…1 minute…2 minutes…3 minutes…

As you move along, two men are grappling with each other to your left, one blue and one red. Blue is pinned against the wall. He spits curse after curse to red before his eyes find you, pleading, desperate. A silent cry for help that you don’t answer, only stopping to gawk. You don’t want to see the end result, but you can hear it when you move away quickly.

It’s when you count just past 4 minutes do you hear a familiar voice calling your name. A quiet gasp escapes you. Cautiously, you follow it, and for sometime it drifts away from you until it’s within reach. Nam-gyu’s heavy face promptly brightens when he sees your face emerge from behind him.

The look in his eyes is unfamiliar to you. It’s strange seeing him so disoriented, so…cheerful.

He’s wearing a red vest. It contrasts his skin nicely. You, clad in blue, gaze at him like a deer in headlights. Blue was always your color, your family said.

Nam-gyu, though he’s covered in blood, holding two knives, and high out of his mind, doesn’t strike you as the car that’s about to hit you.

“Find somewhere to hide,” he orders, but he’s practically beaming from ear to ear. “Little rabbit.”

“What are you guys doing…?”

“Cleaning up,” he says, almost singing, and he twirls the knife between his fingers. “All for you, you know that? We’re gonna clear this place out, and we’ll be the ones left alive.” 

“No, that’s…” You stutter when he shoves the knife into your grasp. “I don’t…want this-”

Nam-gyu grabs you by your shoulders and sends you careening towards him. He’s breathing so heavy his nostrils flare.

“When we get out of here,” he huffs, and you can feel his hands shaking against your own when you pull them upon his, “I’ll take you on a proper date like you deserve. Wine and dine you and all, then take you home and make sure you never forget that night.” 

He plants a sloppy kiss on your forehead, then rests his own against yours. His pupils are so blown out you’re surprised he’s still standing. 

“Okay?” 

“O-okay.” You nod frantically when he prompts you with his own head.

“So don’t die.” He withdraws. “I’ll be ba-” 

“Wait.” You clutch your knife. 

“What?” 

“Do you…” you rub your fingers up and down the bridge of your nose. “Do you like animals?” 

“What?” He repeats, grin faltering just a bit. 

“Do you like animals?” You enunciate every word carefully. Nam-gyu inhales deeply, running his tongue across his teeth in thought.

“Sure. They’re whatever.” He closes his eyes, purses his lips together as if you’ve gone crazy and you’re spewing nonsense, not him.

“Do you like to watch sunsets?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Okay...” You hold your only defense close to your chest. “Okay. Please come back, Nam-gyu.” 

He stares for a brief moment. His feet are firmly planted in the ground, like the rational side of his brain is wrestling with the half muddled by uppers. Unbeknownst to you the rational side is telling him to stay and tuck you away with him like a hidden treasure, just so no one else in this goddamn game would ever find you. The irrational side is telling him to take you with him and let you see him mutilate a man’s face all for you.

“Will do,” is all he can muster. Your name rolls off his tongue like candy, sweet on your ears and lingering on his tongue.

Nam-gyu’s visage quickly morphs back into a detached grin, and you can hear 333 beckoning him from down the hallway. He waves at you frivolously and turns to skip down to his partner.

“Please come back,” you call weakly, only to receive silence in return.

Your chest heaves. Now to find a spot to hide. There can’t be many hiders left, so, naturally, you stay quiet. Running around like a madman would only draw attention to yourself. As you wander around the maze, you pass various corpses–some rather intact, with a clean stab to the neck. Others aren’t so fortunate–a visible struggle indicated by the marks on their hands, the bruises on their faces. You hope, no, you know that won’t be you. They couldn’t defend themselves. You can.

You recall the timer that was shown to you before the game started. 30:oo. 30, maybe 25, minutes of hiding from seekers armed with knives and…there’s almost nowhere to hide. Just open space upon open space and the occasional door that leads into a regular room. And your key doesn’t open all of them. And where is everyone? Not that you’d like to know.

It seems they’d find you anyway. A sound around the corner. You freeze in place.

Then a woman peeks out, and from her body language you would almost guess she was a hider until she lunges for you, and the red plastered on her chest becomes apparent. You gasp, holding your knife out and turning it over in your fingers to stab instead of thrust, and it sinks into her throat just as hers skewers your side. You cry out in pain. 

“Nam-gyu,” you weakly call, like a contemplative praying to their God, and think, If there is one, it sure as hell wants me dead. You don’t realize how oblivious Nam-gyu is in his hazy bloodlust, and just how far from God he was at that moment.

“She’s gonna be glad we’re helping out here,” Nam-gyu hums happily, his partner leading him around aimlessly to find more people. 2 people down so far–a trail of blood left in the pair’s wake. “Thank me later and all that.” 

“You’re a thing?” 333 mindlessly questions, more invested in checking each and every corner and never missing a room.

“I guess you could say that,” Nam-gyu says smugly, “It’s better than whatever you and your girl had.” 

333 bites his lip and holds back a retort. 

“Oops. Did I strike a nerve?” 

“Is she your replacement for Thanos?” 

“Fuck off,” Nam-gyu grunts, tight-lipped smile unwavering. “Thanos treated me like a fucking idiot.” 

“She doesn’t?” 

Nam-gyu chuckles. “No. More like an equal.” He backpedals in front of 333, taunting, antagonizing.

“Strangers in the night,” he babbles on, “Exchanging glances…” 

His singing echoes down the hallways, more eerie than charming. He wonders if you can hear it, if you can hear his declaration of love to you and the length’s he’s willing to go to keep you, to make you happy. His assurance that he’ll get you out, do whatever you want. Take you to see the stars, let the scars on his veins fade, commit to you and you only–whatever you want out there, he’d do it.

21:03, the clock reads ominously. 

Your knife digs further into the woman’s corpse. With a twist, you finally pull it out and scoot back frantically on your ass. Her blood, now staining your hands and jacket, is still warm. She’s barely breathing, a disgustingly horrific, rumbly wheeze that sounds like an animal snorting in anger.

You’ve never been so close to death before. Never been so close to a corpse to see the way it slowly stiffens, loses the warmth it had maintained for years upon years upon your doing. You didn’t mean to absolutely mangle this poor woman–only to defend yourself.

From behind you hear rushed footsteps. The way they fall upon the ground makes you think it's Nam-gyu, here to check on you, to be done with the killing and all, to tell you good job for using what he gave you and being so brave–but when you turn it’s someone else completely. 007. Someone you hadn't yet encountered through the games. Often with his mother, you noticed.

Your knife raises instantly, yet your shaking resonates straight through it. His eyes are wide, mirroring your own, almost like he’s the one wearing a blue vest and not you. You stare back at each other, equally terrified.

“Don’t,” you breathe, “Please.” 

“I haven’t…got anyone…” 007 inches towards you, trembling. You shuffle back. “I-I need to pass. I’m sorry.”

He says this and looks like he couldn’t kill a fly if he tried. Like one lazy swipe from your knife would send him racing back to his mother. 

“Find someone else,” you growl, tone turning into something nasty, yet tears prick at your eyes. Adrenaline is speaking for you. “I’ll fucking kill you. Do you hear me?” 

He looks to his left, then his right, as if considering your suggestion. Then he rolls his shoulders, and you watch carefully when he shifts his feet into position. 

He pounces, and suddenly you feel like prey struggling with a predator. He’s not big by any means, but he easily takes you down, straddling you on the floor. The wind is knocked out of you, and you wheeze pathetically. Knives clash. The sound grates against your ears, rings out in the empty space and bounces off the walls. You yelp, legs wrestling around his form for a foothold, whether it be on his chest, or better yet, his face. 

You don’t mean to kick him in the groin, but when you do, he immediately tumbles back. You scramble for footing. The gates of heaven are wide open, and they’re right in front of you. You barely make it past him before his hand on your ankle sends you and your dreams cascading right back down to earth. 

“Get off!” Comes your howl, and everyone in the damn maze must’ve heard it. Helpless under him, the peak of the cartoonishly colorful knife is aimed straight at your sternum. Hands fly up to the knife to resist. You don’t even feel the pain that rips through your palms and fingertips when they snap shut around the blade.

“I’m sorry,” 007 repeats, eyes shut tight so as to not witness the mess of his own doing. Your hands are so sweaty that your grip on his knife falters. Maybe it’s blood. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Hot blood trails down your arms. Your blood.

So don’t die, he repeats in your head when your hands slip off the razor sharp edge and up to the handle. I’ll be back. 

Nam-gyu has his back to the hall behind him. He stands above the corpse him and 333 just slaughtered only to hear the commotion behind him. The two men turn, unable to see who was the victim, only that the curly-haired man was stumbling after his own feet trying to gain on someone. His heart pounds through his drug-induced haze. It couldn’t be you. You had come this far, and you were good at staying hidden. But what if it was? 

“I should’ve brought her with us,” Nam-gyu says absentmindedly as 333 tugs the key off the corpse on the ground.

“What?” 

“Forget it.” He waves his knife in dismissal. 

“Get going, then. Someone’s down this way.”  

“Yeah,” Nam-gyu does a double take down the corridor, then reluctantly follows along, until he hears someone scream. It’s you, and 333 doesn’t understand why Nam-gyu bolts back the way they came, back to the path 007 had taken. Nam-gyu ignores his friend’s call of confusion.

Thoughts race through his mind, mostly concerning you. He shouldn’t have left you alone, left you while you were in such a fragile state, knowing exactly what kind of people were out to kill you, because they were just like him–greedy, selfish, only living to please themselves and no one else. Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck…

You’re already dead by the time he reaches you. He barely spares a glance at 007, who’s huddled in the corner, shell-shocked at the atrocity he had just committed. The four-eyed man witnesses a crazed Nam-gyu shake your corpse, already turning cold, and mumble something akin to gibberish mixed around with your name while stroking your hair. He doesn’t hear what 333 says to him.It’s muffled, and you can’t be sure you hear the right words, but the last thing you catch is on the loudspeaker: Player 421, eliminated. Though your last moments were spent in pain and terrible fear, at least you had faded away looking up at the stars, just like you had done night after starry night.

[drago-gatta]

"You make me nervous."

Drago lifted her gaze from the screen's display of the camera system with a puzzled expression.

Spring's words were sudden and... confusingly honest.

"Come again?" Drago closed the tablet and turned towards the sitting large animatronic bunny lazily messing with a crumpled paper ball.

"If you have hearing problems, that is not my problem." He replied cockyly, poorly hiding his regret in having spoken.

"I heard you perfectly fine, you big douche, but I would like for you to elaborate on your own words. Please." Drago crossed her legs, hands clasped on her lap and tail swishing to comfortably circle the office chair she was sat on. Her undivided attention was on him.

Spring sighed in frustration, shaking his big head and making his ears' rusted components protest for the motion. He was actively avoiding her searching gaze by juggling that messed up paper sheet between his mechanical hands.

He said nothing for a while, instead grumbling his own discomfort in being outed by a sudden outburst of honesty and now having to talk about it. He knew Drago wouldn't let this slide. She could brush it off, but it will eventually pop back up and, knowing her, possibly in an inopportune moment where he would rather not have to talk about personal emotional baggages in front of others. Her curiosity was endearing most of times, but could prove lethal for a closed off heart.

He threw the paper at the hanged Freddy costume, aiming at the one empty eye socket but missing.

"You..." he started, closing his eyes to find the strength not to berate her and storm off the room.

"You are too... kind to me. In many ways. It unsettles me even after years we've known each other. Makes me nervous."

There, he said it. Now she could let go, yes?

"Do i?" An amused chuckle made his sound receptors perk up towards her direction.

No, she wasn't done...

Damn her. Damn her and her damned ability to read him like an open book.

"I elaborated my statement, now drop it." He finally looked at her, only to glare difensively.

"Nnnnope~ You talk with your actions all of the time, so I want to listen to you when you choose to use words instead." She replied, unfazed by his display. "You can talk to me anytime, Spring. I've been put here for that. And to keep this place from going flambè."

"Which you are doing poorly since I am the one fixing stuff around."

"Partially true, but irrelevant. You are swaying from the main issue."

"Ugh...." Caught red-handed. Fuck. "You are a pain in the ass."

"You don't have an ass." She sticks her tongue out at him and turns to the tablet, resuming her work. He huffs amusedly.

He looks at his now empty hands, regretting having thrown away that crumpled paper ball. Now he was alone with his thoughts and forced to put them out in display.

Lowering his gaze, taking in his body's sorry state. He hated how the cables dangled from his calves.

Heck, the newest part of his body were the adhesive felt pads she put on the plant of his feet to keep him from loudly clanging around with each step he took. She placed them to rensemble paws, even after he told her that rabbits don't have paws. She did it anyway and he let her do it anyway.

"You care. I don't understand why." He muttered.

She looked at him but didn't move her head more than a slight tilt, immediately focusing back on her the screen without a word.

"Why do you care? I could kill you anytime. HE is unpredictable, I could fold anytime and end your life like blowing on a candle."

She smiled softly hearing his words and turned to face him one more time.

"And yet, despite all that and all these years, I am alive. You, too, care if you speak like this. It means your heart is good, and that is all that matters."

"You see, that is what makes me nervous. You are not afraid. I am afraid of you not being afraid. You invert what I am supposed to be in my very core and..." he stopped himself, took a mechanical deep breath and relaxed his shoulders, continuing now that he cut off every escape route he had. "... a-and it scares me. I don't want to hurt you, not even involuntarily."

That.

That was the most sensible and vulnerable display of affection she ever heard/saw/experienced from him. Those words really reached her ears, making her heart skip a beat. She always knew, of course, that the old animatronic bunny's aggression was a facade, a self-built wall to keep himself from being hurt. An understandable trauma response given the hand delt to him by existence.

Such words were deserving of acknowledgement and she knew how she could make him really understand she heard him.

"You big old sap." She blew him a kiss.

"Oh fuck you." He stood up, walking away from the room.

She saw how his muzzle was curved in a smile, though.

"You make me nervous."

[okjii]

there is something so special about using a rabbit to symbolize the main character as being helpless and meek, as being a runner, as being prey and then getting to watch as that rabbit finally learns to use its nails.

[sysig]

Two skeletons in a trench lab coat (Patreon)

Bonus:

He’s very careful! Everything was fine before you interrupted!

[velvetjune]

the chapter songs in Alan Wake 2,, flawless

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

[topnotchquark]

Uhhhh you guys want some Bezz x Cele fluff? Because I wrote 1800+ words of Bezz x Cele fluff. Yes it's Boarding School au man wtf we live in a society of course I wrote the Boarding school au.

----------------------------------------------------

Bezz pokes at the scab just above his knee. It's freshly formed, he had absorbed impact from Pecco running into him on the field during practice yesterday. His kneepads had mostly protected him but caused the skin to rub off at that particular spot.

Bezz had always had the habit of picking at his wounds, more out of boredom than anything else. When Cele was around, he would simply ask him to stop torturing his own body like a little moth in the hands of a rambunctious toddler, but Cele had been away for three days from school for a family thing. The wedding of some distant cousin combined with some medical check that Cele needed in the city. His dad had come to pick him up and Bezz had walked with him to drop him off and to say hello to Cele's dad.

3 days shouldn't feel like a lot and Bezz had a thousand different things to do, what with the upcoming national level games season and schoolwork dictating his every minute, but he still thought about Cele. He missed sitting next to him for all meals, he missed Cele coming upstairs to see him after lights out, he missed how he would agree without much resistance when Bezz wanted to sneak out at night, he missed Cele foraging for fruits in the woods and bringing them back for everyone to eat, he missed running into him in the corridors during classes, and of course he missed him on the field because Jaume was too young to be a good practice session replacement for the team. 

Bezz is about to wreck carnage absent mindedly on his wound when Luca comes out of the phone room and pats Bezz on the shoulder.

The boys get to call home twice a week from a room divided into little booths, the attendant in the room sat there to note your name down and tell you to put the phone down when your time was up.

Bezz makes his way to the booth in the far left corner that Luca just left, he nods to Pecco in the other corner who is on call and dials his dad's number that he knows by heart. They talk about his preparation for the upcoming season and his dad tells him about things in the garage, next he calls his mum and she asks him about school and classes and practice and his little sister screams a quick hello to him and when he keeps the phone down with quick exchanges of "work hard" and "miss you" and "I love you" his heart feels a bit wonky. It's been years away from home but he still hasn't fully learnt how to squash that feeling.

Before keeping the phone down he makes a split second decision and calls Cele's mom, another number he knows by heart for some reason.

"Oi Bezzechi, you've been hogging that phone forever, put it down!!" The attendant shouts at him, his brows furrowed.

"Yes sorry please please please just one moment" Bezz quickly pleads as he waits for the line to connect. The attendant tells him to make it quick as Cele's mom answers. She sweetly asks Bezz how he's been doing as she calls Cele over to hand him the phone.

"Marco, is everything okay?" Cele's newly matured voice implores. 

"Uhh yes why wouldn't it be?"

"You're calling from school."

"Ah. Yes yes. Just wanted to tell you to, uhhh, yeah come back soon cele practice isn't great"

"Is Jaume not good"

"No no he's fine. Just. You know......"

"Hmmm. I get it. Listen Bezz, I need you to help me okay I have some stuff with me when I get back okay"

"Yeah sure. Listen I gotta go okay this man will cancel all my calls for the next month okay. I miss you, bye."

"I, uhh, I miss you too Marco, bye"

Bezz doesn't spend too much time thinking about Cele's request. He's probably sneaking some food into the dormitory which isn't allowed and the weird luggage checking procedure makes it so that you just have to be extra careful with the contraband.

The next day when Bezz comes down to dinner after practice and evening study he finds Cele already in the dining hall. He hurries over to him and immediately wraps him into a hug, slapping his back and ruffling his curls.

"I thought you wouldn't be here till tomorrow! Who dropped you off?"

"My cousin, he was on his way back to University so I came back early. Listen, Marco......"

Whatever it is that Cele wanted to tell Bezz is cut off by Pecco, Luca, and Franco gathering around him and asking him how was home and he better be up to speed for the morning practice tomorrow and what did the doctor say and if he found any cute girls at the wedding.

All throughout dinner Bezz notices Cele fidgeting nervously, pushing his food around as Luca talks about the rival regional teams they will be facing and the specific characteristics of every player he can recall.

Post dinner, the boys walk back to their house building in a group, Cele quickly dipping into the dormitory on the first floor as the rest make their way up to the rooms.

Before Bezz can go back downstairs to ask Cele what's up, Pecco reminds him to finish his trig homework lest he be skinned alive by the teacher and Bezz enlists the help of both Luca and Pecco to get through the exercises.

It's an hour past lights out when Bezz is finally done and before he has a moment to lie down Cele comes into the room. His eyes look a bit crazy and the pockets of his jacket are puffed up weirdly but before Bezz can ask any questions Cele starts yanking at his arm to get up.

"hurry up Marco!!!" Cele hisses, straining to keep his voice low

"Okay okay damn let me put on my shoes"

"Take the torch please" cele whines.

Bezz raises his brows but doesn't protest much. Torches are reserved for the big expedition sneak outs, the ones you have to plan for, the ones away from their usual haunts, torches are a liability, they draw the attention of the school guards. Bezz still takes his and hides it in his pocket.

They silently get out through the windows on the ground floor, holding their breath and watching their step so as not to alert the guards. Bezz has been sneaking out since pretty much his first year in school, so much so that he can navigate most paths in pitch black darkness. When Cele and Bezz became friends he started bringing him along, gently teaching him to be mindful of his arms and head and stepping around in a way that makes less noise. Cele wasn't the most graceful when it came to slinking around, but Bezz was okay with that as long as they were together.

The moon was shining above their heads, almost fluorescent in its brightness.  Bezz glances over at Cele's determined face, his lashes casting spider leg shadows on his cheeks. Cele's pale skin and dark hair seem almost ghostly and Bezz's heart feels so funny. He swallows to keep his wits intact and focus on the path.

"Wait Cele are we walking towards the lake?" Bezz realises that he's been straining a bit to keep up with Cele.

"Mhmmm"

"Wait wait wait no you have to tell me what's up you've been acting too weird."

"No Marco we can't talk here we will get caught please we have to go" Cele pleads with him and suddenly takes Bezz's hand in his to rush him along. Bezz feels too shocked at Cele's sudden gesture and simply can't find the words to protest. They walk for a few minutes where all Bezz can think about is the warmth of Cele's soft hand in his. Bezz thinks self consciously about the calluses on his palm and whether they feel weird for Cele to touch. Cele's plam, soft and smooth and warm and alive and real to the touch and somehow Bezz feels that whatever is real in him is emanating from that part of his body that is holding on to Cele.

"Here. Come." Cele lets go of Bezz's hand Bezz feels a little deflated. Cele walks near a tree and picks up a cardboard box and brings it to Bezz.

"I have rabbits."

"......you...what" Bezz thinks he hasn't heard him right. 

"There were rabbits at the wedding venue but I don't think they were being treated right so I picked them up"

"Cele what even.... how did you even steal them and oh my god is this area even safe"

"I didn't steal them Marco!!!!! They are young, kind of, I think they are almost babies, it was just three of them"

"Diobono three is a lot! Have they eaten?"

"I had left some lettuce, and I have more, I need your help feeding them"

"Okay okay fine, let's find a place to sit"

Bezz finds that inside the cardboard box there is a little pet carrier covered with a blanket. Cele pushes in some food through the metal gate grills but the bunnies seem to be asleep for now. 

"What's the plan cele?"

"There archery lawns have a place for rabbits. I will leave them there. I trust the school gardener, we used to have rabbits in my first year at school, he's good with them."

"You think nobody will notice three rabbits appearing out of nowhere."

"They will but they won't know it's us"

Bezz can't help smiling at the response. Cele trusts it will all be good so intently that Bezz can't help be infected by the same disposition.

"Do you want to hold them?" Cele offers.

"Uhh yeah okay yeah."

"Just be relaxed, okay"

Cele opens the metal grate a little and ushers Bezz to put his hand inside.

A warm delight runs through Bezz when he touches the soft fur. He feels them moving with their breath and gently gently strokes the fur. A smile breaks out on his face, wide and luminous under the moonlight.

"It's nice, no" Cele says as he watches Bezz's face.

"Yes, I didn't expect them to be this soft"

They sit a bit longer, trying to feed the bunnies, talking, trying to come up with stories about these rabbits that will convince people to keep them. 

Bezz asks Cele to hold on to the box and make no noise as he navigates a path to the Archery Lawns. Cele takes a minute to leave them in the enclosure, worrying about them. Bezz's reassurance a little ineffective as he says his goodbyes, leaving more lettuce and some broccoli in the carrier.

When they finally start walking back towards the Dorms, Bezz takes Cele's hand in his, his confident decisive gesture in sharp contrast with the nerves he feels inside. Cele offers no protest and holds on. Bezz feels breathless thinking about how similar Cele's beautiful hand feels to the soft rabbits he just held a while ago. 

[phagodyke]

dating an art student was so crazy I'm just thinking abt that one birthday I had where my ex got me stickers from the etsy of the person they were cheating on me with....

[secondpersonpoetry]

ellen bass, “marriage”

[keeperofthebees]

not sure if i ever posted my psychoanalysis of Lilo on here but here we go.

Lilo is neurodivergent. She might have autism, she might have OCD, she ABSOLUTELY has PTSD. These all have very many overlapping symptoms, so it's easy to get them mixed up.

Lilo rarely brings up her parents after they die, only to protect stitch. "Dad said ohana means family." She tells stitch about what happened to her parents before he leaves. She doesn't talk about her mom until she's brought up, and compares herself to her.

Lilo feeds Pudge, and that Used to be for fun. When she forgot to feed Pudge, her parents died. She decided therefore that Pudge controls the weather, and creates intricate rituals to make sure she does it Correctly. The harder the ritual, the more effort she has to put into it. If the weather gets bad again, it's easy for her to say she must have messed up the ritual with the wrong bread or the wrong filling. Maybe Pudge doesn't like peanut butter anymore. She's taking control of the only thing she can.

She's also EXTREMELY morbid for a girl her age. I know everyone says she's just like them for real, but there's a difference between playing pretend that you're dying and telling your sister to leave you alone to die. Some kids play dead because it's a concept they can't understand and they use that to figure it out. Lilo KNOWS what death is. She experienced the death of the two most important people in her young life. She's well aware of death. She mentions Picasso's blue period, his time of severe suicidal depression. She says that that's what her painting is. This is worrisome. She knows Picasso's blue period, words like abomination, asks Bubbles if he ever killed anyone and tells Nani to leave her to die. I know some of you think that's relatively normal for a little girl, but it is not, not the way she behaves.

She makes a doll, and claims that she's sad because she only has a few more [enter time period] before she dies. Why would she make this doll have such a tragic story? Well, that's what she knows. People die. It happens. Of course she's sad, but if it's everywhere, she can be less sad about it. Her doll is going to die.

She's also well aware of pain, which is why she's so violent. She doesn't understand that people don't have to forgive you when you're mean and violent, because her sister ALWAYS forgives her, and is sometimes mean in return. This is family. It's not her parents, but this is how it is now. She's mean to Nani, and Nani is mean back, and then they eat dinner. She's mean to her friends, and they're mean to her, but they don't let her play dolls so they need to be punished. Stitch is mean to her, and she desperately tries to prove that he isn't that bad. She knows that she shouldn't be so violent, so mean, but she doesn't know how not to, and she knows that her behavior is part of the reason she might get taken away.

Lilo projects heavily onto Stitch. She likes him because he's a weird little freak, but he's also HER. he's alone. He has one person who wants him, who cares. One person who gives him chance after chance and tries to get him to be good. If she can prove that Stitch can be good, then she can be good. She can get better, and not be such a burden to Nani. If Lilo can keep Stitch, then Nani can keep Lilo.

Lilo wants to stay with Nani, but she can't stop being the way she is. She can't stop screaming, and being violent, and running away and nor doing what she's told. She has very little emotional regulation due to the trauma she's endured, and she sees that in Stitch. She can teach him to control himself. She can be good. She can stay here with her one and only sister, all she has left. She begs Nani to like her more than she would a rabbit. I'm gonna cry

[sirfrogsworth]

How do you take a photo of time?

I've been watching the track events at the Olympics since I was a wee lad. It was a tradition in our family. We'd gather around our ancient low-definition 19 inch CRT television and watch tiny blobs compete against other tiny blobs and root for our country.

It was a bit like watching YouTube on your phone in 144p.

Several heroes emerged.

Jackie Joyner-Kersee was amazing.

You can't forget about Flo-Jo.

And then the Olympics decided NBA players were allowed in the competition.

Which formed... The Dream Team.

Was this fair?

Well... they won each game by an average of 44 points.

So... no. It was not fair.

Though it became more fair as time went on.

But, umm... yeah. The other teams looked like the Washington Generals and the US looked like the Harlem Globetrotters if they stopped screwing around half of the game.

But my absolute favorite Olympian was a runner named Michael Johnson.

He was cool as heck.

For one thing... gold shoes.

But he also had this crazy, upright, Tom Cruise-ish sprinting style that just made him look like a running robot on the track.

And in the 1996 Atlanta games he just trounced EVERYONE. I mean, it wasn't even close.

Yikes. Those losing blobs are probably really embarrassed.

Last night I decided to invigorate my nostalgia and watch the track events again. And I got to see one of the wildest races in history.

It didn't even last 10 seconds but it was one of the most exciting sporting events I've ever witnessed. Almost every runner won the race.

After I saw that initially, I was like... who the heck won???

Even in slow motion I wasn't sure.

This was one of the closest finishes in history. There has never been a race where all 8 runners were within this margin.

The arena was silent as the winner was being confirmed. The runners just kind of paced around waiting for official word. My best guess was the Jamaican runner, Kishane Thompson. But then the loudspeaker announced Noah Lyles.

The last tiny morsel of American pride burst out of me with a big "Wooooo!"

I forgot what it was like to be proud of my country. I wish it happened more often. But this young man, despite being last place in the first 3rd of the race, turned on the afterburners and won in a photo finish.

And that's when my inner nerd took over.

Because when they showed the photo finish image, it looked super weird.

Why is the track white?

Why do all of the runners look all warpy like that QWOP game?

So I went down a research rabbit hole to figure this out.

Photo finishes are actually fascinating. The first photo finish captured the end of a horse race in 1890. But that was mostly luck and timing. The actual photo finish mechanisms weren't used until 1937.

Originally they would film the finish line through a physical slit.

And the first horsie head that appeared in that slit would be the winner. This technology ended a huge aspect of corruption in horse race fixing almost overnight.

But we have come a long way since then. And I'd like to introduce you to the Omega Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate.

This slow motion camera sits fixed on the finish line of every race. The concept of the photo finish has remained remarkably similar to the 1930s approach. The camera sensor is specially designed to only record a vertical slit.

Only the finish line itself is actually captured.

And because it limits what it records to only that slit, it can capture 40,000 frames per second to get amazing temporal resolution.

So why don't the photo finishes just look like, well... this?

That is because the camera takes a picture of time more-so than dimensional space. I guess it would be more accurate to say it *assembles* a picture of time.

As the runners cross the finish line, the camera combines all of the little strips of pictures into a single image.

It's almost like if you tried to reassemble a piece of paper after it had been shredded.

Imagine each strip of paper is a picture of ONLY the finish line, just at a slightly different point in time.

What if someone stopped on the finish line and didn't move... what would that look like?

Once they got there, the same part of their body would just be repeated.

So the right side of the photo finish picture represents earlier in time and it just assembles the image strip by strip as time passes and you literally get a picture of time itself.

NEAT!

Okay, but how do they determine the winner from the photo finish?

I mean, that shoe looks like it is ahead of Noah Lyles!

Clavicles!

The IAFF rules state the foremost part of the torso must cross the finish line first. And the endpoint of the torso is the outer end of the clavicle.

So if you get this bone across the finish line first, you win the race.

Two more fun facts!

The start of the race is actually just as carefully timed as the end of the race. There are sensors in the starting blocks of each runner.

The starting gun also has an electronic sensor.

They have determined the fastest a human can react to the sound of a gun is roughly 100 milliseconds. So if you start running before 100 milliseconds they know you didn't actually hear the gun, you just got antsy and started running too early.

And the final fun fact...

Did you notice the Omega logo at the top of the photo finish?

That isn't superimposed or added after the fact. That is captured by the camera.

But if this image is composed only of tiny little slivers, how did they get the Omega logo to show up?

That is a little display. And it is synchronized with the Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate to show a little sliver of the Omega logo for each frame captured.

So when the final image is stitched together, it looks like a cohesive logo at the top of the photo.

Pretty clever, Omega!

[bonestrouslingbones]

is there anything more satisfying than having a character that you see at the very beginning of a series and immediately think "oh it'll be fun to see them get beat up and have a mental breakdown later" and then a full year passes and you start seeing other people say the exact same thing

[crybabycabin]

touch and go | b.b.

✮ synopsis: he's the Winter Soldier, and you're just you. but when your skin touches his, he becomes bucky barnes again.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is everything and bucky barnes will fight his way back to you, one broken memory at a time.)

✮ pairing: ca:tws!bucky x soulmate!reader

✮ disclaimers: fem!reader, soulmates, violence/action sequences, graphic descriptions of torture/memory wiping, PTSD, panic attacks, dissociation, past torture, brainwashing, heavy angst, touch deprivation, references to past violence/assassinations, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual happy ending, bucky is down horrendously bad

✮ warnings: (18+) MDNI, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, soul bond sex (enhanced sensations), touch-starved bucky, possessive behavior, marking/bruising, praise kink, body worship, emotional sex, crying during sex (in a good way), size kink if you squint, bucky has a dirty filthy mouth

✮ word count: 14.3k

✮ a/n: re-uploading all my fics to this blog so i'm posting a ca:tws-era oldie but goodie (the last 4k of this is straight smut, so if that's not your cup of tea feel free to stop at the **)

bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2 main masterlist

The library basement feels like a crypt tonight—all dead air and fluorescent buzz that makes your molars ache.

You've been down here so long your bones have started to match the temperature of the concrete, cold seeping through your jeans where you've been sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a semi-circle of photocopied articles that all essentially say the same nothing in different ways.

3:17 AM according to your phone, which you check compulsively every twenty minutes like maybe time will take pity and skip forward to your deadline. The security guard made his last round two hours ago—Gerald? Gary? Something with a G—his whistling fading up the stairwell along with any pretense that you're not completely alone down here.

Your neck cracks when you roll it, vertebrae protesting the last six hours of hunching over sources that shouldn't be this hard to parse. But your advisor had smiled that sharp little smile when assigning this topic, the one that says let's see if you're really cut out for this, and spite is a hell of a motivator.

Even if your eyes are burning. Even if the coffee tastes like battery acid. Even if your soul bond has been aching since midnight with that peculiar emptiness you've learned to ignore.

The lights flicker—building's older than sin, held together by asbestos and prayer—but the air changes with it. Shifts. Like all the oxygen just remembered it had somewhere else to be.

Your fingers still on the keyboard mid-sentence.

Don't be stupid. It's a basement. In a library. The scariest thing down here is your browser history.

But your body knows things your mind pretends it doesn't. Every hair follicle suddenly awake, skin prickling with the kind of ancient warning that kept humans from being eaten in the dark. Your heartbeat kicks up, stuttering from normal to concerned between one breath and the next.

You turn.

He stands at the edge of the stacks like violence in human form.

Black tactical gear eats the light, makes him look like someone cut a hole in reality and taught it how to hunt. The mask covering the lower half of his face should make him less human, but somehow it's worse—forces you to focus on the eyes that track your movement with the kind of empty precision that makes your hindbrain scream predator predator predator.

"Oh." The sound punches out of you, high and strangled.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Just moves toward you with the kind of lethal economy that makes you understand, suddenly and completely, why rabbits freeze when hawks circle overhead. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just purpose distilled into muscle and intent.

Your body tries—God, it tries. Scrambling backward, papers scattering, laptop sliding off your thighs to crack against the floor in what feels like slow motion. Three months of work fracturing into digital garbage as you crab-walk backward, palms slipping on photocopies, knee catching on your backpack hard enough to send you sprawling.

He crosses the space between you like it's nothing.

Like you're nothing.

His hand finds your throat before you've even processed standing, leather and pressure sending you backward into the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Old brick catches your hair, pulls it, but that barely registers against the feeling of being pinned like an insect, specimen for examination before disposal.

Both your hands fly to his wrist, fingernails catching on tactical fabric that won't give, won't move, won't budge. He's not crushing your windpipe—not yet—but the promise is there in the careful placement of his thumb, the calculated pressure that says I could, if I wanted to.

"Please—" It comes out thin, reedy. Your right hand abandons his wrist to push against his chest, trying to create distance that doesn't exist, will never exist. "I don't know what you—I'm nobody, I'm just—"

His head tilts. Minute. Considering. The eyes stay empty, stay cold, but something flickers there—assessment, maybe. Calculation. How long it will take. How quiet you'll be.

Your left hand keeps clawing at his grip while your right slides up his chest, finds the edge of his tactical vest, pushes uselessly at a shoulder that might as well be carved from stone. But the movement makes you stretch, makes your hand slip higher, past the collar of his gear, past the edge of the mask, until—

Your fingertips brush his jaw.

Skin against skin.

The world breaks apart.

Heat races from that point of contact like lightning seeking ground, if lightning could rewrite your DNA as it traveled. Every nerve ending lights up at once, not with pain but with recognition so profound it feels like drowning in reverse. Like every cell in your body suddenly remembers how to breathe.

His entire body locks. The hand at your throat spasms, loosens, and you hear him make a sound—sharp, bitten off, like someone just slid a knife between his ribs. Those empty eyes blow wide, pupils expanding until there's barely any gray left, and his chest heaves against your palm like he's just broken the surface after being underwater too long.

He rips the mask off with his free hand. Tears it away like it's burning him, revealing a face that makes your chest cavity feel too small. Sharp jaw, soft mouth, stubble that catches the shit fluorescent lighting and turns it into shadow. Beautiful in the way broken things can be beautiful, in the way that makes you want to cut yourself on the edges.

The leather glove at your throat disappears—he tears it off with his teeth, movements gone jerky and desperate where they were smooth before. Then his bare hand is cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with the kind of reverence reserved for holy things, impossible things, things that might disappear if you breathe wrong.

He pulls you forward, or maybe he falls into you—either way, your foreheads meet in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His breath fans across your face, ragged and hot, and you can feel him shaking. This man who moved like death incarnate thirty seconds ago is shaking.

"Oh," he breathes, and his voice—Christ, his voice is nothing like you imagined during those empty nights when the bond ached worst. Rough like he hasn't used it in years. Soft like he's afraid it'll break something. Accent pulling at the vowels in ways that make your chest hurt. "Oh, no. No, not—not like this."

You can't move. Can't think. Can't process anything beyond the electricity still racing through your veins, the place where his thumb traces your cheekbone like he's trying to memorize the architecture of your face through touch alone. Your hands are caught between you, one still fisted in his tactical vest, the other pressed flat against his chest where you can feel his heart hammering out a rhythm that matches yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the devastation in his eyes makes your throat close for reasons that have nothing to do with violence. Gray like winter mornings, like grief, like the moment before the sky breaks open.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, wrecked. His thumb catches the tear you didn't realize was sliding down your cheek, and the tenderness of it makes you want to scream. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't—I couldn't—"

"Who are you?" Your voice comes out destroyed, barely recognizable. The soul bond hums between you like a live wire, like coming home to a place that's on fire, and you don't know whether to run toward it or away.

His jaw works, muscles tightening and releasing like he's fighting something immense. When he speaks again, it's careful. Measured. Like each word costs him something irreplaceable.

"Someone who's going to disappear." His forehead presses against yours again, harder this time, desperate. Both hands frame your face now, holding you like something precious, something he's about to lose. "Someone who needs you to run. Now. Before—"

A sound echoes down the stairwell. Footsteps. Multiple sets.

The change in him is instant and terrible. The softness vanishes like it was never there, replaced by the same lethal efficiency that brought him here, but now there's something else in his eyes. Something that looks like anguish.

"Forgive me," he says, and before you can ask for what, his thumb finds a spot behind your jaw.

The world tilts. Your legs go liquid. But he catches you—of course he catches you—lowers you to the ground like you're made of spun glass while your vision tunnels to nothing.

The last thing you feel is his mouth pressed to your forehead, words whispered against your skin in a language you don't recognize but somehow understand.

I'll find you again.

I promise.

I'm sorry.

When security finds you four hours later, you have bruises on your throat that look like purple-black fingerprints, a concussion that makes the world swim, and no memory the EMTs will accept of how you ended up unconscious in a locked basement.

But you remember.

You remember the way his hands shook when he held your face. You remember the devastation in winter-gray eyes. You remember the electricity of recognition, the soul bond snapping into place only to be severed, leaving you with a phantom ache that feels like dying in slow motion.

There's a leather glove clutched in your fist that no one can pry from your fingers.

You tell them you don't remember where it came from.

You lie.

The world had always been divided into two types of people: those who'd found their match and those still waiting.

You'd grown up watching the found ones move through life with that particular brand of settled confidence, like they'd discovered some fundamental truth the rest of you were still stumbling toward.

Your mother used to tell the story at dinner parties, after her second glass of wine made her sentimental. How she'd been twenty-three, working at a bank in downtown Brooklyn, when a man came in to dispute an overdraft fee. Their hands touched when she passed back his paperwork. The bond snapped into place like a rubber band that had been stretched across decades, just waiting to contract.

She'd knocked over her coffee. He'd forgotten his own name for thirty seconds. They'd been married six months later.

"You just know," she'd say, fingers intertwined with your father's across the table. "It's like every cell in your body suddenly remembers what it was made for."

You'd wanted to believe her. Spent your eighteenth birthday waiting for that recognition to hit, for your body to suddenly make sense in a way it never had before.

But days turned to weeks turned to months, and all you felt was the same low-grade emptiness everyone without a bond carried—that constant, quiet ache of incompleteness.

By twenty-one, you'd stopped looking for it in every accidental touch.

By twenty-three, you'd convinced yourself you were one of the statistical anomalies. No bond. No match. Just you and your dissertation and a future that looked exactly like your present, only with better coffee and maybe tenure if you played your cards right.

The bruises have faded to sick yellow-green by the time you make it back to campus. Two weeks of medical leave that you spent staring at your apartment ceiling, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be made sensible. The official report sits in your email, cc'd to your advisor and the department head and probably half the university's legal team: Student found unconscious in library basement. Possible assault. No cameras functioning. Investigation ongoing.

You don't correct them. Don't mention the glove hidden in your nightstand drawer. Don't explain that the bruises on your throat match the exact span of fingers that had held your face like you were something holy, something worth breaking for.

Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget. The soul bond, severed as quickly as it formed, has left you feeling like someone hollowed out your chest cavity with a melon baller. It's worse than before—before was just absence. This is active loss. This is knowing exactly what you're missing.

The dreams start the first night home from the hospital.

Not nightmares—that would be easier. These are soft things that leave you gasping awake at 3 AM with tears on your face and your hand pressed to your cheek where he'd touched you. Dreams where those gray eyes find yours across impossible distances. Where his hands shake as they frame your face. Where he whispers apologies in languages you don't speak but somehow understand.

Sometimes you dream of snow. Of cold so profound it burns. Of a voice saying his name—names?—until there's nothing left but the mission.

Sometimes you dream of falling. Of a train that screams through mountain passes. Of reaching for something—someone—who's always just beyond your fingertips.

But mostly you dream of that moment. The mask coming off. The devastating gentleness of his forehead against yours. The way he breathed you in like his lungs hadn't recognized oxygen until then, like you were the first real thing he'd touched in decades.

You become an expert in lying about the nightmares. "Trauma response," you tell the university-mandated therapist. "Yes, I'm processing. No, I don't remember details. Yes, I feel safe on campus."

Lies. All lies.

You remember everything. The weight of him. The contrast between violence and tenderness that shouldn't have existed in the same person. The way the soul bond had sung between you for those impossible seconds—not the gentle hum your mother described, but something desperate and raw, like two halves of something broken trying to fuse back together.

The research starts three weeks after the incident. You tell yourself it's academic curiosity. Tell yourself you're not the first person to lose a soulmate before really finding them. There are support groups. Statistics. An entire subset of psychology dedicated to severed bonds and what they do to the human psyche.

Increased rates of depression. Anxiety. Insomnia. Some subjects report physical pain at the site of initial contact. Others experience what researchers call "phantom bond syndrome"—the persistent sensation of a connection that no longer exists.

You check every box. Feel him in every room you enter, just a second too late. Wake up with your hand pressed to your face, trying to hold onto the ghost of leather and gunpowder and something metallic you couldn't place then but can't stop tasting now.

The databases give you nothing. Facial recognition software turns up empty. You sketch what you remember of his face—strong jaw, soft mouth, eyes like winter—but it feels like trying to draw music, like something essential gets lost in translation.

"Maybe he was military," Katrina suggests over coffee that tastes like disappointment. She's trying to help, your best friend since undergrad, but she looks at you with the kind of careful concern reserved for people about to break. "Special ops or something. That would explain the tactical gear."

You don't tell her about the way he moved. Don't mention that special ops soldiers don't usually have metal arms—you'd felt it when he caught you, the strange whir of plates adjusting beneath the fabric. Don't explain that whatever he was, military doesn't quite cover it.

December bleeds into January. You submit your dissertation proposal late, blame the incident, receive an extension wrapped in sympathetic looks. The bruises are long gone but you wear scarves anyway, can't stand the feeling of air against your throat where his thumb had pressed.

Your google search history becomes a testament to obsession:

“severed soul bonds recovery time?” “can soul bonds reconnect?” “military tactical gear supplier identification” “metal prosthetic arm advanced” “soul bond physical pain management”

Nothing. Always nothing.

But late at night, when the world sleeps and you're alone with the ache that lives between your ribs, you pull out the glove. Run your fingers over worn leather that's been softened by use and something else—care, maybe. The kind of attention that comes from having nothing else to focus on.

It smells like winter. Like violence. Like the ghost of cologne that might have been nice once, before it mixed with gunpowder and fear and whatever else clings to people who move through the world like weapons.

You press it to your face and breathe deep, eyes closed, trying to summon those impossible seconds when he'd looked at you like you were salvation and damnation all at once. When his voice had broken on an apology for something you didn't understand. When he'd promised to find you again in words you shouldn't have been able to translate but did.

The bond throbs. Phantom pain for a phantom connection.

You fold the glove carefully. Place it back in the drawer. Go to bed knowing you'll dream of gray eyes and the kind of gentleness that only comes from people who've forgotten they deserve it.

Tomorrow you'll get up. Go to class. Pretend your chest doesn't feel like someone excavated it with rusty tools. Pretend you don't scan every face on campus, looking for winter eyes and a jaw that could cut glass.

But tonight, you let yourself remember. Let yourself feel the echo of his forehead against yours, the desperate press of his mouth to your skin, the way he'd held you like you were worth breaking the world for.

I'll find you again.

You touch your throat, the memory of leather and promise.

I'm waiting.

The asset doesn't fight anymore.

Hasn't for years. Learned the hard way that resistance only makes it worse—more voltage, longer sessions, deeper cuts into whatever remains of the person he might have been.

Better to go limp. Better to let them position him like a doll, open his mouth for the rubber guard, wait for the electricity to wash it all away.

The asset craves it sometimes. The blankness. The nothing. Easier than carrying the weight of what his hands have done.

But Bucky Barnes fights.

Screams himself raw before they get the guard between his teeth. Thrashes against the restraints hard enough to bend the metal table, to make the technicians step back with wide eyes because the asset never does this, hasn't done this in fifteen years, not since they perfected the chair's calibration.

"Hold him!" Pierce's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with irritation. "Get those restraints tightened before—"

Bucky's metal arm tears through the leather strap like tissue paper. Swings wild, catches a handler across the jaw with a crack that sends him spinning into medical equipment. Two more rush forward and he fights them with everything he has, everything he'd forgotten he could be.

Soft hands on his face. Bright eyes wide with recognition. The soul bond singing between them like coming home—

"No!" The word tears out of him, accent thick with desperation. Russian, English, something older—he doesn't know anymore, doesn't care. "Please—please, I can't—"

A needle finds his neck. Sedative, fast-acting, enough to drop an elephant. His knees buckle but he keeps fighting, keeps reaching for—what? The memory's already going slippery, falling through his fingers like water.

Someone. There was someone. Wasn't there?

"Interesting." Pierce circles him as four handlers wrestle him into the chair, voice clinical. "What happened on the mission? You terminated the target, but something affected you. The timeline's off by forty-three minutes."

Bucky's jaw works around the guard they're shoving between his teeth. Can't tell them. Won't tell them. But what is he protecting? The feeling's there—urgent, desperate, worth dying for—but the shape of it keeps shifting.

A face. Soft mouth parted in shock. The way she'd—

The electricity hits before he can finish the thought.

White-hot agony races through every nerve ending, bows his back against the restraints they've doubled, tripled. The scream locks in his throat, comes out as a sound that doesn't belong to anything human. But underneath the pain, worse than the pain, is the feeling of something essential being carved out of him.

Don't take her, some part of him begs. Take everything else, but not her, not this—

But the machine doesn't care about please. Doesn't care that he's crying—when did he start crying? The asset doesn't cry. The asset doesn't feel. But Bucky Barnes is sobbing, choking on the rubber guard as memories start to fracture and fade.

Her hand against his jaw. The world breaking open. Recognition so profound it rewrote thirty years of programming in seconds—

Another pulse. Stronger. Pierce has turned the dial past safety parameters, past sanity, past anything they've done before.

"Sir," one of the technicians ventures, nervous. "The readings—"

"Continue."

Forehead to forehead. Breathing her in. The apology scraping his throat raw because he'd never wanted to meet her like this, never wanted her to know him as a weapon first and a man second—

Gone. It's gone. He reaches for it, desperate, but there's only white noise where her face should be. Only the echo of something precious he'd held for minutes—hours?—seconds?—he doesn't know anymore.

The machine winds down. Silence except for his ragged breathing, the drip of something (blood? tears?) hitting the concrete floor.

"Asset."

He doesn't respond. Can't. There's something wrong with his chest, like someone reached in and scooped out everything that mattered.

"Asset."

Training kicks in where consciousness fails. His head lifts, eyes focusing with effort on the man in the suit. Pierce. Handler. The one who holds the leash.

"Ready to comply." The words come out broken. Mechanical. But correct.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated. No witnesses." A pause. Something scratches at the back of his mind, urgent, important. But when he reaches for it there's nothing but static. "Extraction successful."

Pierce studies him, pale eyes narrowed. "And the deviation? You were off-schedule."

The asset blinks. Searches the white noise of his mind for an answer that makes sense. "Unexpected resistance. Handled."

"I see." Pierce doesn't look convinced, but he waves to the technicians. "Run a full cognitive recalibration. I want him stable before the next deployment."

They unstrap him eventually. He doesn't fight. Doesn't do anything but stare at his metal hand, trying to understand why it feels wrong. Why everything feels wrong. There's an ache in his chest that wasn't there before—or was it always there? He can't remember. Can't remember anything but the mission, the chair, the readiness to comply.

But that night, locked in cryo-prep, he dreams.

Fragments. Glimpses. A basement that smells like old paper and fear. Someone pressed against a wall, hands pushing at his chest. The feeling of skin against skin and the world exploding into color he didn't know existed.

He wakes with her ghost on his lips—no name, no face, just the shape of an apology in a language he's not supposed to know.

The asset reports for cryo on schedule. Lies still as they prep the chamber, ice already forming in the tubes that will freeze him until the next time he's needed. But as consciousness fades, as the cold takes him under, one thought persists:

Someone. There was someone. And I've lost them.

The machine hisses. Frost spreads across the glass.

The asset sleeps.

Bucky Barnes screams.

The Starbucks on 42nd doesn't have soul bonds on the menu, but they do have overpriced lattes and witnesses, which is why you're here instead of home, staring at your bedroom ceiling and trying to parse nightmares from memories.

Six months.

Six months of the glove under your pillow losing his scent. Six months of your advisor asking pointed questions about your "lack of focus" and your therapist prescribing sleeping pills that don't work because how do you medicate a severed soul bond?

How do you explain that you're mourning someone you knew for less than five minutes?

You're arguing with yourself about the merits of a fourth shot of espresso when the world explodes.

Glass shatters inward, the windows becoming a thousand diamonds catching afternoon light. Your coffee hits the floor—there goes eight dollars you don't have—as your body moves on instinct, dropping behind the counter with five other people who smell like fear and pumpkin spice.

Screaming. So much screaming. Cars screeching outside, the percussion of something that might be gunfire but sounds too wrong, too close, too real for a Tuesday afternoon in Manhattan.

You peek around the espresso machine and your heart forgets how to beat.

He's standing in the middle of the street like death dressed for winter. Same tactical gear, same casual violence, same way of moving that makes everyone else look like they're traveling through molasses. The mask covers the lower half of his face again, but you'd know those eyes anywhere. Have been seeing them every night for six months, after all.

A cop raises his weapon. The soldier—your soulmate, your ghost, your nightly torment—disarms him with an economy of motion that's almost beautiful. The crack of breaking fingers carries even through the shattered windows.

Get up, your brain screams. Run. Move. Do something that isn't standing here like a deer watching headlights come to claim it.

But your body has other plans. Your treacherous, soul-bonded body that recognizes his even across thirty feet of chaos and broken glass. You're moving before conscious thought catches up, stumbling through the destroyed storefront on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

This is stupid. Monumentally stupid. The kind of stupid that gets psychology PhD candidates killed in broad daylight. But your hand is already reaching, already grasping, because maybe—

Your fingers close around his wrist.

The barest slip of skin where his sleeve has ridden up, your thumb finding his pulse like it was made for nothing else. The connection slams through you—heat and recognition and yes, finally, yes—

The gun clatters to the asphalt.

His whole body goes rigid, that same terrible stillness from before. You watch his pupils dilate, watch six months of careful nothing shatter in his eyes as a stranger crashes back into existence.

He moves so fast you don't process it. One second you're standing there, thumb on his pulse, the next you're spinning, back slamming into his chest as his metal arm locks across your body. The gun—when did he pick it up?—presses cold against your temple.

You stop breathing.

Around you, cops and civilians alike freeze. Weapons lower incrementally because now there's a hostage situation, now there's a girl who was stupid enough to touch the Winter Soldier and—

"Name." His voice in your ear, so quiet you almost miss it under the sirens. That sound that had haunted your dreams, rougher now, desperate. "Your name. Please."

Your lips barely move, sound threading between heartbeats. You tell him, soft as a whisper.

The gun doesn't waver. To everyone watching, he's perfectly still, a predator considering prey. But his metal thumb moves against your bare arm where your shirt has ridden up. Gentle. Deliberate. Tracing letters maybe, or just feeling, and you wonder if he can—if there are sensors in the metal that let him—

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." Each word careful, precious, pressed into the space below your ear like a secret. Like a gift. "Bucky. My name is Bucky. I won't remember, so I need you to—you have to remember for me."

James Buchanan Barnes.

It tickles something in your memory. A history class, maybe. Something about World War II, about Captain America, about—

"What have they done to you?" The words slip out, horrified, because the pieces are trying to fit together but the picture they're making can't be right, can't be possible—

"Find me." Urgent now. His realness, his hereness makes your chest ache with completion even as your mind screams danger. "When I—after they—find me. Please. I can't—"

His voice cracks.

The gun leaves your temple.

The crack of the shot makes you flinch, but it's the cop to your left who goes down, clutching his knee, screaming. Bucky shoves you—not hard, but enough to send you stumbling into the crowd as he moves the opposite direction, using the chaos as cover.

You hit the ground hard, knees cracking against asphalt, palms scraped raw. Around you, people scatter like startled birds. Someone's hands on your shoulders, pulling you back, asking if you're hurt, if you need medical attention.

You can't answer. Can't do anything but stare at the place where he'd stood, where he'd held you, where he'd given you his name like it was the only thing he had left to give.

Your arm throbs where his metal thumb had traced patterns. When you look down, you can see the faint red marks—not bruises, just pressure. Just proof.

"Miss? Miss, we need to get you checked out—"

"I'm fine." You're not. You're the opposite of fine. You're shattering in slow motion, held together by adrenaline and the phantom feeling of his chest against your back. "I'm—he didn't hurt me."

The EMT looks skeptical. "He held a gun to your head."

"He didn't hurt me," you repeat, and you're not sure who you're trying to convince.

They take you anyway. St. Luke's emergency room, where you spend four hours being poked and prodded and questioned by people who look at you like you might break or explode. The FBI shows up eventually, two agents in bad suits who ask the same questions fifteen different ways.

"Did he say anything to you?"

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

"No."

"Are you sure? Even something small could help."

Find me.

"He didn't say anything."

They don't believe you. You can see it in the way they exchange glances, the way their pens hover over notepads. But what are you supposed to tell them? That the most wanted man in America is your soulmate? That he gave you his name like a prayer? That even now, hours later, you can still feel the phantom press of metal against your skin?

They release you near midnight with a card and instructions to call if you remember anything. You take a cab home because the subway feels too exposed, too dangerous, like maybe he'll be there in the shadows between stops.

Your apartment is exactly as you left it. Laptop open on the counter, half a cup of cold coffee growing something ambitious by the sink. Normal. Safe.

Empty.

You sink onto your bed, still fully dressed, and pull out your phone. Your search history is already damning, but what's one more nail in the coffin?

James Buchanan Barnes

The results make your stomach drop.

Born 1917. Best friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America. Sergeant in the 107th Infantry Regiment. Fell from a train in the Alps in 1945. Presumed dead.

Except he's not dead. He's not dead because you touched him today, felt his pulse under your thumb, heard him breathing in your ear as he held you like something breakable and precious all at once.

You dig deeper. Past the official records, past the Wikipedia entries, into the conspiracy forums and leaked documents that only half-load on your shitty wifi.

The Winter Soldier.

HYDRA.

Seventy years of ghost stories.

An assassin who appears and disappears like smoke, leaving bodies in his wake.

Your soulmate is a century-old brainwashed assassin. Your soulmate is Bucky Barnes, who died in 1945. Who didn't die. Who was turned into something else, something violent and beautiful and dangerous.

Who fights back to consciousness every time you touch him only to be dragged under again.

What have they done to you?

You close your laptop. Lie back on your bed, fully clothed, and stare at the water stain on your ceiling that looks like a rabbit if you squint. Your arm still throbs where he touched you. Traced letters, maybe, or just—

You bolt upright.

Grab a pen, try to recreate the pattern from memory on your other arm. It takes three tries before the movements feel right, before the shapes resolve into something recognizable.

Numbers.

He'd traced numbers on your skin. Coordinates.

Find me, he'd said.

Your hands shake as you type them into your phone. A location upstate, middle of nowhere, the kind of place where no one would look twice at an abandoned building or hear the screams from underground.

You should leave it alone. Should forget his name, forget the numbers, forget the feeling of being whole for thirty seconds in the middle of chaos. Should be smart and safe and boring and alive.

Instead, you screenshot the location. Book a rental car for tomorrow. Pack a bag with things that might matter—the glove, pepper spray that won't do shit against a super soldier but makes you feel better, a first aid kit you probably won't get the chance to use.

Find me.

You're going to. God help you, you're going to find James Buchanan Barnes.

Even if it kills you.

(It probably will.)

(You're going anyway.)

The HYDRA facility squats in the pre-dawn darkness like something that crawled out of the Cold War and forgot to die. You're crammed in the back of a tactical van between enough weaponry to level a city block and Captain America's guilt, which somehow takes up more space.

Forty-eight hours. That's all it took from wine-drunk-email-to-vague-Avengers-PR-listing to this—body armor that doesn't fit right, your heart hammering against ceramic plates, and the ghost of coordinates still throbbing on your arm where he'd traced them.

"Two minutes to insertion." Natasha's voice crackles through comms you're not supposed to have. But Steve had insisted, jaw set in that way that apparently nobody argues with. Not even Fury.

Steve Rogers had shown up at your door with Natasha Romanoff and Nick Fury, your roommate had screamed in her towel, and you'd told them everything. About the library. About the way Bucky's entire being had shifted when you touched him, like watching someone break the surface after drowning.

About how he'd held you in that Starbucks, whispered his name against your ear like a secret, like salvation, like the only thing he had left that was his.

Steve had gone very, very still. Then: "We're finding him. We're bringing him home."

Now he's sitting across from you, shield balanced against his knee, and you can see why people follow him into impossible situations. It's not the shoulders or the jaw or the way he fills out tactical gear like he was born to it. It's the way he looks at you—not through you, not around you, but at you. Like you matter. Like your connection to his best friend makes you worth protecting.

"Remember," he says quietly, pitched below the engine noise. "The moment we find him, the moment you make contact—"

"I know." Your fingers won't stop moving, tracing and retracing the numbers Bucky left on your skin. "Skin contact. Bring him back." Don't let go."

What you don't say: What if it doesn't work this time? What if they've wiped him too many times? What if whatever's left isn't enough to—

The van stops.

Everything happens too fast after that. Doors flying open, bodies moving with practiced precision, you stumbling to keep up as Steve's hand on your elbow guides you through pre-dawn shadows toward a concrete mouth that looks like it's waiting to swallow you whole.

The facility is worse inside. All industrial fluorescents and that particular kind of silence that sounds like screaming if you listen too hard. Your soul bond, quiet for months, starts to ache with proximity—a deep, bone-level recognition that makes your teeth chatter.

"Northeast corridor clear." Natasha's voice, clinical.

"Southwest clear." Someone else, call sign you didn't catch.

"Movement in the lower levels." Another voice. "Looks like they're mobilizing—"

A sound cuts through the chatter. Not quite human. Not quite animal. Something between a scream and static that makes your hindbrain light up with warnings to run.

Steve's already moving. "That's him."

You follow because what else can you do? Down stairs that smell like rust and terror, through corridors that branch like diseased arteries. The ache in your chest intensifies with each level down, soul bond pulling taut as piano wire.

Then—

The room opens before you like a wound. Medical equipment that belongs in museums next to things that belong in nightmares. And in the center, strapped to a chair that looks more like an electric chair than anything medical—

"Bucky." Steve's voice breaks on it.

He's shirtless, sweat-slick and shaking, with enough electricity running through him to light up half of Brooklyn. His hair hangs limp around his face, and even from here you can see the way his muscles lock and release in waves as current pulses through the chair. Fresh burn marks lattice across his chest where the nodes attach, and there's blood—so much blood—dripping from where he's fought against the restraints.

There are bodies on the floor. Technicians, by their white coats. The blood is fresh enough to still be spreading.

"Stay back." Natasha has her weapon trained on him, all business. "He's still the Winter—"

Bucky's head snaps up.

His eyes find yours across twenty feet of blood and machinery.

Time stops.

Those aren't the empty eyes from the library. Aren't the desperate clarity from the coffee shop. These are something else entirely—feral and frightened and so fucking broken under all that damage. He looks like something that's been torn apart and reassembled wrong, like an animal that's been in a cage so long it's forgotten what sky looks like.

You're moving before conscious thought catches up. Dodging Steve's reaching hand, slipping past Natasha's outstretched arm. Your feet slip in blood—whose blood? His? Theirs?—but you don't stop. Can't stop. The soul bond is screaming, every cell in your body reaching for its other half.

"Don't—" Someone shouts. Might be Steve. Might be God himself. Doesn't matter.

Because Bucky's watching you approach with the kind of stillness that precedes violence. His metal arm—and this close you can see how it's grafted to flesh, red and raw and infected at the edges—flexes against the restraints. The leather creaks. His chest heaves with each breath, and there's a wild look in his eyes like he can't decide if you're real or another torture.

You collapse on the arm of the chair. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, and this close you can see old scars layered on new ones, a roadmap of decades of damage. Seventy years of this. Seventy years of being unmade and remade into something sharp and wrong.

Your hand reaches up, slow as you'd approach a wounded animal.

He flinches.

Actually flinches, this assassin who's probably felt every kind of pain there is. A sound escapes him—small, wounded, barely human. But when your fingertips brush his cheek—skin to skin, that electric recognition—his whole body convulses.

"Oh," you breathe, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, it's everything. Because the bond slots into place like coming home if home was a person who'd been carved hollow and filled with ghosts.

His eyes clear incrementally. Pupil contraction, focus sharpening, and then—

The noise that tears out of him is inhuman. Seventy years of grief and rage and desperate loneliness condensed into a single sound that makes your bones ache. His metal hand shatters the restraint like tissue paper, then the flesh one, and before you can process the movement he's dragging you up, up, into his lap, crushing you against his chest with desperate strength.

"You," he's saying, over and over, voice wrecked beyond recognition. "You, you, you—real, you're real, you're—"

His hands are everywhere at once. Metal fingers tangling in your hair, flesh hand splayed across your back hard enough to bruise, holding you like you might dissolve if he loosens his grip for even a second. He buries his face in the curve of your neck and the sob that escapes him is pure agony, seventy years of touch starvation hitting him all at once.

You can feel him shaking—no, not shaking, convulsing, like his body doesn't know how to process gentle touch anymore. Doesn't know what to do with softness after decades of nothing but pain.

"I'm here," you whisper against his temple, your own tears falling freely. "I'm real. I found you. I've got you."

His response is to hold you tighter, tight enough that breathing becomes difficult, but you don't care. Can't care when he's falling apart in your arms like this. The metal hand fists in your tactical vest and you hear fabric tear, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's pressing his face harder into your throat, breathing you in like you're air and he's been suffocating for seventy years.

"Thought I dreamed you." The words come out destroyed, muffled against your skin. "They said—they said I made you up. That the pain was making me see things. But you smell real. You feel—" His flesh hand slides up to cup the back of your head, holding you in place. "Please be real. Please, please be real."

"I'm real." You press your lips to his temple, just a brief touch of comfort. "James Buchanan Barnes, you're real and I'm real and I found you."

His breath hitches at his full name, and suddenly he's pulling back just enough to look at you. This close, you can see everything—the burst blood vessels in his eyes, the way his pupils can't quite focus, the decades of accumulated scars. He looks ancient. He looks young. He looks absolutely shattered.

"Don't know who that is anymore." Raw honesty, delivered while his thumbs trace your cheekbones with desperate reverence. "Don't know who I am when I'm not killing. When they're not—" He breaks off, jaw working. "I've been empty for so long. So fucking long. And then you touched me and I remembered what it felt like to be human and they took it away—"

"They can't take it away again." You frame his face with your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "We're leaving. Right now. Together."

"You don't understand." He's crying openly now, no shame in it, just pure emotional overflow. "Seventy years. Seventy fucking years of this chair, this room, these walls. They put me in the dark and take me out to kill and put me back and I can't—when they say the words, I disappear. Everything disappears."

"Then we don't let them say the words."

"I've killed so many people." He presses his forehead to yours hard enough to hurt, but the contact seems to calm something in him. "Children. Civilians. Good people. Bad people. So many I lost count. The things they made me do—the things I did—"

"I don't care."

"You should." His metal hand comes up to wrap around your throat, gentle but present. "This hand has strangled innocent people. These fingers have pulled triggers that ended lives. I'm not—I'm not good. I'm not worth—"

"Stop." You turn your head to press your lips to his metal palm, and the sound he makes is pure agony. "You're worth everything. You're my soulmate. You're—"

He makes a broken noise and crushes you against him again, like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. His whole body trembles with the effort of holding you close enough, like no amount of contact will ever be sufficient after seventy years of nothing.

"They're gonna wipe me again." Matter-of-fact. Resigned. "Soon as they realize what happened here. They always do. And I'll forget you again. Forget this. And next time—" His voice breaks. "Next time they'll make sure I can't touch you. They'll find ways to hurt you through me. They'll make me—"

"No." Your hands tighten on his face. "No, they won't. We're leaving. Steve's here. Natasha. We're getting you out."

"Stevie?" For the first time, his eyes flicker past you, landing on his best friend. The confusion there is heartbreaking. "But you're—you're supposed to be—"

"Hey, Buck." Steve's voice is thick with emotion. "It's me. It's really me. We're taking you home."

But Bucky's already looking back at you, like he can't bear to look away for more than seconds. His flesh hand hasn't stopped moving—tracing your face, your neck, tangling in your hair like he's trying to memorize you through touch alone.

"I don't want to forget again." It comes out small, broken. "Please. I can't do it again. Can't lose you again. It'll kill me. It'll—"

"You won't forget." You shift in his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and he makes a sound like you've given him salvation. "I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you anymore. I promise."

"We need to move." Natasha's voice, soft but urgent. "Security response in two minutes."

Steve's at your side instantly, but when he reaches for Bucky, the soldier flinches back violently, metal arm coming up in defense. The only thing that keeps him from lashing out is your hand on his chest, your voice in his ear.

"It's okay. It's Steve. He's safe. He's here to help."

"Can you walk?" Steve asks, careful to keep his distance.

Bucky nods against your shoulder, but when you try to move off his lap, his arms lock around you with desperate strength.

"No." Panicked. "No, please. Need to—need to touch—"

"I'm not going anywhere." You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into it like a cat. "We're walking out of here together. But you have to let me stand up."

It takes visible effort for him to loosen his grip. When you stand, he follows immediately, swaying slightly. He towers over you even hunched with exhaustion, and when his hand finds yours, it's with the grip of a drowning man finding driftwood.

You start moving as a unit, but Bucky can't stop touching you. His free hand keeps finding your face, your hair, your shoulder, like he needs constant confirmation you're real. At one point he stops entirely, pulls you back against his chest, and just breathes you in for several seconds while Steve and Natasha stand guard.

"Left," he says suddenly as you reach a junction, pulling you down a side corridor. "Service tunnel. I've—I've tried before. Three times. No. Four? They always—" His free hand comes up to his head, pressing against his temple.

"Hey." You squeeze his hand. "Doesn't matter. Which way?"

The service tunnel is narrow and dark. Bucky pulls you through it like muscle memory, but halfway through he stops, pressing you against the wall. His hands frame your face in the darkness.

"What if this isn't real?" Desperate. "What if I'm still in the chair? What if this is just another way they're breaking me?"

You reach up to cradle his face in return, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Does this feel like a dream?"

"No." He breathes the word against your mouth. "No, it feels—it feels like waking up."

The exit spills you out into pre-dawn forest. The quinjet looms out of the darkness, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes runs toward freedom instead of away from it.

But even on the jet, even safe, he can't stop holding you. He pulls you into his lap on the bench seats, ignoring the medical team, ignoring everyone, and just holds on. His face stays buried in your neck during takeoff, his arms locked around you like prison bars in reverse—keeping the world out instead of keeping him in.

"You're free," you whisper, over and over, like a prayer. "You're free. You're safe. You're mine."

"Yours," he agrees, and finally, finally, his death grip loosens just enough for you to breathe. "Yours. Always yours. Even when I couldn't remember. Even in the dark. Somehow I was always yours."

The sun breaks the horizon as you fly toward home, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes believes he might actually make it there.

The first time Bucky Barnes calls you at 3 AM, your body knows it's him before your mind catches up.

The phone vibrates against your nightstand, and your hand's already reaching, heart already racing—not with fear but with recognition. That soul-deep pull that's been your compass for three months now.

"Bucky?" Your voice comes out sleep-rough, concerned.

Just breathing on the other end. Ragged, like he's been running. Or fighting. The sound makes your chest tight.

"Can't—" His voice cracks like splintered wood. "Can't remember if the blood on my hands is from yesterday or a decade ago."

You're already moving, sheets tangling around your legs as you hunt for clothes in the dark. "Where are you?"

"Steve's. The Tower. I'm—" A shaky exhale that you feel in your own lungs. "I'm safe. Everyone's safe. Just needed—"

"Me." Not a question. The bond thrums with his distress, a phantom ache under your ribs. "I'm coming."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm coming."

Twenty minutes later, Happy's pulling up to the Tower's private entrance. You're wearing the first things your hands found—pajama shorts with snowflakes on them that you stole from your roommate, one of Bucky's hoodies that still smells like him (cedar and gunpowder and something indefinably him).

The elevator ride feels eternal. Your skin prickles with proximity, the bond pulling taut as you rise through the floors. By the time JARVIS deposits you on the residential level, your hands are shaking with the need to touch him, to soothe whatever's tearing him apart.

You find him on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest like he's trying to make himself smaller. His metal hand is clenched so tight you can hear the recalibration whirs, flesh hand buried in his hair. Steve hovers nearby, hands opening and closing like he wants to help but doesn't know how.

"Buck," you breathe.

His head snaps up, and oh—his eyes are winter-wild, pupils blown with panic, caught in some liminal space between then and now. You watch him catalog you in pieces: face, voice, the way you're already moving toward him like gravity's reversed its pull.

You don't speak. Don't need to. Just fold yourself onto the couch beside him, close enough that the line of your body presses against his from shoulder to hip. His flesh hand finds yours immediately, desperate, fingers lacing between yours like maybe if he holds tight enough he won't drift away.

The effect is immediate—a full-body shudder, his breathing starting to sync with yours. The bond hums, warm honey spreading through your veins. Steve makes a sound—relief wrapped in something more complicated—and quietly retreats.

"Sorry," Bucky murmurs after a moment. His thumb finds your pulse point, traces it like he's counting heartbeats. "Shouldn't have woken you."

"Yes, you should have." No reproach, just fact. "That's what this is."

He turns to look at you then, really look, and you watch him surface by degrees. His metal hand comes up without conscious thought, fingertips ghosting along your jaw with impossible gentleness. The cool metal makes you shiver, but you lean into it, letting him map the reality of you.

"There you are," he whispers.

Something fractures inside you. He pulls you in—careful, always so careful with you—until your foreheads touch. His breathing ghosts across your lips, and you stay suspended in that space, sharing air and warmth and the indescribable thing that ties soul to soul.

It becomes your new normal.

The calls come at all hours. Sometimes Steve's the one calling, voice carefully controlled: "Can you come? He's asking for you." Sometimes it's Natasha, brusque but not unkind: "Barnes needs you." Once, memorably, it's Tony: "Your touch-starved assassin is having a moment. Also, he may have broken my espresso machine."

You always go.

The team adapts to your presence like you're a new piece of furniture—necessary, functional, occasionally in the way. You learn to read Bucky's tells from across a room: the way his eyes go distant when memory bleeds through, the micro-flinches when sound becomes too much, the careful way he holds himself when he's fragmenting.

But more than that, you learn the language his body speaks when it's seeking yours.

He's always careful at first, tentative as a feral cat learning to accept kindness. A brush of fingers, testing. The barest press of his palm to yours. But once that first contact is made, something in him unravels.

He touches you like he's mapping a new world.

It starts innocuous enough—fingers tangled together during movie nights, his thumb painting absent patterns on your wrist. His hand finds the small of your back when you walk, not possessive but anchoring, like he needs proof you're real. He pulls you between his knees when he's sitting, arms banding around your waist, chin notching over your shoulder while you chat with Sam about nothing important.

But as weeks become months, the touches grow bolder. Hungrier.

"Does it bother you?" he asks one afternoon.

He's had a brutal therapy session—three hours of guided recall that left him shaking and grey-faced. You'd spent the past hour with his head in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair while he pieced himself back together. His flesh hand has found its way under your shirt, palm spread wide over your ribs, and his metal fingers trace delicate patterns on the inside of your wrist.

"Does what bother me?"

"This." He gestures vaguely at the negative space between you that stopped existing weeks ago. "How much I need—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "How I can't stop touching you."

The question deserves honesty, so you give it consideration. Think about how your life has restructured itself around these points of contact. How you've started wearing layers just so there's always fabric to push aside, skin to find. How your body anticipates his touch now, turns toward him without conscious thought.

"No," you say finally. "It doesn't bother me."

He studies your face with those searching eyes, looking for the polite lie. You let him look, keeping your expression open.

"I've been thinking," you continue, adjusting so you can see him better. His hand immediately shifts, fingers splaying wider across your ribs like he needs more contact to make up for the movement. "About touch. About deprivation."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

"Seventy years," you say softly. "Seventy years where touch meant pain. Programming. Violence. Where hands on you meant—"

"Stop." Rough. His hand presses harder against your ribs, feeling your heartbeat.

"—so is it any wonder you're hungry for something else? Something good?"

His exhale shudders out of him. "The doctors say it's codependence."

"The doctors haven't had their souls systematically unmade and remade." You cover his flesh hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your skin. "You're not codependent, Bucky. You're human. You're healing. And if touch helps—"

"It's not just that it helps." The words come out jagged, confessional. "I want—" His metal hand comes up, traces the line of your throat with one careful finger. "I want to touch you all the time. Want to know the texture of every inch of your skin. Want to map you like territory, like—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

Heat pools low in your stomach, but you keep your voice steady. "Like what?"

"Like you're mine." Barely audible. His eyes won't meet yours. "Like I have any right to—"

"You do." You turn into him more fully, catch his face between your palms. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch like a man starved. "You have every right. We're soulmates, Bucky. That means something."

"What if I never get better?" Raw, honest. "What if I always need this? Need you?"

"Then you'll always have me."

His eyes snap open, winter-blue and desperate. "You can't promise that."

"Watch me."

The trial is excruciating. You watch from designated seating as Bucky sits statue-still, hair pulled back severe, wearing a suit that makes him look like someone else entirely. They read names, show photographs, detail missions that exist in his memory like shattered glass—some pieces clear, others reflecting nothing but blood.

The days he testifies, he comes to you after.

Never speaks about it. Just shows up at your door looking hollowed out, and you let him in without questions. He wraps himself around you like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world, face buried in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

These are the times his hands grow bold.

Not inappropriate—never that. But searching. He maps you like a cartographer charting new territory. Palms skimming your sides, memorizing the curve of waist to hip. Fingers tracing the ladder of your ribs through thin fabric. Metal thumb finding the hollow of your throat where your pulse flutters hummingbird-quick.

"I need—" he'll say against your skin, words muffled and desperate.

"I know," you always answer. "Take what you need."

So he does. His flesh hand slips under your shirt, finds the warm plane of your stomach, spreads wide like he's trying to absorb your steadiness through osmosis. His metal fingers trace patterns on whatever skin he can find—the inside of your wrist, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.

Sometimes you'll find his hand at your sternum, metal fingers splayed over your heartbeat like he's using it to calibrate his own. Sometimes he'll trace the boundary where clothing meets skin, fingertips ghosting under hems and necklines but never pushing further, just needing to know there's softness underneath, that not everything in the world has sharp edges.

"Is this okay?" he asks every time, even as his touch grows more familiar, more certain.

"Yes," you answer every time, even as your skin heats and your breath catches and you want—

You want.

"So are you two fucking yet?"

You choke on your coffee, hot liquid searing your throat. Across the kitchen, Bucky's shoulders go rigid where he's making eggs with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing explosives.

"Tony," Steve says, warning clear in his voice.

"What? It's a legitimate question. All that touching, the eye-fucking across every room, the way Barnes goes feral if anyone else so much as—"

"We're not." Your face burns. "That's not—we haven't—"

Tony's eyebrows achieve escape velocity. "You're telling me you've been playing the world's most intense game of grabass for three months and haven't—"

"Stark." Bucky's voice is winter-quiet, dangerous in the way that makes smart people reevaluate their life choices.

But Tony's never been accused of survival instincts. "I'm just saying, that level of sexual tension could power—"

The plate in Bucky's metal hand shatters.

Silence rings out, broken only by the drip of egg yolk hitting tile.

"I'll just." Tony backs toward the door, hands raised. "Workshop. Important things. Very important things."

He's gone before anyone can blink, leaving you, Bucky, and Steve in a kitchen that suddenly feels airless. Bucky stares at the ceramic shards in his hand like they've personally betrayed him.

"Buck—" Steve starts.

"I need air."

He's out the door before you can process the movement, leaving you with cooling eggs and Tony's words hanging in the air like smoke.

Steve sighs, the sound of a man who's aged a century in the last minute. "He's an idiot. Tony, I mean. Though Buck's also—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "This is none of my business."

"But?"

"But." Steve fixes you with those earnest eyes that probably ended wars. "He thinks he's protecting you. From himself. From what he's done. He doesn't think he deserves—" A gesture encompasses you, the kitchen, the entire situation.

"That's not his decision to make."

"No," Steve agrees. "But when has that ever stopped him?"

You find Bucky on the roof because of course that's where he goes. He's sitting on the edge, legs dangling over nothing, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.

"Most people have their existential crises at ground level," you say, settling beside him carefully.

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Most people haven't fallen off a train."

"Fair point."

The city spreads below like a circuit board, all light and movement and life. Without looking, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing with the ease of long practice. The bond settles, that constant thrum of rightness that comes with skin meeting skin.

"Tony's not wrong," he says eventually.

You wait, let him find the words in his own time.

"I think about it." His voice is carefully controlled, but you can feel the tremor in his hand. "Touching you. Not just—not just to ground myself. Not for the bond. I think about touching you because I want to. Because you're—"

He stops. His throat works, and when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. "Because you're beautiful. And kind. And you laugh at my terrible jokes even when they're not funny. You come when I call at 3 AM. You let me put my hands on you even though these same hands have—"

"Bucky—"

"I dream about it." The confession comes out raw. "Dream about kissing you. About how you'd taste. How you'd feel. Wake up with your name in my mouth and my hands reaching for you, and it's not about the bond, it's about—" He turns to look at you then, eyes dark with something that makes your breath catch. "It's about how much I want you. How much I want things I have no right to want."

"What if," you say, voice steadier than your pulse, "I want those same things?"

His breathing stutters. "You don't. You can't."

"Don't tell me what I want." You turn toward him fully, free hand coming up to his jaw. He leans into it helplessly, eyes falling closed. "I know exactly what I want. Who I want."

"I'm held together with duct tape and trauma," he says, but his resolve is crumbling. You can see it in the way he presses harder into your palm. "I can't take you on normal dates. Can't promise I won't have panic attacks. Can't even sleep through the night without—"

"I don't want normal." Your thumb traces his cheekbone, feels him shudder. "I want you. Every piece, every edge, every nightmare and bad day. I want the man who hums old songs when he thinks no one's listening. Who makes terrible eggs but keeps trying. Who touches me like I'm something precious and looks at me like I'm a miracle."

"You are," he breathes. "You're—"

You kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Maybe you meet in the middle, drawn together by forces older than choice.

The first press of lips is tentative, a question asked and answered in the same breath. His flesh hand comes up to cradle your face, and the tenderness of it makes your chest ache. But then you make a sound—small, needy—and something in him breaks.

Or maybe something in him finally fixes itself.

His metal arm bands around your waist, pulls you against him with desperate strength. The kiss deepens, and oh, you understand now why people write symphonies and wage wars. Because Bucky Barnes kisses like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been starving for seventy years and you're sustenance, like maybe the universe knew exactly what it was doing when it tied your souls together.

He kisses you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him without thought, and the sound he makes—broken, grateful—sends heat racing down your spine. He tastes like coffee and something indefinably him, and you chase that taste deeper, hands fisting in his shirt.

He doesn't surface for air. Doesn't pause. Just tilts his head to find a better angle and kisses you deeper, harder, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the texture of your sighs. His metal hand spans your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, while his flesh hand maps your face, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth devastates you.

You're half in his lap now, twisted awkwardly on the ledge, and you don't care. Can't care about anything beyond the heat of his mouth, the way he groans when you nip at his lower lip, the way his hands shake where they hold you.

"Wanted this," he gasps against your mouth, not pulling back enough to actually stop kissing you. "Wanted you. Before I even knew you. So long, so fucking long—"

You answer by sliding your hands into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he shudders against you, kiss going a little sloppy and desperate. He's not cold, not controlled, not careful. He's burning, pressing against you like he wants to fuse at the molecular level, like the soul bond isn't enough and never could be.

When you finally break apart—only because oxygen is apparently necessary—you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, eyes dark and dazed. You probably look the same. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him trembling against you, all that careful control finally, beautifully shattered.

"Okay?" His voice is destroyed, rough like he's been screaming.

"So far past okay," you manage. "Though your timing—we're on a roof, Barnes."

He laughs, the sound surprised out of him, and presses kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, the corner of your mouth like he can't quite stop now that he's started. "Sorry. I'll plan better next time."

"Next time?" You're going for teasing but it comes out breathless, hopeful.

His eyes find yours, and the intensity there steals any words you might have had. "Every time. Any time. All the time, if you'll—if you want—"

You press your mouth to his again, swallowing whatever self-deprecating thing he was about to say. He makes a noise of pure relief and hauls you closer, and you think maybe Tony Stark has exactly one good point in his entire existence.

Not that you'll ever tell him.

** The science had been clinical, sterile words on a page that you'd skimmed in college while nursing a hangover and trying to make sense of your Behavioral Psych reading.

Enhanced neural connectivity. Synchronized endorphin response. Heightened sensory feedback between bonded pairs.

Academic language that utterly failed to capture this—Bucky's mouth hot and slick and desperate against your throat while his hands relearn territory they've been mapping under cotton and denim for months, each touch sending electricity racing down your spine like lightning seeking ground.

"Fucking finally," he growls against your pulse point, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin into bone, into the very marrow of you. His metal hand spans your ribs, each individual plate recalibrating against your skin with tiny whirs and clicks, like even the machinery of him is trying to get closer.

"You know what it's been like? Having you close enough to smell, to taste in the air, but not—Christ, the way you tremble each time I touch you, like you're starving for it—"

You try to form words but he's already peeling your shirt away with hands that shake despite their practiced efficiency, and the first full press of his bare chest to yours—scarred skin against soft, furnace heat against cool air—whites out anything resembling higher thought.

The soul bond doesn't just sing—it screams, every nerve ending recognizing its other half and lighting up like a constellation, like a neural map catching fire.

"Oh," you gasp, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, but Bucky goes rigid above you like you've shot electricity straight through his spine.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice absolutely wrecked. His forehead drops to your shoulder, dog tags dragging cold metal across your overheated chest as he pants against your skin, each exhale making you shiver. "Yeah, that's—fuck, is it always gonna feel like this? Like touching a live wire, just—"

"More," you manage, arching into him until there's no space left between your bodies, and you feel his control splinter like ice under pressure.

His mouth finds yours again, hungry and graceless, all that careful restraint from months of chaste touches finally, blessedly gone. His tongue slides against yours and you taste coffee and something metallic—blood maybe, from where he's been biting his lip. When you nip at his bottom lip he makes a sound like something wounded, something primal, hips rolling into yours with zero finesse, just pure need, his cock hard and insistent through too many layers of fabric.

"Sensitive," he warns against your mouth, but it comes out more like a plea, like he's begging you to understand. "Everything's dialed up to eleven, I can—I can hear your blood moving in your veins. Can feel every place you're warm and wet and—fuck—" His whole body shudders when you rake your nails down his back.

Your fingers find the scarred terrain of his back and he actually whimpers, muscles rolling under your touch like water, like something liquid and desperate. That's when the second revelation hits: whatever you're feeling, he's feeling it magnified. Seventy years of sensory deprivation plus enhanced everything plus a soul bond that's been stretched taut for months—

"Gonna lose my mind," he mutters, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, anywhere he can reach, leaving wet trails that cool in the air and make you shiver. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin and you gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily. "Already lost it. Lost it the second you touched me in that library. Do you know? Do you have any fucking idea what it's like, having someone reach inside your skull and turn all the lights on? Like going from black and white to color, like—Jesus—"

His flesh hand fumbles with your pants, clumsy with urgency, while his metal hand grips your hip hard enough to leave marks—and god, you hope it does, hope you wear his fingerprints for days. The button pops free and he makes a victorious sound that might be funny if you weren't so desperate, if you weren't already so wet you can feel it soaking through your underwear.

His hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath elastic, and when he finds you soaked and swollen, the noise that punches out of him is pure animal—a growl that starts in his chest and rumbles through both your bodies where they're pressed together.

"Christ." His fingers slip through wetness, exploratory and reverent, and you can feel the tremor in his hand. "This is—this is for me? You get like this just from—" He circles your clit with his thumb and you cry out, hips jerking. "Fuck, you're dripping. Can feel your pulse in your cunt, baby. So swollen, so ready—"

"From you," you gasp, grinding down against his hand as he slides two fingers inside without warning. The stretch makes you moan, makes your walls clench around him immediately. "Always from you. Only from you."

Something fractures in his expression—something raw and possessive and desperately vulnerable all at once. He hooks his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and watches your face like he's cataloging miracles, like he's mapping the geography of your pleasure. "Say that again."

"Only you." It comes out breathless, edged with desperation as he finds a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, has wet sounds filling the air between you. "Only ever you, Bucky, please—"

"No." His thumb finds your clit and circles with devastating precision, pressure just the right side of too much. "Not yet. Not when I've been imagining this for—do you know how many times I've jerked off in the shower thinking about this? About how you'd sound when you're desperate? How you'd taste?" He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and grins dark and feral when you sob. "Bet you thought about it too. Bet you touched yourself thinking about me, didn't you? Tell me."

"Yes," you admit, face burning, and his pupils blow even wider.

He drops to his knees between your thighs suddenly, metal hand holding you open like something precious, like an offering. The first swipe of his tongue has you jackknifing off the bed, but he just pins you down with his metal arm across your hips and does it again, slower, a long drag from entrance to clit that has you seeing stars.

"Fuckin' knew it," he groans against you, and the vibration of his voice makes you clench around nothing. "Knew you'd taste like heaven. Like mine. Knew you'd shake for me just like this." He spreads you wider with his fingers, looking at you with dark eyes. "So pretty. So perfect." He spits on your cunt, watching it mix with your wetness, and the filthy intimacy of it makes you moan. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. Gonna make it so you can't come without thinking of my mouth, my fingers, my cock."

His words dissolve into action, mouth working you over with single-minded focus. He eats you out like he's starving, like he's dying, all lips and tongue and just the edge of teeth. The soul bond makes it devastating—you don't just feel the physical sensation, you feel his hunger, his satisfaction at finally being allowed to give pleasure instead of pain. His metal fingers dig into your thigh hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, hope you wear his marks for days, hope everyone who sees them knows exactly who put them there.

"Close," you warn, though he probably knows—can probably taste it in the way your cunt's clenching, feel it in the bond that's gone molten between you. Your thighs are shaking, muscles pulled so tight they hurt, and there's a sound filling the room that you distantly realize is you, making noises you've never made before.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glossy with your wetness, chin soaked, eyes wild. "Yeah? You gonna come on my tongue? Gonna let me taste it?" He slides three fingers in, curling with devastating intent, and your back arches off the bed. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it up. Let me have it, don't be greedy."

You shatter with a sound that might be his name, might be pure noise. The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each crest higher than the last, and he works you through it mercilessly, not letting up even when you try to squirm away from oversensitivity. Through the bond you feel his echoing pleasure—not physical, not yet, but something bone-deep and satisfied and proud.

"Atta girl," he murmurs against your inner thigh, pressing kisses to sweat-slick skin while his fingers still move lazily inside you, drawing out aftershocks. "So fucking beautiful. Look at you, all fucked out and soft and mine. Could do this for hours. Will do this for hours. Keep you here, coming apart on my hands, my mouth, until you're so sensitive you cry, until you forget there was ever a time we weren't—"

"Bucky." You tug at his hair, need making your voice rough despite the orgasm still sparking through your nerves. "Get up here. Need you inside me. Need—"

He's moving before you finish, shucking his pants with graceless efficiency. The first glimpse of his cock—thick and long and leaking steadily—makes your mouth water and your cunt clench with fresh want. When you reach for him he catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

"Next time," he promises, reading your intent with unnerving accuracy. His voice is strained, like he's hanging on by a thread. "Let you taste me next time. Let you choke on it, fuck that pretty mouth until you're drooling, until—" He cuts himself off with visible effort, chest heaving. "But right now I need—if I don't get inside you in the next ten seconds I'm gonna fucking die—"

"So do it." You spread your legs wider, shameless, showing him how wet and open you are, how ready. "Come on, sergeant. Follow through."

His control snaps audibly. He's on you between one breath and the next, pinning you down with his weight, cock nudging at your entrance. The head catches on your rim and you both groan, but he stops there, trembling with effort, forehead pressed to yours.

"Look at me." It's not a request—it's a command, rough and desperate. You force your eyes open, meet his gaze—winter blue swallowed by black, raw and vulnerable and fierce. "Need to see you when I—need to know you're here, that you're real, that this is—"

"Real," you confirm, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to urge him forward. "I'm real. You're real. This is—oh fuck—"

He pushes inside in one long, devastating slide, and the world reconstitutes itself around this moment. Around the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him, around the broken sound he makes against your throat—half sob, half growl—around the soul bond lighting up like a supernova, like every nerve ending suddenly discovering what it was made for.

"Fuck." His metal hand grips the headboard hard enough to crack wood, splinters raining down. "Fuck, you're—tight. So fucking tight. Hot. Perfect. Can feel—God fucking damn, I can feel everything. Can feel how good it is for you, can feel how your cunt's trying to pull me deeper—" He shifts his hips and hits something devastating inside you, makes you clench around him involuntarily. He laughs, breathless. "Yeah, right there. That's it, isn't it, baby? Right fucking there."

He moves experimentally, just a slow roll of hips, and you both moan at the drag of him inside you, at how your bodies fit together like they were made for this, only this. The angle is perfect—he's reading your body's responses in real-time, adjusting until every thrust has you climbing higher, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if you could think.

"Not gonna last," he warns, rhythm already getting ragged, desperate. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your chest, mixing with the sheen already there. "Not this time. Too much, too long waiting, too—the way you feel—" His flesh hand finds your throat, rests there warm and possessive, thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse flutter. "Like velvet. Like coming home. Like I could fuck you forever and it would never be enough—"

"Don't care." You pull his head down, bite at his jaw hard enough to leave marks just to feel him shudder, to watch his control fracture further. "Just want you. Just need—"

"Tell me." His grip on your throat tightens fractionally, not enough to restrict breathing but enough to make you aware, to make you feel it. "Tell me what you need. Want to give you everything. Want to be so good for you, sweetheart. Want to make up for every night you went to bed empty when you should've been—"

"Full of you," you finish, and his hips stutter, lose rhythm entirely for a moment.

"Yeah?" His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling how fast your heart's racing. "That what you need? Need me to fill you up? Keep you full and fucked out and dripping with my come? Make sure everyone knows you're mine, that I'm the only one who gets to—"

"Yes." You're beyond shame, beyond anything but the building pressure where he's driving into you harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, obscene and perfect. "Yes, Bucky, please—"

"Say my name again." He's fucking you harder now, chasing his release with single-minded intensity. The bed frame creaks ominously with each thrust. "Want to hear it when you come. Want to feel it when you—fuck, you're clenching around me, baby. You close? You gonna come on my cock? Gonna be good for me?"

You nod frantically, words lost to the slide of him inside you, the relentless pressure against that perfect spot, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust. His metal fingers find your clit, cold against overheated flesh, and the contrast makes you scream.

"That's it," he growls, working your clit in tight circles while maintaining that punishing rhythm. "Come for me. Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel it, let me—fuck, there it is, I can feel it starting, you're getting so tight—"

You come with his name on your lips, back arching off the bed so hard you think you might snap in half. The orgasm slams through you like a freight train, like dying and being reborn, every muscle locking up as pleasure whites out your vision. The bond makes it circular—your pleasure slamming into him and reflecting back, amplified, until you're both shaking with it, until you can't tell where you end and he begins.

"Oh fuck—" His rhythm breaks entirely, becomes something desperate and animal. "Fuck, I'm gonna—gonna fill you up, gonna—"

"Inside." You dig your nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood, hold him deep even as oversensitivity makes you want to squirm away. "Want to feel it. Want all of it."

He comes with a sound that's half your name, half prayer, half roar, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you. You feel it all—not just the physical sensation of his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth, but the emotional avalanche through the bond. Relief and want and mine mine mine and something that feels dangerously close to devotion, to worship, to complete and utter belonging.

He fucks you through it, shallow little thrusts like he can't help himself, like his body won't stop even though he's already given you everything. Each movement makes more come leak out around his cock, makes wet sounds that have you hiding your face in his shoulder, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure.

The aftershocks last forever, little sparks of shared pleasure that have you both gasping, twitching, clutching at each other like lifelines. When he finally stills, he doesn't pull out, just shifts enough that his weight isn't crushing you, keeping you plugged full of him.

"Stay," he mumbles into your neck, words slurred like he's drunk. "Just—stay exactly like this. Please. Need to—need to keep you full. Need to know you're here, that this is real, that I get to—"

"Not going anywhere." You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, feel him shiver at the gentle touch after all that intensity. "Never going anywhere. You're stuck with me, Barnes."

His arms tighten around you, and you can feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with renewed interest. "Good. Because now that I know what this feels like, what you feel like—" He rocks his hips experimentally, and you both groan as you feel his come shift inside you, feel how wet and open you are. "We're not leaving this bed for a week. Gonna fuck you in every position I've imagined. Gonna map every inch of your body with my mouth. Gonna find out exactly how many times I can make you come before you beg me to stop—"

"What about—"

He kisses you quiet, slow and thorough and filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth in a pale imitation of what his cock just did. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise and his cock is fully hard inside you again, enhanced recovery time making itself known.

"Nothing else matters," he says simply, starting to move again, slow and deep and devastating. You're so sensitive it borders on too much, but the soul bond floods you with his pleasure, his desperate need, and suddenly you're right there with him again. "Just this. Just us. Just how many times I can make you come before sunrise. How full I can keep you. How loud I can make you scream."

You clench around him involuntarily and his eyes flutter closed, hips stuttering.

"Gonna kill me," he mutters, picking up speed, the wet sounds even more obscene now with his come easing the way. "Seventy years of nothing and now—" A particularly deep thrust has you seeing stars. "Now I've got a soulmate who looks at me like I'm worth something, who touches me like I'm not a weapon, who lets me use her however I need—"

"Who loves you," you interrupt, watching his face crumble and rebuild itself, watching him fight back what looks suspiciously like tears.

"Yeah?" Barely a whisper, so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah." You pull him down for another kiss, pouring everything you can't say into the contact, letting him feel it through the bond. "So much. So long. Even before I knew you, I think I loved you. Think I was waiting for you."

He makes a broken sound and starts fucking you in earnest, like a man possessed, like he's trying to climb inside you and never leave. "Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again." Harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed.

"I love you, Bucky Barnes."

He fucks you like a promise, like a prayer, like maybe if he does it right the universe will let him keep this. You come apart under him again and again, until time becomes meaningless, until the only reality is where you're joined, where the soul bond burns brightest, where his come leaks out of you with each thrust only to be fucked back in, marking you inside and out as his.

When exhaustion finally claims you both, he's still inside you, still hard, wrapped around you like armor and apology all at once. You're going to be sore tomorrow—hell, you're sore now—but you wouldn't move for anything.

The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his lips against your temple, his voice rough with wonder and satisfaction:

"Love you too, sweetheart. More than I've got words for. More than I probably should. Gonna spend the rest of my life showing you, if you'll let me. Gonna take such good care of you. My girl. My soulmate. Mine."

"Yours," you mumble, already drifting, clenching around him one last time just to feel him shudder.

His arms tighten, and you feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with interest despite everything.

"Forever," he promises.

"Forever."

Outside, Brooklyn wakes to another morning, unaware that two souls have finally, fully, found their way home.

check out the bonus drabbles, loose threads & overkill♡

[orangeocelotmartyn]

Impulse's adventures in Tumblr

Scar: You get too deep in Twitter it gets scary. Impulse: I got too deep in Tumblr, I had to back off. Scar: (surprised) Ooh. Impulse: I started going down a-a little—Gem saw! Gem saw it happen. Gem was helping me with Tumblr and—and I started going down and she's like, "nope, stop. you gotta do a filter for that one." (he laughs) Scar: Uh oh. Impulse: I got a little too deep— Gem: Yeah, but seriously. You guys, y-y-you want to be on the Tumblr, but you don't want to be on the Tumblr, because—you don't have the right…attitude about the Tumblr! If you're gonna be on the Tumblr, you're gonna see the fandom stuff. And if—then you gotta be okay with seeing the fandom stuff. If you're not okay with seeing the fandom stuff, then you gotta let me set up your Tumblr! (beat) I'm personally okay with it all, I don't really care. Scar: (sounding like he's far away) What's the fandom stuff? Impulse: Like the shipping, and…stuff. Scar: Do they get into like, the rates on shipping these days? It's crazy.

Impulse: A-U? What do they call it, A-U? What's A-U stand for? Gem: Just, Alternate Universe Impulse: Alternate Universe, okay. Some of the alternate universe, I read some of those things, they're actually pretty cool. Gem: You shouldn't say that out loud. (Impulse begins laughing) Impulse: Oh, my bad. I'm not supposed to be there, sorry, safe place for you guys, I'm back out—I'm out. I-I didn't— Scar: I never venture to Tumblr. Impulse: Reddit was-Reddit was slow! Okay? If—listen. If Reddit's gonna be slow, I need an outlet for—(laughs) for my—(getting quieter) reading. Stuff. About myself. Gem: I'd be-I think Tumblr's fine, you just have to have the correct mindset. And you also shouldn't be talking about it on stream— Impulse: Yeah, my bad— Gem: —because it freaks them out, and then they start being weird. Tumblr's much better when they're just-they're just normal. Impulse: There was-there was plenty of normal stuff. I just-you can't go down the rabbit holes, I learned. (pause) And then people-people take—they take screenshots of me when I'm standing weird. (He holds up a picture to the camera) Scar: (starts laughing) What, wait what? Wait, hold on— Gem: Oh, wait, we can-we can tell about this. There-there was a Tumblr post that was, that was-that was pointing out all of the times that Impulse stood (Scar exhales a laugh) and-and-and yeah. Yeah, they-they were pretty pretty princess Impulse? Impulse: (talking over her) I stand so macho, what are you talking about (he laughs) Scar: I'm so confused, I-can I get a— Impulse: I literally had to work on my—stance, before Sunday because I saw something Saturday night and I was like, oh— Gem: It's very cute, it's very cute. (Impulse laughs) Scar: Can I see a photo? Impulse: I was pretty princess. Here, I'll bring it up again. Do you have my stream open? Scar: I wanna see it. Impulse: I'll find it again. Scar: Can I just say, can I just say real quick while he's doing that? Impulse—really swoled out. He looks like he could pick-pick up an ox. (Impulse laughs, clearly pleased) I really noticed it, like, Impulse-I see those guns, I was like, "this man could pick up an ox. If I fell on the ground, Impulse, one hand, could pick me up." Impulse: Thanks. Scar: O-oh my god, I just pulled up your stream, except there's an ad, so I just see it up in the little tiny box at the top— Impulse: Oh shoot—c'mon ads! Scar: —so it's even funnier. Oh, there it is. (he laughs delightedly) Little princess. Gem: Tumblr's so good, though, cause you just get to see funny stuff like that, and don't have to scroll through all the politics and crap that's on, like, X. Impulse: Mm. Scar: It's so bad, Gem. Gem: And Reddit. And is dead. It's just nice, I like seeing the fandom at it's purest form, please don't ruin it by telling them that you're on there. Impulse: Okay. Nah, I-I was just on there 'cause I, y'know, I was excited about the event. There was so many things being posted and stuff, I wanted to see—everything that was being said, about w-how people thought about the weekend, and favorite clips, and all that kind of stuff, I wanted to see it all, so I dipped into Tumblr. Just a little bit, just-just to dip my toes in, just a lil bit. I'm back out, I'm fine. I'll be alright.

Scar: But was it nice? Impulse: It was alright. Scar: Because it feels like Reddit, they just nitpick the smallest things, like— Gem: I don't find the Tumblr to be nitpicky at all. Th-they're more like a celebration of the fandom. Whereas the Reddit is like…hates the fan—hates-hates us, a lil bit. Lowkey. Scar: A little, there's a little there, there's a little there, it's—there's an enjoyment of nitpicking. They find the nitpicking more fun, and then Twitter, they're just confused over there. They don't know what's going on. (Impulse laughs) Gem: Tumblr definitely doesn't nitpick half of the—every now and then I'll come across a person who's like. A bit…odd. But you could just block that one person and it normally goes away. Impulse: I didn't understand Tumblr about—cause you can't see when something was posted. At least not on just the scrolling through, it seemed like. I didn't see anything that was like, "this was posted x amount of hours ago." And I'm used to that. So that felt weird to me. And then I didn't quite understand how, like, replies and stuff work. There's something about notes? And then I click on that and it got weird, and, I dunno. Gem: Oh, I can teach you, I can teach you that. Impulse: I just didn't get it. Gem: I didn't think you were going to be getting into like, actually posting. Impulse: I'm a boomer when it comes to—Tumblr. So I think—I'm okay. N-next time we hang out you can help me with my—filters. Gem: I think you should just pretend that you don't use it. Cause— Impulse: Yeah, just, I'm not gonna get on there ever again. (Windows error noise) Say what you want. Uh oh.

[cloverapple]

How I Shift On Command + How You Can Too

I don’t plan on posting anything other than this or starting a blog, so I don’t need anyone to “believe” in me. The only person you should trust is yourself—trust yourself to resonate positively with what you see online and click away if it doesn’t serve you. This is here for you to take from if it resonates. I literally only made this blog to post this here. My hope is that it reaches at least one person who can take something from this and apply it to their shifting journey. If not, and this post ends up here untouched, I’m just glad to finally get everything down in words and off my chest. 

Jumping straight to the answer because I’m not going to make anyone sit through a long post for it. The rest, the "advice," is here if you want to read it.

The "method"

I figured out what works specifically for me as an individual instead of following everyone else’s journey. Everyone has their “thing” that makes shifting click, a sweet spot that makes reality shifting possible. For me, it’s a combination of the law of assumption and inducing an altered state of consciousness.

During the day, I spend time affirming—or sometimes just reminding myself or keeping a little note nearby—things like:

I can shift.

I know how to shift.

I could shift tonight.

Shifting is accessible to me.

At night, I watch videos, look at Pinterest boards, or listen to music that reminds me of my DR. This ingrains where I’m going in my brain. Sometimes I do this for fun, and other times I skip it entirely.

When I lay down, I always lie on my back and stay somewhat still because I like the feeling of my body going numb. This isn’t necessary to shift, but I enjoy it—it lets me feel the symptoms of hypnagogia (that in-between state of wakefulness and sleep).

To meditate quickly, I count from 1 to 100 with a few affirmations in between to remind myself of what I’m doing. I do this until my body goes numb, and I start messing up the counting. Usually, the mistakes or random, nonsensical thoughts are my signal to start shifting.

At this point, I begin affirming the things I affirmed during the day:

I could shift right now.

I have the ability to shift.

I have the power to shift at any moment.

While I do this, I focus on the feeling of being in my DR—not my surroundings, not my senses, just the internal feeling of being there.

This is where “brazen impudence” comes in. I hard-force myself to feel like I’m in my DR. It’s not about imagining my surroundings but purely about embodying the feeling of being there.

Hypnagogic imagery and sensations like floating often kick in at this point. These are symptoms of your body falling asleep so your awareness can take shape in that sweet spot for shifting.

I continue this, then stop and start counting from 1 to 100 again, with affirmations like:

I can shift.

I know how to shift.

I could shift right now.

Then I repeat the process: using brazen impudence to force myself to feel like I’m in my DR.

Eventually, I reach that threshold between sleep and wake—a liminal state of pure consciousness. Body asleep, mind awake, I call this the “rabbit hole” which is honstly just a deep state of hypnogogia. It’s a state where anything is possible: lucid dreaming, astral projection, slipping into the void, shifting—anything.

When I’m in this state, I use brazen impudence to force myself to feel like I'm shifting to my DR and don't take no for an answer (I tell myself I'm in Barbados and shut the door in my own face). This can involve affirmations or just talking myself through it, either way I wake myself up there. Occasionally, I simply relax, expect to wake up in my DR, fall asleep, and wake up shifted.

Does all that sound complicated? Let me simplify:

Lay down and get comfortable.

Count from 1 to 100 on a loop with affirmations in between until you mess up the counting, get sleepy, or have your mind wander. Like this:

Me: *counts from 1 - 100* Me: *says a few affirmations/askfirmations* Me: *counts from 1 - 100* Me: *says a few affirmations/askfirmations*

On a loop until...

Persist in the feel of being in your DR—not focusing on surroundings or senses, just the feeling. Feeling is the secret.

Alternate between steps 2 and 3 until you’re in that relaxed body asleep/mind awake state, OR just straight up hypnogogia tbh. (That is, if you don’t already shift lol)

From there, choose what feels right: shift from a lucid dream, affirm, slip into the void, or just feel yourself in your DR like I do, convince yourself that either you shifted and are there, or are shifting and will end up there.

One thing I’ll tell you now—regardless of your circumstances, how long you’ve been trying, how long it’ll take, who you are, etc—is that you already know how to shift. You, reading this right now. You know how to shift, and there’s nothing you did to learn it. There’s nothing you can do to unlearn it. It’s something that will stay with you until the end of time.

Why do you think people shift randomly without prior knowledge of shifting? Even people who don’t believe in it? It’s because everyone can shift. You can shift.

Right now, stop reading this post and say in your head or out loud, “I already know how to shift.” Or, if that doesn’t feel right, “I already have the ability to shift,” “No matter what, I have the power to shift,” or “My mind knows how to shift no matter what.”

Can you argue that? No, you can’t. And if your mind starts throwing out “buts,” go back and read that again.

Shifting isn’t difficult, and no one struggles to shift. I’m sure you’ve heard it before—that shifting is simple and happens in seconds—because it does. You don’t struggle with shifting. You can shift; everyone has the power to. What you “struggle” with, so to speak, is figuring out what works for you, what your brain likes, how it operates—because everyone is different.

What ended up working for me more than anything was figuring out how I operate and modifying shifting to fit me—not forcing myself to fit shifting.

Will my method work for everyone? I have no idea. Unless you assume it will work for you, this is what works for me. I’m me, and you’re you.

Before you say “Oh, but I’ve tried everything and nothing has worked so far” and expect me to sit here and ask you “but have you really tried everything? <3” , listen to me. 

I could shift perfectly well with my own personal method before I started shifting regularly. I knew it worked well for my brain, but the thing that “blocked” me (so to speak) were my assumptions. 

When you sit there and say “I’ve tried everything and nothing has worked” that’s your assumption about yourself. You believe that nothing works for you, that you don't know how to shift, that you’re this powerless, lost baby shifter who needs guidance. 

There’s nothing wrong with this, it’s not your fault, and theoretically you could shift even with your “blockages” (I really hate that term), as shifting waits for no one.

This is why so many people shift randomly and with poor assumptions without meaning to. But you clicked on this because you want to know how you can shift consistently + on every time, and this is the answer I’m giving you. 

You find out what works better for you, be it affirming, visualizing, scripting, shifting awake, shifting asleep, shifting with hypnagogia, shifting with hypnopompic, shifting through lucid dreams, shifting with brazen impudence, through SATs, robotic affirming, through letting go, through putting your DR on a pedestal, through listening to music, through law of assumption alone, and many more. 

If that sounds overwhelming, please note that all of these are the same vehicles that get you to your destination. Just in different shapes and colors. Like how some people drive a car, others drive a motorcycle, others walk, others swim. The movement forward is always the same. 

What you’re doing, no matter how you’re doing it or in whatever state of consciousness you’re doing it from, will always be:

Assume it's true, feel it, receive it. “Assume and persist,” “ground yourself in the assumption,” you’ve heard it all before. 

How to Find What Makes You Shift On Command

You could either test different techniques (affirmations, visualizations, scripting, lucid dreaming, etc.) and see what feels natural to you. 

You could (and I love this one because it’s a cheat code) Assume you already know what works, and let the law of assumption guide you. “Manifest it” so to speak. 

Pay attention to your life, because you already shift on command, you've been doing it your whole life, but I guarantee you haven't noticed it. Pay attention to you, like how easily you slip into hypnagogia, your dream recall, or how strong your intuition is, maybe you put too much emotion into a scenario you don’t want in your life and it inherently manifests, things like that. Pay attention to the thing that makes you go “huh, that was weird”

“But Clover, I tried everything you mentioned above and still haven’t found my method!” 

My darling. Listen up. Come closer—I’m about to let you in on a secret. The way you apply the law of assumption isn’t one-size-fits-all, because assumptions and beliefs are not linear. It's the same every time, yes, it's a law. But just like you, the way you can use it is unique to each person.

Let me tell you how easy it is so you don't think I'm over-complicating it

You could, for instance, believe you’ve got $1000 in your bank account right now and act like it, fully living in the end. Or you could believe you’re going to have $1000 in your account and act like it’s already on its way. Or maybe you believe something’s going to happen that’ll bring you that $1000.

The same applies to shifting. It’s been a game changer for me. I used to struggle so much with things like:

“You’re already in your DR, just act like it.”

“Ignore the 3D.”

“You’ve already shifted.”

Do those methods work? Absolutely, they work beautifully. But like I said, if it doesn’t feel good or true to you, don’t force it.

My dearest, darling reader. If the story you see in your 3D is that you can’t shift, can’t find what makes you shift, are you just going to sit there and accept it? What is more satisfying? Think with me here: accepting that you don’t know how to shift and cannot shift, or persisting that you do know how to shift? 

“Clover, but I’ve been trying for 4 years! I’ve tried everything and I still haven’t shifted”

So that's your story? Your story, your assumption is that you’ve been trying for 4 years and haven’t shifted? If you’ve resonated with the phrase above, that’s your story. And there’s nothing wrong with it, but! there will be no magic solution for shifting. Or a magic method. Or a person like me giving you advice, that can make you shift without you changing your assumptions first.

“But I don’t want to reprogram my mind! It doesn’t work for me. I don’t want to do robotic affirming 24/7, I want results now!” 

I know, right? It’s annoying having to do these 100-step methods, and drink charged water, and have to beg the universe for your desire, and loop affirmations in your mind that directly contradict what you’re experiencing in the 3D.

“Oh ignore the 3D, the 4D is your only real imagination!” they say, as you sit there, clutching your phone, rocking back and forth in bed, repeating affirmations you don’t resonate with while dreaming of being railed by your S/O.

Believe me, I've been there, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I asked myself why couldn't these basic steps that worked for everyone else work for me. I blamed myself for not trying hard enough, for being lazy, for inconsistent. When all that time, the answer was me. I needed to manifest/shift in a way that felt good for me.

Just remember, the law of assumption isn't complicated, and the way you apply it is not one-size-fits-all. Reprogramming the mind through continuous repetition and affirmation works, and if that resonates with you or feels effective, you should absolutely go for it.

However, at its core, you don’t inherently need to reprogram your mind. It’s as simple as assuming your mind has already been reprogrammed and watching it unfold before your eyes. You do what feels right to you.

For example, if person A does better with visualization and listening to music, why on earth are they affirming and listening to subliminals?

If person B feels better scripting in a notebook, why the hell are they reprogramming their mind?

If person C feels good reprogramming their mind, why are they taking the simple route?

Funny, isn't it? Which is why if you've read all of this so far, and you have not resonated with it, just click away. Go find another post or advice that feels true to you. The words I'm writing right now are not universal, they're not the absolute truth. That's the beauty of the law of assumption. Whatever you believe to be true, becomes true.

I didn’t feel good with the affirmations “I’m already in my DR” and “I already shifted.” Do they work, are they true? Yup, but I didn’t feel good ignoring the 3D, even when I knew the 4D was the true reality. So I swapped them for affirmations like "I'm shifting to my DR", “I’m going to shift to my DR”, swapping things like “I already shifted” to “I’m shifting” because those are the kinds of affirmations my brain loves. 

I've heard a silly bit of misinfo that these affirmations stating future events put you in an infinite loop, and that they don’t make you achieve your desire. That’s not true? At all? Makes me laugh, really. Because here I am, “master shifter” or whatever name people give it in this reality, shifting as much as I want to wherever I want with these types of affirmations.

Yet here I see every day on the internet, people implanting stubborn little rules and regulations to a practice that has been done for ages, a universal law that will work even when you don’t care for it to work. 

How I Shifted The First Time

The law of assumption is what made me shift in the end. Initially, I surprised myself at the beginning of my shifting journey because I shifted three months after starting it. I woke up one morning in my DR room, felt it was real, knew it was possible, but accidentally shifted back because it was too good to be true. 

What followed was a period of losing my mind; I shift back to my DR for a few seconds (mini-shifts), fully shifted to different rparallel ealities, and filled the hell out of shifting journals with my discoveries as I went along. But I never fully shifted to my DR and stayed there. I wanted to permashift. I was so focused on leaving my CR and going to my DR permanently, frustrated because I knew I could shift, knew how to in theory, but was stuck in this endless loop of assuming I couldn't make myself shift and had to rely on spontaneous shifts.

And then one night it clicked when I was reflecting on the law of assumption and reality shifting. I knew shifting was real. I knew I could shift. Everyone can shift. I had shifted before. I would continue to shift even if I gave up on shifting. I could shift that night if I wanted to. I could shift that night even if I didn't want to. I knew how to shift. And so do you.

These are all assumptions I went to sleep with in mind, laying there, feeling like an idiot as it all clicked for me. 

If there was no doubt in my mind that I could shift that night, why wouldn’t I be able to shift? 

What followed was an overwhelming sense of peace washing over me. I let go. What more was there to be done? I could shift. There was no crying or screaming that could make me shift more than I could right then. 

I laid there and started my process. Just like I mentioned earlier. I began counting from 1 - 100 on a continuous loop. With affirmations that I could shift, I knew how to shift , I could shift that night.

And then I reached hypnagogia, and began inducing the feeling of being in my DR, just like I mentioned earlier. That liminal space rabbit hole shortly followed. I could go anywhere I wanted then. I could lucid dream. I could astral project. I could slip into the void. I could shift, and I did. Just…letting go and inducing the feeling of being in my DR. Not the surroundings, not the 5 senses, no affirmations. Just knowing that I was in my Dr. 

It was peaceful. 

I was at ease. 

And then I was woken up by a violent crack of thunder because my dumbass scripted my DR wakeup scenario to be in the middle of spring, and it was raining -_- 

I woke up in my DR, fully grounded, fully there, pinching my skin purple because I couldn't believe I was looking out the window at my DR city.

I wish I could tell you that I remained cool, but I so didn’t. I sat in bed for a good 10 minutes, mouth agape, repeating “oohh fuck it’s real….ohhh my god it’s real…whaaat the hell.” 

And then I paced around my room panicking, giggling like an idiot, checking my DR phone because all my friends and DR life was on there as evidence, opening drawers, looking at myself in the mirror, and straight-up freaking out. 

What followed after that was incredible, something I lack the words to describe. I spent a few weeks in my DR before shifting back, spending a few weeks here and then shifting back–here, back, here, back and forth, spending more time in my DR then my CR to the point where I consider my DR my true reality, and this one as my “other” reality. 

I shifted back here in early December of last year, and I’m here now before I shift back permanently—meaning, I’ll shift there, and then the next time I shift will be to another DR or a waiting room somewhere in the multiverse. I’m taking a "break" so to speak and hanging out here until events I scripted in my DR start to happen, and my life changes (positively, all good things I assure). 

I’m not sure if the person or people who find this post will care, but my other reality was originally called my “Witch DR”, where, as the name suggests, I’m a witch :) But not the fun kind, with a broomstick, a cauldron, and a pet cat though 😂The kind where I have to be up early for work in the mornings, can’t keep a cat because the building I live in doesn’t allow it, and have more responsibilities there than I do in this reality. 

One thing I didn’t expect about shifting before I lived there the first time is that—it’s life. You will have good days. You will have bad days. You will fuck up. You will laugh so hard that soda comes out of your nose. You will cry more than you ever have. And the people you once saw on a TV screen are very real, and can be very annoying lol. I miss my DR friends dearly right now, but I can’t go poking around the internet for videos and pictures of them because it feels so weird. 

Gut feelings are strange. I use them as a compass in both realities whenever I have to manually flap the butterfly’s wings and take a route. I felt compelled to write this post, and I’m not sure why. But if what this post has the power to help one singular person and help them realize their power, I'll be beyond happy.