#Blackout Protocol

[andysmuse]

Jake’s open air 2024

Jake’s open air 2024 Jake’s open air 2024 It’s that time of the year again. The time in which we are spending most of our free time outdoors while the summer gives us its best shot. It’s the time of the year in which we are also going to outdoor festivals and concerts and they take place around the entire world. Some are known globally, while others are only known by the locals. These smaller…

[g4zdtechtv]

Cinematech's Trailer Park - Blackout Protocol (Multiplatform)

Entering Early Access, with a shift in plan!

[opticflux]

U.S. Solar Storm Readiness Fails Critical Test — Nation at Risk of Blackouts, GPS Collapse, and Satellite Failures

A real solar flare nearly broke global systems. This drill proved the U.S. still isn’t ready. The Warning Shot Was Real — And It Hit The United States just ran a high-level federal emergency drill simulating a catastrophic solar storm. The conclusion? America’s critical infrastructure would be dangerously exposed. While agencies were conducting tabletop simulations in May 2024, the real Sun…

[thelastharbinger]

So...H5N1 (Bird Flu) is here

And all signs are pointing to a global pandemic more fatal than the one prior. The initial stages of this are a rinse and repeat of Covid-19's arrival, which saw a lot of state repression of information on the severity of infection rates and delayed enforcement of safety protocols.

Earlier this year, the U.S. saw its first death of an animal-to-human transmission of H5N1 in Louisiana; however with the rollback of safety and health federal regulations in the wake of the returning Trump administration, compounded by an executive-mandated communications blackout of the FDA, CDC and withdrawal from the WHO, conditions are ideal for a nightmarish outbreak scenario should transmissions evolve to human-to-human.

The following are reports coming from the U.K., U.S., and China in the last couple of days:

This is a CDC report from 2 weeks ago:

"As of January 6, 2025, there have been 66 confirmed human cases of H5N1 bird flu in the United States since 2024 and 67 since 2022. This is the first person in the United States who has died as a result of an H5 infection. Outside the United States, more than 950 cases of H5N1 bird flu have been reported to the World Health Organization; about half of those have resulted in death."

As of right now, I would highly implore everyone to cease the consumption of eggs and poultry products for the time being. There is currently an egg shortage due to "quality standards" in the U.S. and prices have already gone up dramatically. Get involved in community gardens and get in contact with local farmers--see what you can get directly from there! Mask up, update your vaccinations, practice proper hygiene, avoid physical contact with wild animals (birds especially), and stay safe! Look after your neighbors!

UPDATE: Weekend of 1/24 - 1/26/2025

Related: As of 1/26/25

- Kansas, USA is experiencing its highest record cases of tuberculosis in its entire history!

- New case of Polio recorded in Afghanistan

- India saw its first death in 101 confirmed cases of Guillain-Barré Syndrome (16 people are on ventilators)

A warmer planet is only going to exacerbate the spread of diseases worldwide moving forward. Mask up!

[xinganhao]

cherry on top 🍒 mafia boss!seungcheol x reader. (4)

stories like this always end with a damsel in distress. except—this time around—you’re not the one who needs saving. previous chapter + masterlist.

📄 Minutes of strategic information meeting, filed by Kim Mingyu (Mafia Soldier, Logistics & Recon)

Date: ██████████ Location: Safehouse Omega-9, Undisclosed City Perimeter Time: 03:17 HRS

ATTENDEES:

Yoon Jeonghan (Underboss)

Lee Chan (Combat Unit Leader)

Chwe Hansol (Surveillance Division)

Kim Mingyu (Logistics & Recon; Recording Officer)

Civilian Target [REDACTED] (Unauthorized Attendee)

AGENDA:

Contingency Plan for Retrieval of Boss (S.Coups)

Chain of Command During Absence

External Threat Assessment

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

JEONGHAN: We go in through the east dock. Two snipers posted by 03:40. Chan leads breach. Hansol, your eyes stay on thermal—no improvisation this time.

HANSOL: I never improvise. My brilliance is structured.

CHAN: Can we not do this right now?

JEONGHAN: [ignoring them] Mingyu, once we get him out, you're on evac. Full blackout route. No trackers, no chatter.

MINGYU: Copy.

HANSOL: Any updates on who turned? Someone had to leak coordinates.

CHAN: There’s a list. We’ll handle it after we bring the boss home. One fire at a time.

[DOOR SLAMS OPEN. SOUND OF HIGH-HEELED FOOTSTEPS. SILENCE.]

CIVILIAN TARGET: You’re planning this without me?

JEONGHAN: [visibly tense] You weren’t invited.

CIVILIAN TARGET: He’s my belo—my boyfriend, Jeonghan. You think I’m just going to sit around while you play war games?

JEONGHAN: This isn’t a movie. You’re a civilian. You don’t belong in this room.

CIVILIAN TARGET: No, I’m the reason he still believes in soft things. I belong more than half the people at this table.

CHAN: She’s got a point.

JEONGHAN: Chan.

CHAN: I’m just saying. She’s not exactly fragile.

HANSOL: She did rewire one of my bugs with a paperclip. That was... not unimpressive.

JEONGHAN: [sighs] This isn’t about guts. It’s about blood.

CIVILIAN TARGET: Then you should know mine’s already on the line. Every second he’s gone, I feel it. And I’m done being sidelined. I’m not here to ask. I’m here to help.

[BEAT OF SILENCE. THEN—]

JEONGHAN: You get one job. And if you screw it up, I’ll personally drag you out.

CIVILIAN TARGET: Deal.

JEONGHAN: Hansol, give her the map. Mingyu, loop her in.

MINGYU: You’re going to need a comm. And a bulletproof vest.

CIVILIAN TARGET: Got both. And a knife in my boot.

CHAN: Okay, badass.

[MEETING CONTINUED UNDER LEVEL-2 SECRECY PROTOCOLS. TRANSCRIPT REDACTED. END OF MINUTES.]

FINAL NOTES:

Civilian Target formally added to Operation Homecoming roster.

Jeonghan authorized conditional field involvement.

Morale status: heightened.

Risk level: astronomically high.

🗂️ Operation Homecoming: Field Notes & Briefing Report, compiled by mafia underboss, Yoon Jeonghan

Clearance Level: Top Confidential Date Logged: ██████████ Location: Safehouse Omega-9

SUMMARY: Boss (S.Coups) was captured 48 hours ago following the receipt of a falsified emergency ping traced back to the civilian target’s encoded channel. The ping claimed she’d been injured and was en route to an undisclosed hospital in Sector D. According to surveillance logs, the Boss diverted course alone, abandoning standard security protocol. We believe he was intentionally isolated through signal jamming, then intercepted at the underpass beneath Route 14.

AUTOPSY OF THE TRAP:

Fake GPS tag mimicked civilian target’s bio-signal pattern

Voice distortion software replicated her distress call

EMP deployed upon vehicle arrival to disable tracking

Tactical unit waited with sedation-grade rounds

CURRENT LOCATION OF BOSS: Confirmed. Underground storage facility, formerly Syndicate-aligned. Defected cell now controls the zone. Reinforcements on site. Boss presumed alive—last thermal footage confirms faint movement.

INTERVENTION STRATEGY: OPERATION HOMECOMING

Phase One – Extraction:

Entry through east dock (03:40 HRS)

Chan leads breach unit, Hansol on thermal, Mingyu handling evac

All units silent channel only

Phase Two – Internal Sweep:

Civilian target assigned distraction and misdirection role (see below)

Two-minute window to locate and stabilize Boss

Phase Three – Extraction + Fade:

Mingyu initiates blackout route

Decoys deployed on west perimeter to delay pursuit

Rendezvous at Site Echo

CIVILIAN TARGET: PERFORMANCE LOG

Arrived wearing borrowed Kevlar and jeans tucked into combat boots. Asked if bulletproof vests same in women’s sizes. Did not wait for response.

Showed immediate enthusiasm, zero tactical finesse. Hansol gave her the map. She held it upside down. Twice.

Informed her she’d be working as the visual diversion. Her response: “Like bait?” Followed by: “Cool. I’m good at being annoying.”

Surprisingly effective. Created a loud enough ruckus on the perimeter to draw three guards off their posts. Managed to bluff her way past checkpoint by pretending to be a lost food delivery driver. Claimed she had gluten-free soba for a man named Kevin. There is no Kevin.

Still not sure how she pulled it off.

When Boss was found, he was semi-conscious but breathing. Whispered her name first.

END STATUS:

Boss retrieved.

Minimal casualties (1 injured – not fatal)

Facility compromised but not traced

Civilian target cried in the van. Then threatened to punch me for writing that down. I'm writing it down anyway.

FOOTNOTE — for Seungcheol’s eyes only: You’re reckless, stubborn, and impossible to reason with. But apparently, that’s your thing. You’re also luckier than most of us ever will be.

She didn’t sleep. Not once. Kept looking at every door like you might walk through it.

When you did, she didn’t even say anything. Just threw her arms around you like gravity stopped working.

Try not to make her go through that again.

– YJH

📱 Phone history log, filed by mafia soldier Chwe Hansol

Device: S.Coups' Personal Line (Encrypted Channel #017) Status: Outgoing Messages Only – Blocked by Signal Jammer Timestamp Range: ██:██–██:██ (Time of Abduction)

NOTE: Texts never reached intended recipient. Recovered during post-mission diagnostics. For archival purposes.

[01:12 AM] Where are you? They said you were hurt. I'm on my way.

[01:15 AM] Which hospital? No one's answering. This isn't funny. Call me.

[01:17 AM] Your signal keeps bouncing. Something's wrong. Stay where you are.

[01:21 AM] I swear to god if they laid a hand on you

[01:24 AM] No ambulance ever came.

[01:25 AM] This is a setup.

[01:27 AM] I'm so stupid. They used you. Fuck fuck fuck

[01:28 AM] I should've followed protocol. Should’ve sent Mingyu. Should’ve sent anyone but me.

[01:30 AM] If you get this, lock all the windows. Call Jeonghan. Stay put.

[01:34 AM] They knew I’d come for you.

[01:36 AM] This isn’t your fault.

[01:39 AM] Don’t come after me.

[01:41 AM] Love, beloved, please. Don’t try to save me.

[01:45 AM] You always do this—you throw yourself into fires you don't understand.

[01:49 AM] If they hurt you because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.

[01:52 AM] Tell Jeonghan to burn everything. Get out. Go far.

[01:54 AM] Forget me if you have to. Just live.

[02:01 AM] I love you. Please, please, please, don’t be stupid.

[END OF RECOVERED LOG]

📰 Excerpt from "The Ethics of Mafias: Love in the Line of Fire", a follow-up think piece by Xu Minghao

... If leadership within organized crime is already an ethical minefield, then love within it is something more volatile still: a paradox of vulnerability embedded in violence. New whispers surround the figure known only as S.Coups—the alleged mafia boss whose name, until recently, conjured images of discipline, domination, and an empire forged in precision.

Now, another narrative has emerged. One that reshapes how we understand not just the man, but the very myth he embodies.

According to rumors sourced from both within and outside the organization, S.Coups may have a romantic partner. Not a fellow operative, nor a political alliance. But a civilian. Someone unaffiliated and—crucially—untouched by the bloodied logic of the underworld.

If this is true, the implications are vast.

To love in his position is a risk. It is weakness, some would say. Yet others might argue that such love is the only thing capable of keeping a man like him from becoming monstrous. If the rumors are accurate, she is the reason he looks over his shoulder less. The reason he checks his own wrath. The reason his most trusted lieutenants have stopped fearing him and started worrying about him.

Love, here, is not a diversion. It is discipline.

And perhaps that is the most fascinating ethical twist of all: that this boss, so often theorized as either tyrant or savior, might be both—because of her.

Some say he texts her between assassinations. That he buys her gummy bears because she mentioned liking them once, months ago. That he has started folding her laundry and learning her aunt’s dietary restrictions. These are, of course, unconfirmed. They seem almost laughably mundane. But within the shadowed world of syndicates and secret wars, what could be more radical than tenderness?

Others claim that he was taken. There are now verified reports of a failed abduction and his eventual rescue. She was allegedly involved. They say she showed up unarmed, untrained, and utterly unafraid. They say she demanded to be part of the rescue mission. They say she was reckless, infuriating, and ultimately, instrumental.

And that when he saw her again, he wept.

To be loved, it turns out, is not always soft. Sometimes, it is brutal and inelegant and wildly inconvenient. But in the context of a life built on violence, to be loved is to be saved. Again and again. In the ways that matter.

Whether S.Coups is worthy of that love is not the question. The question is whether it has already changed him. Whether, in the end, the girl outside the syndicate might be the only thing real in a world made of smoke and mirrors.

And whether that, more than power or fear, will be his lasting legacy.

Mafia boss S.Coups is many things. Protector, manipulator. Brother, enemy, friend.

It seems we must add two more things:

Lover, and loved.

FIN. THANK YOU FOR READING CHERRY ON TOP!

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[mumblesplash]

something scratching at the back of my mind about the underlying premise of severance is the way they make you accept certain ideas about what it actually IS, and it feels intentional.

from the start lumon is shown to be VERY insistent about controlling information and language, from the bizarre interdepartmental mythology (the fact that mammalians nurturable and the graphics department both think MDR have stomach pouches is played as a joke, but it also confirms those rumors were planted and encouraged deliberately by lumon) to the way they talk about severed workers in general

the ‘innie/outie’ terminology feels particularly insidious because at first it seems like language that would have developed naturally to describe memory barriers locked to a specific location, but the existence of the OTC protocol reveals that’s not actually the case. the chip can be activated anywhere, and the beginning of season 2 shows that they can also *not* be activated anywhere. the fact that the innies only exist at work and the outies only exist when they leave is entirely a matter of company protocol, but the descriptive terminology makes it feel inherent.

watching the show, i kept getting a little stuck on the fact that lumon even calls it that. 'severance' 'getting severed' 'severed workers'. it's euphemistic to an extent, but still feels strangely violent and visceral for a procedure they're otherwise bending over backwards to present as humane and painless. thinking about it in the context of the way they use language to control reality though, it makes sense. because they're very, very insistent that it's permanent. almost desperately so. enough to push terminology that invokes amputation when it could just as easily be conceptualized as a shield, or a filter, or a blackout. but a human shield is a hero, a filter is permeable, and people don't draw the same kind of distinction between 'me' and 'me under anesthesia' as lumon needs them to draw between 'outies' and 'innies'.

there's a number of directions the show could take this, and i'm curious how far it'll get deconstructed. regardless i think it's a very, VERY effective commentary on propaganda and dehumanization. there is no one you cannot be convinced to see as the inhuman other, not even yourself.

or to put it another way: the procedure is just selective amnesia with a toggle switch. 'severance' is the ritualistic maintenance of the belief that anything that happens when it's switched on isn't happening to *you*

[https-bobreynolds]

under mesopotamian stars

pairing: the void x the enchantress, slight robert ‘bob’ reynolds x reader

summary: a backstory on how two entities met for the first and second time.

warning: mentions of y/n, blood, war, curse word, and tension.

author’s note: I AM SO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING IN A WHILE🥹🥹 university has me in a chokehold and not in a good way, oh ALSO i want to clarify that reader, unlike june from DCU, can actually use enchantress’s powers herself but only a fraction of it🤏

1600 B.C

the world was young, still drenched in nothing but myth.

in the highlands of mesopotamia, the sky tore open, and from its wound, poured a shadow not cast by any sun- the void, primordial and unshaped, spilled into the world in the aftermath of an ancient war.

and beneath moonlit ruins, she danced- the enchantress, cloaked in energy, appearing as green flame. her temple was soaked in sacrifice, her magic was worshiped and feared.

he was drawn to her like decay to flesh.

“you are not of this world.” she said, her voice echoing in the chamber as she looked upon the dark figure.

“so are you,” he replied, swirling into a human-like figure, “but you wear this world like silk.”

she smiled slowly and tilted her head. “do you seek power?”

“i seek silence.”

she then stepped toward him, unafraid. “then why do you follow the sound of my heart?”

that night, they didn’t speak again. the stars blinked away as their shadows entwined.

they weren’t lovers. they were omens.

but the gods, fearful of what their union might birth, tore them apart.

she was sealed in a tomb by her so-called subjects, her soul bound to a doll.

he was cast back into the space-between, locked behind walls of thought and will.

THE PRESENT DAY

millennia passed, civilizations fell, empires turned to dust.

and then came y/n, the new host of the enchantress, and robert ‘bob’ reynolds, the sentry, barely holding back the flood of the void within.

they both ended up where fate always puts its cursed pieces: in a vault, minutes away from being incinerated.

yelena raised her weapons. “great. a witch.”

your voice was low, trying to sound as intimidating as possible, “you don’t belong here, widow.”

walker took a step forward. “neither do you. so unless you want to get reacquainted with blackout protocols, stand down-“

you suddenly threw a wave of magic that sent walker flying into the walls. ava blinked into the floor, phased halfway through it to avoid the lash of energy. yelena rolled, firing bullets that you caught midair and twisted into birds of flame.

then you they saw each other.

bob froze, darkness pulsing beneath his skin.

you turned, green energy crackling in your eyes.

“you…” she whispered, taking complete control of your body.

bob clutched his head as the void whispered her name, his body replaced by nothing but a dark silhouette, by force.

“you were the only silence i ever loved.” he said softly, coming closer to her.

and she smiled again, the same way she did under mesopotamian stars.

they weren’t enemies. nor allies.

just two cursed gods wearing mortal skin, fated to meet where death lingers.

and this time?

this time, they wouldn’t let the gods stop them.

bonus:

“what the fuck just happened??”

taglist:

@lovetoalll

[buckyseternaldoll]

Stitched Into Forever

⤷ Part 1 | Part 2

Bucky Barnes x Fate-Weaver!Reader | Soulmate AU

Summary: The dream becomes real. Souls entwine, fates anchor, and in the quiet aftermath of war, Bucky finally learns the truth behind the golden thread that’s pulled him toward her all his life.

Disclaimer: 18+ content (mdni!), soft smut, emotional climax, metaphysical exploration, shared dreams, spiritual intimacy, post-conflict vulnerability, heavy aftercare, contains consensual intimacy, dream-based power use, and a strong emotional resolution to a lifelong soul-bond. Sets during and after the events of Captain America: Civil War, but follows a largely canon-divergent path

Word Count: 6,052

Author's Note: Maybe I should focus on Bucky x civilian!Reader only, from now on 🙂‍↔️ this was challenging!

One Year Later

You and Bucky had become something solid. Sacred. Official.

Everyone knew.

There was no hiding it anymore.

Not with the way he stood behind you during mission briefings, chin hooked lazily over your shoulder, metal hand spread over your stomach like a claim—casual but impossible to ignore. Not with the way you sat in his lap during long debriefs, legs curled under you, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the lines on his flesh hand while his thumb circled the soft bend of your knee.

Wanda had teased you both once, calling it “emotional osmosis.”

“You’re worse than Vision and I ever were,” she said, sipping tea like it wasn’t a warning.

Sam had begged—more than once—for you two to either soundproof your damn room or move out of the shared safehouse.

“I don’t need to wake up to surround-sound porn rattling the goddamn vents,” he muttered once over breakfast. “This is a war bunker, not a brothel.”

You and Bucky had just shared a knowing look. Then smiled. Then did it again—just to be petty.

But it wasn’t just the walls that gave you away.

It was the battlefield.

Because even now—especially now—Bucky never stopped hovering.

You could be mid-mission, half-shifted into the In-Between, guiding a thread with eyes glazed and voice low, and he’d still be there.

Always there.

Even though you’d trained to remain physically functional while weaving—able to run, shoot, speak—Bucky couldn’t shake the urge to guard you. To orbit your body like a satellite. His metal arm would block stray bullets without thinking. He’d slide in front of you to intercept danger before you even noticed it.

Once, during a blackout operation in Latvia, you’d dropped into the In-Between mid-fight—reading a splintering thread of fate that could’ve saved a hostage. Bucky had tracked your body through the chaos like a shadow, taking down six men without ever straying more than ten feet from your side.

You didn’t remember the bullet that nearly grazed your cheek.

But he did.

“I’m not taking chances,” he’d muttered later, kneeling between your thighs to check you for wounds. “Not with you.”

So it became a ritual.

Whenever you fate-wove in battle, he watched you like a fixed star—never interfering, never questioning, just anchoring. Your reality-check in a world where time bent sideways.

Because no matter how strong you became, no matter how precise your weaving was—

He refused to leave your body unguarded.

And now?

Now you had the whole damn safehouse to yourselves.

Steve and Sam were off-grid on a recon mission. Clint had gone home for a while. Wanda had politely not offered to stay.

Just you. And him.

No schedules. No alarms. No earpieces chirping about protocols or enemies inbound.

Just a wide, empty bed you didn’t have to be quiet in.

—

You were already waiting when he stepped out of the bathroom.

Hair damp, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, towel slung over his shoulder—he froze.

And the sight of you hit him like a landmine.

Not in one of his shirts.

Not wrapped in a blanket.

Not sweet and sleepy.

No.

You were standing by the foot of the bed like a vision torn from every single dream he ever had.

In navy silk.

Dark as midnight.

Shimmering in the faint spill of moonlight, clinging to your curves like a second skin.

The bodice hugged your waist and dipped at your cleavage—framed so perfectly he swore his mouth watered. The lace cutouts kissed your hips and dipped just high enough to tease him with the line of your thighs. Sheer fabric caressed the top of your legs, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. A sliver of garter strap peeked at the edge of your thigh.

And around your neck?

That choker.

Dark blue.

Snug.

With the silver ribbon pendant—gleaming like a sigil above the starburst birthmark he now considered sacred.

He sucked in a breath.

“Jesus,” he rasped.

You smiled softly.

Tilted your head slightly.

Didn’t say a word.

You didn’t need to.

His mouth parted.

Eyes darkened, slow and hungry.

Something inside him—tight and reverent—snapped.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he asked, voice low with reverence.

“No,” you murmured, stepping closer. “Just wanted to give you something nice to look at.”

Your hips swayed.

Silk whispered with your every step.

The pendant at your throat swayed like it had a pulse of its own.

“Sweetheart…” he breathed, eyes trailing down your body like a man in prayer. “If you weren’t already mine—I’d be on my knees begging for you.”

You stopped in front of him.

Lifted your hands.

Ran them down his chest, slow.

Fingertips grazing damp skin.

Your nails caught lightly on the ridges of his abs and he shuddered beneath your touch.

You felt the heat pour off him.

Felt the tension under your hands.

Felt the ache rolling off him in waves.

“You’ve begged before,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “But not while you were wearing this.”

He reached for your hips, groaning softly when your silk-clad body met his bare chest.

His hands found your waist like they belonged there.

One slid to your lower back, the other resting on your hip, possessive but patient.

“You wore this for me?” he asked, voice thick.

You leaned in.

Breath warm near his ear.

“I wore this…”

Your lips grazed the shell of his ear.

“…to wreck you.”

He cursed under his breath.

His hands tightened.

He stepped toward you like gravity didn’t matter—like your body was the only thing pulling him through time and space.

Because the lingerie had wrecked him.

But it wasn’t just the silk or the lace or the ribbon at your throat.

It was the look in your eyes.

That soft command.

That unshaken calm.

The way you didn’t ask for him—you summoned him.

And he stood there, jaw slack, chest rising like he’d just run a mile, mouth parted like he didn’t know whether to moan or pray.

You placed your hand over his chest.

Slow.

Soft.

Sure.

And he exhaled like your touch was oxygen.

Like he’d been drowning until you grounded him.

“Sit,” you said, voice like silk wrapping around his ribs.

He blinked once.

Then obeyed.

Dropped to the edge of the bed, legs apart, bracing himself with hands on his thighs.

A perfect soldier waiting for orders.

But his eyes?

They burned.

They devoured you.

And you stood between his knees like a goddess sculpted by starlight.

Palms on his shoulders.

Thumb brushing over the metal collarbone on his left.

“Touch me,” you said softly.

“Only where I ask.”

He groaned.

Head tilted back, neck arched, breath stuttering like he couldn’t believe he was alive in this moment.

“Fuck,” he said, voice wrecked. “Okay—yeah—anything. Just tell me what you need, baby. I got you.”

You felt it.

How he meant it.

Felt it in the tremble in his breath, the way his body vibrated beneath your hands.

He was yours—every inch.

Ready to be guided.

Worshiped you for leading.

Your heart stuttered.

Your thighs clenched.

A slow throb built deep inside you.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was a promise.

—

You reached for his wrists first.

Guided his hands, slow and deliberate, until his palms met your hips.

The moment he touched you—his fingers curled in tight.

Gripping the silk like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Like if he let go, he’d float straight to hell or heaven—he didn’t care which, as long as you were with him.

The pads of his fingers flexed once, then again.

Like he couldn’t believe how soft you felt under his hands.

Like he was afraid he’d ruin it if he gripped too hard.

You leaned forward slightly, letting your breath fan over his cheek, and whispered:

“Now kiss my neck.”

He didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t question.

He leaned in like he needed to. Like his lungs only worked when his mouth was on you.

His lips were hot.

Breath shaky.

He started just beneath your jaw—a reverent brush of heat—and then he trailed lower.

Open-mouthed kisses, one after another, slow and worshipful. Each one sent tiny sparks zipping through your skin.

He kissed down the line of your throat, tongue grazing lightly where your pulse fluttered fast.

Then he reached the choker.

He paused.

And you felt him smile against your skin.

He bit it—softly. A teasing pressure.

Your breath caught.

Your stomach flipped.

Your thighs tensed, trembling just slightly around his.

“Good,” you murmured, voice velvet. “Again.”

He obeyed instantly.

Bit it again—this time harder, just enough for you to feel your skin prickle in response.

Then his tongue flicked beneath the silver charm, slow and sinful, like he was tasting something sacred.

He dragged his mouth downward, tracing a path over your collarbone with open kisses, pausing only to groan into your skin.

“You taste better than I remembered,” he rasped, voice ragged. “Fuck, you’re—”

“Shhh,” you hushed, one hand sliding into his damp hair, the other cupping his jaw.

You tilted his face up toward you, thumb brushing just beneath his eye.

“You’ll talk when I let you.”

His head fell back with a wrecked sound in his throat.

He looked half-possessed.

Chest heaving.

Neck arched.

Like a sinner about to beg at your altar.

And you?

You climbed into his lap.

Slow.

Steady.

Knees sliding against the mattress, silk rustling faintly.

The friction between your thighs and his sweatpants was torture.

Your core already aching.

You straddled him like you were claiming your throne.

And then you rocked down.

Once.

The pressure was perfect.

Hot.

Blinding.

His hips jerked beneath you, a guttural moan catching in his throat.

“Can I taste you?” he asked, voice trembling. “Please?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth—just a tease, just a brush.

“Later.”

His breath stuttered.

His head fell back again.

“Fuck—okay.”

You moved his hands up, slowly.

Guided them from your waist to your ribs—over silk and lace and bare skin.

His palms slid reverently up your torso, until they brushed beneath the curve of your breasts.

“Touch here,” you told him, voice low and firm.

He cupped you like you were something precious.

Fingers trembling.

Thumbnails grazing the edge of the fabric.

His thumbs traced slow, worshipful circles over the hard peaks beneath the lace.

He was breathing hard now.

So were you.

You felt every pulse of heat between your thighs.

Felt your body clench with anticipation.

And then his head dipped.

His mouth pressed to your breast—right over the fabric.

His tongue flicked once, quick and teasing.

Then again.

Then he sucked lightly, silk dampening between his lips, heat radiating through the lace straight to your core.

He groaned—deep and low.

Like you were ruining him.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, mouth still full of you.

“You like it,” you whispered.

He looked up at you, pupils blown, lips parted, flushed with pure need.

“I fucking love it.”

—

You shifted against him again.

Slow. Controlled.

Your hips rolled down, deliberately this time—grinding against the rigid length of him trapped beneath your center.

His cock, hard and flushed, pressed snug between your folds and the silk of your lingerie.

Even through the barrier, the heat of him seared into your skin.

You rocked once—just enough to feel the full weight of him, to remind him what you were giving.

Bucky gasped into your throat.

His breath hitched hard. His fingers flexed against your waist like he was trying not to lose control.

You cupped his jaw with both hands.

Held his face in your palms, your thumbs brushing over the stubble that lined his cheeks.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

And he did.

Eyes blown wide.

Lips parted.

Wrecked.

Like a man watching his entire world kneel into his lap.

“Do you want to take control now?” you asked softly.

His pupils were gone—swallowed in that stormy steel-blue haze.

But his focus never faltered.

Not from you.

“Only if you want me to,” he rasped, voice hoarse.

The gentleness in his tone undid you.

You leaned in.

Kissed him like you already knew—deep, slow, tongue sliding past his lips to taste the heat of him, the ache he’d held for you for decades.

You kissed him like you’d already memorized the rhythm of him moving inside you.

Then you whispered against his mouth:

“Then take me. Now.”

And though your voice stayed calm, your body betrayed you.

You were trembling.

Your breath shivered in your lungs.

Your core ached with anticipation.

And Bucky—

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t growl.

Didn’t flip you over or tear the lace.

He just breathed.

Like you’d handed him something sacred.

Like the weight of your trust broke something open in him.

Then he moved.

Both arms slid around you—one warm, one cool.

Flesh and metal, cradling you like you were made of starfire.

He pulled you in close, pressed his forehead against yours.

Your noses brushed. Your lips hovered. Your hearts beat in sync.

“I’m gonna make love to you,” he whispered.

“Slow.”

“Like we’ve got forever.”

And he meant it.

He laid you down like you were holy.

Spine against the mattress. Legs spreading instinctively to welcome him in.

The silk beneath you cooled your fevered skin, but his body—God, his body—was molten.

He kissed your jaw first.

Then your cheek.

Then your throat, his lips barely brushing—like a prayer in motion.

He hooked a finger beneath the strap of your lingerie and pulled it down, inch by inch, exposing your shoulder with reverence.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

Not like a compliment.

Like a truth.

Like he’d found a lost work of art and couldn’t believe it was his.

You touched his face, fingertips trailing along the edge of his cheekbone.

“Only when you look at me like that.”

His eyes met yours—and stayed.

Even as he shifted lower.

Even as he kissed between the valley of your breasts, his breath warm through the lace.

Even as he rolled your panties down slow and kissed the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh with aching restraint.

His gaze never faltered.

You were panting now, soft and needy.

His lips pressed just above your knee. Then mid-thigh. Then the tender spot that always made you twitch.

And when his mouth ghosted over your birthmark—the star-shaped bloom on your nape, your shoulder, or wherever you placed it in canon—he pressed his lips to it like a vow.

“Mine,” he whispered.

Like he’d been waiting a lifetime just to say it.

—

He didn’t move fast.

Didn’t even breathe at first.

Just hovered—forehead to forehead—his cock nestled against your slick folds, the warmth of him making you twitch from sheer anticipation.

His chest rose and fell in deep, measured exhales, like he was trying to ground himself—because you? You were everything. Right here. Right now. And he didn’t want to miss a single second.

The tip of him slid along your entrance—slow, deliberate. Up. Down. Parting your folds, catching ever so slightly at your clit—and your hips jerked reflexively.

Your breath hitched.

“Shit,” he whispered. “You’re so warm already…”

His gaze dropped between you, and he groaned—soft and reverent—at the sight of how wet you were for him. Slick and swollen, your body already aching to take him in.

“That all for me?” he rasped, the words spoken like a prayer.

You leaned up—kissed him, slow and molten—and whispered against his lips, “Always.”

He moaned—low, broken—and finally, finally… he pushed in.

Inches.

Slow.

The stretch was instant. Maddening. Your walls fluttered around him in hungry waves, trying to pull him in faster—but Bucky held still halfway through, shaking from the restraint, forehead pressed to the crook of your neck.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah… it’s just—fuck, you’re big.”

That pulled a husky chuckle from him, rough and ruined.

“Didn’t mean to ruin you already.”

“Then stop teasing.”

He kissed you again—tender and slow—and thrust deeper, hips pressing forward until he was buried inside you. Every inch. Every heartbeat.

Your back arched. Your fingers clutched the sheets.

You gasped.

And he groaned, long and guttural.

His hands braced on either side of your head—his right, soft and calloused, cradled your jaw; his left, metal and unyielding, anchored into the mattress like he’d collapse otherwise.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel so—so good… so fuckin’ good…”

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there.

Heavy. Deep. Rooted.

Like he wanted to feel every heartbeat with his body pressed inside yours.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice thick. “I want your eyes on mine when I make love to you.”

And you did.

Your eyes met his—and in that moment, the rest of the world disappeared.

Because in his gaze, you saw everything.

Need. Reverence. Relief.

That trembling, sacred kind of love that ached to be poured into every thrust, every breath.

And then—he moved.

Slow.

Measured.

The drag of him pulling out just enough to make you whimper, only to roll his hips back in, deep and smooth.

Your toes curled. Your head fell back—but he caught it gently with his palm, guiding you to keep your eyes locked with his.

“Stay with me,” he whispered.

You moaned—quiet, breathy, desperate. Your thighs clenched around his waist.

“F-Fuck, Bucky…”

“You’re squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go…”

His strokes deepened—still slow, still worshipful—but now edged with hunger. The kind of hunger only love could feed.

He kissed you again. Longer this time. Mouth slanted over yours, tongue claiming, savoring—like he was trying to brand himself into your soul.

You could barely think.

Only feel.

Feel his cock dragging against your walls with perfect, devastating pressure. Feel his groans against your lips. Feel the worship in every whisper:

“You’re mine…”

“Fuck, I dreamed of this for decades…”

“You were always real to me…”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs tight around his hips, your body trembling with every thrust. He was buried so deep inside you, it felt like you were made for this—for him.

Your voice broke on a whimper. “Don’t stop…”

He didn’t.

“I’m not gonna, baby,” he panted. “Not ever…”

And as he dropped his head to your shoulder, his body rocked into yours with a rhythm that made the universe feel small.

“You were made for me,” he murmured, breath shaky. “I knew it the first time I dreamed of you…”

You cupped his cheeks, pulling his face back up, locking eyes once more.

Because yes.

You knew it too.

You were made for him.

And now—finally—he was yours.

—

The rhythm picked up—not frantic, not rough, but desperate in its need.

Bucky’s hips rocked into you with aching precision, every thrust dragging him along your soaked walls in that maddening sweet spot. The air around you was heavy with heat, sweat, and the faint burn of want that hadn’t been touched in days.

Your bodies met again and again—hips colliding, slick skin slapping, your breasts bouncing gently with every movement.

His pelvis brushed your clit just right with each roll of his hips, that perfect angle making your breath stutter, your hands clutch at the sheets.

Your thighs quivered, legs tightening around his waist.

He felt it.

His head snapped up, eyes locked to yours, feral and aching.

“You close, baby?” he rasped, voice cracking on the last word.

You nodded, helpless.

Whimpered.

Tried to answer but couldn’t find the air.

“Say it,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours. “Let me hear you. C’mon, sweetheart.”

“I—I’m so close, Bucky—please—”

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s my girl.”

His right hand slid down between your slick bodies, fingers finding your clit with that soldier’s precision. He circled it slowly at first—just enough to tease.

You bucked against him with a cry.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re shaking.”

He picked up pace—not wild, still steady—but now his hips hit deeper, his strokes more desperate. Like he wanted to burn the memory of your body into his bones. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned.

“God—just like that—don’t stop, baby—fuck, I’m right there with you—”

His lips found your jaw, then your mouth. You kissed him like you needed air, like he was the only thing keeping your soul from spilling out.

Sweat slicked your skin.

The sheets were damp beneath you.

Your moans echoed off the walls, rising with every thrust. Wet. Raw. Real.

And then—

You shattered.

You came hard—harder than you thought possible. Your thighs locked around him, back arching into the air as pleasure ripped through your spine like lightning. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry before his name tore from your throat.

“Bucky—!”

Your walls fluttered violently around his cock.

And he broke.

He cried out—hoarse and guttural—your name like it was the only word he’d ever known.

His hips stuttered once, twice, then buried himself deep with a final, shaking thrust as he came—thick and hot inside you. You felt it—every pulse of him, every tremble of his thighs as he held himself there, spilling into you with a low, desperate moan pressed into your neck.

His hands clung to your hips, fingers bruising. One palm splayed across your belly. The other slid beneath your back like he needed to hold you closer than physically possible.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t roll away.

He stayed—pressed to the hilt, his chest heaving against yours, skin hot and slick.

His nose nudged your neck, inhaling like your scent might anchor him.

Your arms wrapped around him lazily, fingers drawing slow, grounding circles on his shoulder blades.

“You okay?” you whispered, voice half-gone, shaky.

He nodded—slow, eyes closed, forehead resting to yours.

“You feel like… safety.”

Your chest clenched, breath catching in your throat.

“So do you.”

You ran your hand through his damp hair, your other tracing the line of his spine. You could still feel him twitching inside you—small aftershocks of pleasure rolling through both your bodies.

He let out a breathless laugh, still trembling.

“You fuckin’ wrecked me.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against his.

“You wrecked me, Barnes.”

His lips brushed your cheek. Your jaw. Your throat. Soft and slow—kisses of gratitude, not lust. The kind of kisses meant to make a home of your skin.

“Still with me?” he murmured, thumb stroking your side.

“Mmhm.”

“Next time…” he mumbled, trailing his lips to your ear, “I want you on top.”

You laughed quietly, breathless. “Yeah?”

“Wanna see you take me slow,” he whispered. “Wanna watch your face when you sink down on me. I wanna see it all.”

You bit your lip, still flushed. Your heart thudded against his.

“We’ve got time.”

He lifted his head just enough to look at you. Blue eyes, molten and soft, still dark from afterglow.

“We’ve got forever.”

—

The room was quiet.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t need words.

Only breath. Only skin.

You were spooned against him, the blanket pulled halfway over your legs, both of you still sticky with sweat and each other.

His arm wrapped snug across your waist—the vibranium one, cool and steady, heavier than it looked, the gleam of its plating softened by the tenderness in his touch. There was strength in that hold, yes—but more than that, there was restraint. Reverence. Like he knew exactly how easy it would be to break things—and had never wanted less to do so.

His other hand—flesh and warm—was cupped beneath your chest, palm resting between the swell of your breasts like he couldn’t stand to be anywhere else. As if your heartbeat beneath his skin grounded him more than air ever could.

Your back pressed into the heat of him.

Your thighs tangled lazily.

And his breath—slow, steady—rose behind you like waves lapping a shore.

Then—

He kissed your shoulder.

Then again.

Then your neck.

Small, fluttering things. Feather-soft reminders that you were real. That he was real. That this—this stillness, this warmth, this peace—wasn’t some fleeting echo of a dream.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough and scratchy from afterglow.

“Mmhm.” You shifted slightly, tugging his arm tighter around you. “Perfect.”

He smiled into your skin.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not lettin’ go.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And just when you thought maybe the quiet would settle again, Bucky spoke—so soft, so low, it barely stirred the air between you.

“You know what’s crazy?”

His thumb brushed over your skin.

“I can’t tell the difference anymore.”

You blinked, your brow creasing faintly.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He kept going. Like the words had been resting behind his teeth for decades, just waiting for the right moment to be let out.

“For years, I only had you in dreams. And not the kind where I watched from the outside. You were… there. Touching me. Talking to me. Holding me when I couldn’t hold myself together.”

He swallowed.

“And it felt real. Every time. Too real.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I used to wake up thinking maybe I was losing my mind,” he said, voice barely audible. “Because how could someone like you exist? Someone who knew how to hold me right. Who said my name like it meant something. Who stayed, even when everything else was stripped from me.”

He paused.

You reached for his hand over your chest, laced your fingers with his.

He held you tighter. Tucked his face into your shoulder like it was home.

“But now you’re here,” he whispered. “And I don’t feel like I’ve woken up. I don’t feel different. That’s the part that gets me.”

You turned your face slightly. Just enough to brush your lips to his forehead.

“Because this is the dream,” he murmured. “The real one. Not the ones Hydra tried to erase. Not the ones where I lost you every time the light came back.”

You could feel his heartbeat now—faint against your spine. Steady. Anchored.

“You’re real. You’re here. And for the first time since they took me, the nightmares don’t reach me anymore.”

You closed your eyes.

Tears welled silently.

His metal arm squeezed your waist just slightly. Not possessively—never that. Just a little tighter. Like he needed to feel your shape against his. Your body. Your presence.

“You saved me,” he whispered.

You turned in his arms slowly, gently, until your chest was pressed to his. You cupped his cheek—metal fingers brushing your waist, flesh ones slipping to your back.

And you kissed him.

Long. Deep. Soft.

When you pulled back, you whispered against his lips:

“I didn’t save you, Bucky. You found me.”

His eyes fluttered shut.

He smiled.

And in that quiet, breath-steeped dark, he whispered back:

“Same thing, doll. Same thing.”

—

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

Like something sacred had been spoken into the room and now the world had nothing left to say.

You lay there, breathing together.

His chest rose against yours in rhythm, your fingers still laced over your belly beneath the covers. Every shared inhale, every small exhale, felt like a vow repeated—not aloud, not deliberately. But felt. Deep in your bones.

Warm.

Bare.

Still intertwined.

Your skin hummed where he touched you—where his stubble grazed your temple, where his vibranium arm rested securely at your waist, where his thigh slid snugly between yours. You could still feel the echo of him inside you. Not just physically. But cosmically. Like his soul had marked something in you—and you had marked something in him in return.

Outside the window, the darkness softened to blue.

That liminal hour.

Not night. Not morning.

The sacred edge of time where dreams slip through the cracks of the world and fate presses its thumbprint into your ribs.

It was the moment between.

Between sleep and waking.

Between past and future.

Between the life you had and the one waiting just ahead.

You could feel it. So could he.

Bucky’s hand found yours again under the blanket. His fingers threaded between yours—rough, warm, steady. His knuckles brushed softly over your lower belly like he was memorizing the shape of your existence. Grounding himself in it.

You tilted your head back slightly, just enough to brush your lips over his.

“Sleep,” you whispered.

He nodded against your skin. But he didn’t let go.

His nose nuzzled at the curve of your shoulder.

His leg curled tighter around yours.

And his breath—warm, rhythmic—settled at the nape of your neck.

A beat passed.

Then—barely a murmur, voice wrapped in reverence—he whispered:

“You were always worth the wait.”

Your heart clenched.

He hadn’t said it to be romantic.

He hadn’t said it to make you cry.

He’d said it because it was true. Because he meant it.

Because for nearly a century, he had waited.

In cryo.

In silence.

In chaos.

In darkness.

And now here you were.

In his arms.

In his bed.

In the same timeline.

Real. Tangible. Breathing the same air he was.

He pressed a final kiss to your shoulder.

And then—finally—

The world exhaled.

—

A Few Nights Later…

The safehouse had gone still.

No assignments. No alarms. Just the hush of late hours, and the soft rhythm of your breaths tangled with his beneath shared blankets.

You and Bucky had fallen asleep curled together, his vibranium arm wrapped around your waist, his heartbeat slow and steady against your back.

And that night, as your eyes slipped shut, you didn’t enter the dream alone.

You brought him with you.

Not by accident.

Not because your bond flickered open.

You chose it.

Because you wanted to show him something new.

—

Bucky’s consciousness blinked into existence beside you with a slight jolt. Like his body hadn’t realized it had left the waking world.

He looked around.

You were both standing in the cockpit of a sleek, futuristic jet—chrome and curved glass, console lights glowing faintly, stars sprawling beyond the windshield.

Bucky glanced down at himself—black tactical shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, dream-hair perfectly tousled. He looked damn good.

He turned to you, stunned and smiling.

“You did this?” he asked, voice low with wonder.

You nodded, already slipping into the pilot seat. “Figured you’d like it.”

His grin cracked wide as he eased down into the co-pilot chair beside you, his hand sliding easily into yours on the console.

“You dream of space often?”

You smirked. “Only when I want to impress someone.”

The jet hummed to life beneath your hands—silent, smooth—and lifted effortlessly. Earth fell away beneath you in a swirl of blue and green, and starlight wrapped around the hull like a second skin.

You leaned your head on his shoulder as the ship soared forward, coasting past Saturn’s rings and through glittering nebulae like petals scattered in the dark.

No missions.

No Hydra.

No gunfire.

Just him.

And stars.

“I didn’t know I could dream this soft,” Bucky murmured.

You smiled against his arm.

“Maybe you just needed someone to guide you there.”

He looked at you—gaze full of something that reached deeper than just affection. It was recognition. And awe.

“I didn’t know I could have this,” he whispered.

You laced your fingers with his.

“You do now.”

—

The cockpit dissolved.

Starlight stretched around you and pulled inward—shaping something vast and sacred.

The In-Between welcomed you both with open arms.

Bucky stood still beside you. Silent. Reverent.

You felt him reach for your hand. His touch trembled.

“What is this…?” he whispered, voice hushed like he was in a cathedral.

“This is where I go,” you said. “When I weave fate. When I need to feel the shape of someone’s soul.”

You walked forward together through the glowing lattice of threads—blue, silver, white… and gold. Each line shimmered faintly, some taut, others loose. All alive.

“I wasn’t sure I could ever bring someone here,” you confessed. “But after months with Wanda and Strange… I learned how.”

Wanda had anchored you.

Taught you to center your mind.

To breathe through chaos.

Strange had carved paths through your logic.

Taught you laws. Boundaries.

And then how to break them.

From both, you learned how to keep your soul tethered—even in battle.

Even in grief.

Even here.

You glanced at Bucky—his awe written in every line of his face.

“I used to think this place was too dangerous to share,” you murmured. “But when you’re beside me, I don’t drift as far. You ground me.”

He didn’t speak.

So you showed him.

Your hand rose.

Two threads shimmered into view before you—distinct, yet inseparable.

Yours.

And his.

Gold.

Twisting, coiling, folded over each other so many times they no longer looked like separate lives. They looked like one.

Bucky’s breath caught.

“That’s us?”

You nodded.

“I didn’t know who owned the golden thread. Not until I found your dream. I just… kept seeing it. For years.”

He reached out. Touched it.

The glow flared faintly beneath his fingers.

“All the dreams. The ones I couldn’t explain…”

“They weren’t just dreams,” you said. “They were echoes. Premonitions. Warnings. Promises.”

He stared, overwhelmed.

“You’re telling me… we’ve been tied like this before you were even born.”

“The threads existed long before us. They just… found shape in us.”

You guided his hand to yours. Let him feel the pulse in both.

“This isn’t something I control,” you whispered. “It’s not a spell or a curse or a story I wrote.”

“It just is.”

He stepped closer. Leaned in.

And when his lips touched yours, it wasn’t hungry.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was grateful.

A kiss that said: Thank you for waiting.

For finding him.

For guiding him home.

—

When you woke, the sun was just beginning to stretch across the floorboards.

Golden light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and warm against your bare shoulder. The scent of morning clung to the sheets—cotton, skin, a faint trace of lavender from your pillow. Your body was still tangled with his—limbs entwined, breath shared, your leg draped easily over his hip.

No sweat.

No ache.

Just the hush of morning and the quiet thrum of something whole.

Bucky stirred beside you. His chest rose beneath your cheek. His lashes fluttered once, then again. His brow—usually tense, furrowed, always half-braced for pain—remained relaxed. Like peace had finally touched even the deepest part of his sleep.

He blinked slowly. Turned his head toward you.

And then he smiled.

Soft. Disbelieving. Like he hadn’t stopped dreaming even with his eyes open.

“You showed me your world,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“And you believed it.”

His gaze searched yours for a long, quiet beat.

“Baby,” he said, thumb brushing the back of your hand, “I felt it.”

The way he said it—like truth, like reverence—made your chest ache.

You leaned in, and he met you halfway.

The kiss was slow. Gentle. No tongue, no pressure. Just lips pressed to lips like a thank-you. Like a sunrise. Like a prayer answered after years of silence.

When you pulled back, he didn’t let go.

Not even when you both sank back into the mattress. Not even when the morning light warmed to gold and painted sunstripes over your bodies like fate herself was etching you into the moment.

His thumb traced lazy circles into your palm.

You dragged the tip of your finger slowly across his chest—mapping out constellations between the ridges of his muscles. Dotting stars over the scar near his clavicle. Drawing soft spirals where your soul still buzzed from the dream.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing your hairline, “next time you travel through space-time…”

You glanced up.

“Yeah?”

“…Bring me a souvenir.”

You huffed a laugh, eyes crinkling.

“You already have me.”

He smiled—wide and quiet, the kind that curved all the way up into his eyes. He turned his face into your hair, breathed you in like you were the last safe place in the world.

“I know,” he whispered. “And that’s the part that still feels unreal.”

Your hand slipped around his waist.

His arm curled tighter around you.

And the silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Full of the stars you carried between your ribs.

Full of his heart beating against your spine like a vow.

Full of fate, finally aligned.

No nightmares.

No desperate yesterdays.

Just you.

And him.

Two souls, finally home.

[theseventhdimension]

Season 7 Hotch x male reader (FBI but maybe not directly BAU, because you know, conflict of interest…) who gets migraines frequently but usually he knows a day or so before from how he’s feeling that he’ll feel shit soon; but he’s at work or something and is hit with one because a smell or something really triggered a tough migraine? idk, fluffy comfort is my gem

Bright Lights = Big Ouch

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

Word Count: 1.5k+

DNI: Fem-aligned

Author's Note: This is hilarious because as you sent this in, I had a migraine the day prior, I think I have a stalker on my hands.. 🤨

As akways, all feedback is appreciated, hope you enjoy!! :))

In the grand scheme of federal disasters, you figured one rogue migraine wouldn’t make the top ten. but at one point, you knew you should’ve stayed home.

But it’d been an unusually busy week—departments overlapping like tangled wires, interagency pressure from Quantico’s brass, and Hotch running double-time trying to keep it all from unraveling. You weren’t BAU, not technically. But your department shared their floor, and your job—tech-assisted behavioral support, profiling-adjacent—often pulled you into the current of their chaos.

And if you weren’t drowning, you were at least treading water.

Strauss had a debrief scheduled for later. The kind where she asked sharp questions and raised one skeptical brow like she already knew your answer was going to disappoint her. Garcia was buried under system updates, Reid had sent three correction emails about phrasing in the latest psych files, and someone from the NSA had asked for a live data cross-pull by Thursday.

So no, you hadn’t slept well last night. Migraine dreams again. Your body always knew before your brain did. A low throb in your jaw. Pressure behind your right eye. Like thunder in the walls of a house you didn’t have the key to.

But you told yourself you’d be fine. You had to be.

Because he was here.

And if he could carry the weight of the whole unit on his shoulders, then the least you could do was hold up your corner.

You weren’t just doing this for yourself.

You were doing it so he wouldn’t have to worry.

You risked a glance across the bullpen. Hotch stood in front of the evidence board with that familiar coiled tension in his shoulders, suit immaculate, voice low and even as he spoke with Rossi. You’d barely seen him this week outside the office. Work had swallowed both of you whole. And it wasn’t like you could cling to him—not here.

Dating Aaron Hotchner wasn’t simple. You knew that going in.

Powerful. Respected. Constantly watched. Your relationship lived in the quiet moments between crises, in late-night car rides and blackout-curtained Sundays. He wasn’t cold, not with you—but he was careful. Bound by protocol. By guilt. By the need to protect everything at once, even at the cost of himself.

He would’ve noticed if you told him. If you so much as hinted at how off you felt this morning, he would’ve dropped everything. You didn’t want that. Didn’t want to be the reason he looked away from something more urgent.

So you hid it.

You told yourself you could push through. That you weren’t weak. That you were still useful.

You pushed through the morning meetings. Ignored how the light stabbed deeper every hour. Chased that high of being indispensable, of hearing your name mentioned in a briefing and knowing you mattered.

Even when a sharp pain lanced behind your eyes.

Even when your fingers fumbled over your keyboard.

Even when that little voice whispered in the back of your head: Don’t make him worry. Don’t be the weak link.

And then—midway between the copy room and Garcia’s office—it happened.

A scent.

Something thick and chemical—floral, artificial, sharp like citrus left out too long in a hot car. It hit the back of your throat and your stomach flipped. Your balance tilted. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder than before.

It wasn’t pressure anymore. It was pain. Immediate. Blinding. Unforgiving.

You turned sharply down the next hallway, past the break room, every step heavier than the last. Your hand fumbled for the stairwell door handle. You prayed—please, no one see me, just a minute, just let me breathe—before pushing it open.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft snick, and the world changed. Dimmer. Quieter. Cooler air rising like mercy from below.

You didn’t even make it three steps down.

Your knees gave out all at once—puppet-quick, strings cut. Shoulder slammed the wall, then you crumpled hard to the landing. One hand slapped concrete, the other clawed at your temples as the migraine cracked behind your eyes like lightning splitting bone.

You scrambled, half-crawled, backward until your spine met the cold cinderblock wall. You slumped against it, legs sprawled out, head tipping back hard enough to sting.

Breathing was shallow. Useless.

The migraine drilled deeper with every pulse, each heartbeat making the pain bloom sharper. You pressed your palms flat to your face like you could trap the agony inside and stop it from leaking into the rest of your body.

God, you just needed ten minutes. Ten minutes in the dark. Ten minutes alone. Ten minutes before someone found you like this.

Don’t cry. Don’t throw up. Don’t let anyone see.

But then: footsteps.

Measured. Steady. Not rushed—just intentional. Like someone who’d been watching.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Hey,” Hotch said from the landing. His voice dropped low—gentle, but grounded. “Are you alright?”

You didn’t look up. “Yeah,” you rasped. “Just—needed a minute.”

A pause. The air between you felt held. Heavy.

“You’re pale,” he said. “And sweating.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, voice thick and raw. You forced yourself upright, bracing a knuckle against your temple like you could grind the pain away, and blinked through the fluorescent burn overhead. “It’s just a headache.”

Hotch’s jaw ticked slightly. “You couldn’t even stand up straight two minutes ago.”

“I just—there’s a backlog of case data,” you mumbled, forcing the words out like each one cost a breath, “and Strauss wants that interdepartmental summary, and Garcia’s swamped—”

Hotch didn’t wait for you to finish. His hand was already at your elbow, firm but not rough, guiding you away from the stairwell like a mission in progress. You tried to resist—tried to plant your feet—but your legs were jelly beneath you, and the sudden shift in motion made your vision kaleidoscope.

“Hotch, I—” you started, breathless.

“You're not collapsing in a stairwell,” he muttered under his breath, steering you with quiet precision through the hallway.

His grip never tightened, but it never wavered either. Like he was trying not to show just how scared he was.

He nudged the door to his office open with his shoulder, the familiar scent of coffee and printer paper rushing in like something solid to lean on. Lights already dim, blinds half-closed—it felt like sanctuary.

“Sit down.” His tone didn’t rise, but there was no room for argument. He pulled the door shut behind you and turned the lock with a subtle click. Then he was at the window, closing the remaining blinds with one hand while keeping his eyes on you. “Now.”

You followed him, stubborn pride tangled in every step, but when the light hit you wrong again—when the floor seemed to tilt beneath you and a fresh wave of nausea threatened to undo you entirely—you sank into the nearest chair like your strings had been cut.

You heard him moving. Quiet. Efficient. A soft clink of plastic: water poured into a paper cup. A rustle of paper towels. And then—Hotch knelt in front of you, resting the cup beside your hand and leveling his gaze with yours.

“You should’ve told me it was this bad,” he said, voice quieter now, without judgment but full of concern. “You shouldn’t be working like this.”

“I can work,” you said. Barely audible. Barely true.

“That’s not the point.”

Your throat tightened. You dropped your gaze to your hands—trembling now, barely steady enough to pick up the cup he’d brought you. You swallowed hard. “I just…” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your lips together to keep it from splitting open completely.

“I just wanted to help. I didn’t want to… slow anyone down.”

There was silence. Not cold. Not pitying. Just… stillness. Hotch’s kind of stillness. Like the air itself was listening.

Then the chair beside you shifted. His hand reached for yours—warm, steady, gently lacing his fingers through yours like he was anchoring you back to earth.

“Hey,” he murmured, softer now. “You help us every single day. No one’s asking you to tear yourself apart just to prove it.”

Your shoulders curled in, chest folding like you could hide the wet heat creeping into your eyes. One tear slipped free before you could stop it. You turned your face away, burning with embarrassment, but he didn’t let go.

“You don’t have to earn your place here like that,” Hotch said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And you sure as hell don’t have to do it alone.”

Hotch gave your hand a final squeeze. “Next time, just send me a text.”

You gave him a look. “Next time, outlaw perfume.”

[h33slvr]

FEED PROTOCOL: INITIATE

. . . . . ۶ৎ╰──A H33SLVR ORIGINAL──╯۶ৎ. . . . .

℘ ────────── ℘ ─────────── ℘

—ᝰ.ᐟ𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐. OT7!enhypen x reader

『Ｓｙｎｏｐｓｉｓ』 They were made to be monsters. Now they have to survive the game. Seven experimental vampire subjects, Forced into a high-stakes psychological game designed by the very doctors who made them, they must rely on their fractured abilities—and each other—to survive.

—ᝰ.ᐟաɑɾղíղցՏ: Blood, Gore, Violence, Psychological Horror, Death, Injury, Medical Experiments, Body Horror, Vampire!enhypen, Captivity/Imprisonment, Trauma, PTSD, Mature Language, Cannibalistic Undertones, Implied Abuse/Torture, Power Imbalance, Moral Betrayal, Romantic/Physical Tension.

—ᝰ.»ĂÚŤĤŐŔ ŃŐŤĔ: This story will be posted on wattpad, just because it's easier for me to use that. I dont use a computer for tumblr so it would take me longer to do chapters and all that on here so im sticking to wattpad for any series I do but im gonna post about them on here and include the link to the story :)

℘ ────────── ℘ ─────────── ℘

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 1 ~ THE CULL

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 2 ~ THE CULL PT2

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 3 ~ BLOODLOCK

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 4 ~ FRACTURE

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 5 ~ MEMORY VAULT

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 6 ~ ECHO CHAMBER

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 7 ~ THE HUNT

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 8 ~ FEED TRAIL

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 9 ~ FEED TRAIL PT2

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 10 ~ THE RED VEIL

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 11 ~ ASCENSION

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 12 ~ BLACKOUT ORDER

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 13 ~ RECONDITIONING LOOP

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 14 ~ M.E.D.U.S.A

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 15 ~ COVENANT BREACH

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 16 ~ PULSE TRAIL

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 17 ~ THE OFFERING

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 18 ~ GENESIS CORE

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 19 ~ CODE MAPPING

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 20 ~ LAB FILE RECOVERY

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 21 ~ TRUST TESTS

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 22 ~ TRAITOR SURVEILLANCE

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 23 ~ BLOOD ETHICS METER

『ƈᴬŜŤ』

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 이희승 — Lee Heeseung — EX-001R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 박종성 — Park Jongseong — EX-099R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 심재윤 — Sim Jaeyun — EX-005R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 박성훈 — Park Sunghoon — EX-023R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 김선우 — Kim Seonwoo — EX-007R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 양정원 — Yang Jungwon — EX-004R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 西村 力 — Nishimura Riki — EX-010R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 윤인 — Yoon Y/N — EX-008R

[FILE MISSING]

[sna1llo]

FEED ME MORE STORYTIMES AHH ABSOLUTELY LOVED DOESNT HAVE TO BE JS ABOUT JINC CAN BE IN GENERAL

ok i’m gonna tell one about being in the lab again

so pretty much, me jayce and viktor were all in the lab after hours. AGAIN. we’ve developed a protocol to just not ask when we can go home by this point, and i have to put my phone in a box so jinx can’t bother me.

so i’m poking around with this mildly-explosive looking piece of machinery. “is the instability intentional?” (my eyebrows are STILL growing back from the last time)

“eeeh, it is eh, experimental,” is what viktor said in response. not a good sign.

jayce said, “it’s pretty much a glorified time bomb.”

“fantastic.”

without warning, jayce flicks a lever. i see viktor start to frantically back away. “jayce i told you it was not calibrated! why would you-“

“i calibrated it!!!!” jayce cut him off. but he was also backing away. by this point i was already behind the protective barrier i’ve set up.

“WITH WHAT??? A BOTTLE OF RANCH AND A HAIRBRUSH?” (viktor is hilarious i love his jokes)

needless to say, it exploded. and quite possibly caused a citywide blackout. we got mel and heimerdinger’s help to cover up the fact that it was us, reprimanded jayce, and started cleaning up the lab.

[myinconnelly1]

Feedback - The Survivor

Masterlist

Summary: When a mission leads the Thunderbolts to a silent facility with only one survivor the balance within the team begins to shift. As tension rises and bonds are tested, the team must confront not only what she is… but what she awakens in each of them.

Pairing: Eventual Bob Reynolds x OC x John Walker, Bob Reynolds x OC; John Walker x OC

Word Count: 1,147

Valentina stood at the front of the room, black leather gloves folded in her hand.  It was 4 am and she needed to get this makeshift team moving.  She looked around the table, eyes moving from one of her operatives to the next.

“Three hours ago, an EMP pulse hit a deep-black assets site, codename Asterion. This was not an accident. And it wasn’t a malfunction. It was a full-system wipe—communications, internal power, surveillance, bio-monitors, fail-safes—all dead in the water.”  She clicked a remote, and a satellite image flickered onto the screen behind her: a blank, shadowed silhouette of the facility.  “We’ve had no contact since the pulse. No distress calls. No heat signatures.”

She turned to face them directly now, eyes sharper.  “Your orders are simple: infiltrate, assess, and contain. I want eyes on that site and a full inventory of any remaining research, tech, or bodies. Anything that breathes or bleeds—you bring it back.” 

"What kind of tech are we expecting? Biochemical, mechanical, psionic?" Ava’s brow tightened.

"Classified. That’s why you’re bringing it back." Valentina sighed as she responded.

"So… ghosts or monsters. Great."  Alexi shifted in his seat with a low grunt, unimpressed.

"Or worse. Don’t be sentimental. If it moves and shouldn’t, you put it down." Valentina instructed.

"No heat signatures could mean mass casualties. Or a containment failure." Yelena tilted her head slightly, voice dry.

 “You’re to proceed under blackout protocol—no broadcasts, no trackers, no questions. What happened inside G9 stays between us.”

She paused debating how to say what she wanted.  “Reynolds will remain at the Watchtower. He’s not stable enough for field deployment. You don’t need a bomb you can’t control.”  Valentina circled the room once, slowly.

"He’ll want to know why." John shifted, a flicker of frustration behind his steady expression.

"He doesn’t need to." Her tone dipped a degree colder.  “There is no confirmed threat—yet. But the last time this much tech went dark, it was because someone inside wanted it that way. Assume hostile conditions.”  She stopped beside Bucky.

“Barnes, you’ve got tactical lead. Belova, you’re interior advance. Ghost, perimeter defense. Walker, recon. Alexi… break things if they get in the way.”  And then, with a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You lift off in twenty. Burn it down if you have to. But bring me answers.”

The air in the sub-basement is colder than the rest of the facility. Concrete walls drip with condensation, lit only by the erratic strobing of flickering overheads. John steps carefully, flashlight cutting through the thick dark like a blade. He’s not afraid, but his instincts are screaming that something about this place is deeply, fundamentally wrong.

Not an ambush. Not an enemy. Just something watching.

The silence is unnatural. No hum of backup generators. No mechanical purr. Just the sound of his boots, his breath, and his pulse hammering in his ears.  Then he sees it.  Movement.

Just a flicker in the periphery. He lifts his pistol, aiming it with practiced calm.

“Show yourself,” he warned, voice low.

Another shuffle, softer this time.

He rounds the corner into what looks like a makeshift testing chamber—metal furniture overturned, smashed monitors, streaks of dried fluids he doesn’t want to identify. And then—

She’s there. Barefoot, crouched in the shadows. A young woman.

Her hair is tangled and hanging in her face. Her skin is streaked with grime and something that might’ve once been blood. Her gown is torn in several places, stained, and clinging to her frame like she’s been soaked and dried a dozen times.  Small nicks and bruises littered her skin.  Her eyes meet his, wide and glassy, lit faintly with fear.

“Jesus…” John lowered his weapon slightly, taken off guard by how fragile she looked.  “You alright?” he asked, cautiously stepping forward. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m with a team, we’re here to help.”

The room hums—so faintly at first he thinks it’s in his head. Then his boots scuff the floor and it responds. The concrete almost vibrates underfoot. Energy is building in the walls.  He approaches her cautiously.  Then, like a magnet snapping into place—her body leans toward him. The hum deepens. He feels it in his bones now. His chest tightens. His cock twitches.

It hits him fast. Heat. Urgency. A pull just under the skin, like his body’s betraying him, responding to something he doesn't understand. Every inch of him drawn forward like he’s stepped too close to a current and can't pull back.

She reaches for him—and something inside him breaks.

Everything else, the mission, the team, the danger, the rules, vanish under the wave of need. His hand is on her before he realizes it. Her breath hitches, and the feeling redoubles.

It’s not like before, not with anyone.  It’s euphoria on a cellular level, addictive in its simplicity: take, give, feel, repeat.

He loses himself. She wraps around him like instinct.

He doesn’t even realize she is passing out until he feels the energy snap suddenly, violently, and he's thrown backward across the room, slamming against a steel support beam with bone-rattling force.  His vision goes white.

Then black.

John comes to with a coppery taste in his mouth. His ears are ringing. The overhead light above him swings in a lazy arc, dropping glass fragments on the ground.

He sits up slowly.  Everything aches, but it’s his neck that throbs the worst. He reaches up, hissing through clenched teeth when his fingers brush charred skin near his collarbone. Burned. His hands are still shaking.

Across the room, the woman lies unconscious. Breathing shallow, but steady. Her fingers twitch faintly, as if still trying to hold onto something just out of reach. He watches her, chest heaving, and something heavy twists in his gut.

He should report it. He should call it in right now.

“Barnes. Got a survivor. Sub-basement four. She’s stable-ish. Moving to extract on foot. There’s structural damage, and no clear path.” John said in a strained voice.

“Copy that. We’re closing in from above. Sit tight, we’ll meet halfway.”  Bucky replied.

John doesn’t wait.  He approaches her slowly, checking her pulse again. Then, without a word, he scoops her into his arms.  The hum is gone now, but the memory of it buzzes under his skin.  By the time he reaches the upper levels, the others are just coming in.

Yelena spots the limp in his step.  “What happened to you?” she asked frowning.

“The ceiling collapsed. Caught the edge.” John replied, tight-lipped.

Back at the Watchtower, Valentina reviews his bodycam feed. There’s a clean gap in the footage. A four-minute window where nothing was recorded, only static. She says nothing.  John doesn’t volunteer details. Not to Valentina. Not to the team.  He buries the memory somewhere deep.  Tells himself it was just adrenaline. Just instinct.

Next

[rosewind2007]

Interesting point raised during a conversation with @imitationgame77 !

RESTROOMS & BATHROOMS

(in The Murderbot Diaries)

In first, second and third books in The Murderbot Diaries, sometimes Murderbot refers to the “restroom”. It does this twice (n=2) in Artificial Condition; three times (n=3) in Rogue Protocol; and in Exit Strategy it mentions restrooms five times (n=5) —the word “bathroom” is never used

(see below, right at the bottom, for quotes and context)

Then, in Exit strategy we have the surprise mention of the “bathroom”, on page 60 of my e-copy (so slap bang in the middle, and also in the middle of the five restrooms (pages 9, 22, 22, 103, 120))

Up in the room, Pin-Lee was pacing slowly and trying not to grind her teeth and Ratthi had gone to the bathroom three times.

The person using the “bathroom” is Ratthi—and this language usage struck me at the time as I am British and “restroom” strikes me as far more American English, whilst “bathroom” is less so (I would note that British people tend to use other words like the (possibly less euphemistic) “toilet”: a word which Murderbot only uses once in Network Effect and goes “ugh” afterwards)—checking in the Oxford English Dictionary seems to confirm that restroom is typically American English

I was reminded that in All Systems Red, Ratthi uses the word “arseholes” rather than “assholes” (assholes being the spelling found throughout the rest of the books)—note that Ratthi doesn’t say the word “bathroom” in Exit Strategy, but the word is used about him (being Watsonian about it, perhaps Murderbot heard Ratthi say “I’m going to the bathroom—again…”?)

But, hey—could just be a one-off?

In Fugitive Telemetry there is one mention of the restroom (n=1), and zero bathrooms (see below)

But then in Network Effect there are eight restrooms (n=8) and five bathrooms (n=5)

The first six mentions are of restrooms, on the pages listed below (pages as in my e-copy of Network Effect)

78 restroom

85 restroom

85 restroom

86 restroom

88 restroom

145 restroom

👆six uses of “restroom” all but one of these are Murderbot’s narrative (the other is the first one of the two on page 85, spoken by Ras)

The last one of those (p.145) is when Murderbot has a “rage blackout” and locks itself in the restroom…again Murderbot narrative voice:

Then who should come to join it in the restroom to try and talk it out, but…Ratthi!

Initially he talks to it, using the word “restroom” (page 149, bringing the number of restrooms to seven)

BUT when he knows he’s successfully talked it down (out):

And Ratthi calls it, not a restroom but…a bathroom! This is on page 150.

After this there are another three bathrooms on pages

152 bathroom

154 bathroom

166 bathroom

Of these, the first is spoken by Arada (page 152) then the other two are Murderbot’s narrative voice.

Then we go back to a reference to the eighth mention of a restroom on page 173 (which is Murderbot lying grumpily to Thiago, telling him Amena is in the restroom) and then finally there’s a last bathroom—which is in a HelpMe.file…bringing the total to bathroom (n=5) and restroom (n=8)

Which, given the arsehole in All Systems Red—

This makes me think that Martha Wells imagines Ratthi (and possibly others) pronouncing or using certain words in a weirdly “British” way which may influence Murderbot, and perhaps others, around him

Rather disappointingly, for the purposes of this blog, System Collapse has just three (n=3) “restrooms” and no bathrooms (or toilets) mentioned (all are in Murderbot’s narrative voice)

How this happens in a space future with Earth itself never being mentioned is beyond the scope of this little blog—perhaps it’s like the Ninth Doctor said:

“Lots of planets have a North”

See below for context for the novellas:

Artificial Condition n=2

(Tapan had told them she was sick and was going to the shuttle’s restroom compartment. They hadn’t realized what had happened until the shuttle had cleared the port.)

I thought Tapan was getting up to go to the restroom facility, but then she settled on the pads behind me, not quite touching my back.

Rogue Protocol n=3

So I listened to them a lot and pretended to be launching major investigations into incidents like who left a cracker wrapper in the galley restroom sink.

There were no private cabins, just a couple of bunks built against the bulkheads up on the control deck next to the pilot suite, and two more in cubbies behind the cargo station, next to the emergency MedSystem and a tiny restroom cubby.

And one camera was in the central hub for the port traffic control and the other in a jury-rigged hub that was now acting as station control—the two places where if something went wrong, you needed to know right away; in other words, not the mess, restrooms, or private quarters.

Exit Strategy n=5

I’d removed the blood and fluid from my clothes back on Ship, in the cleaning unit in its passenger restroom, but there hadn’t been anything on board to fix the projectile and shrapnel holes.

I’d paid for a private cabin with an attached restroom facility and automated meal delivery.

It had a bunk with a bedding packet and a small display surface, a door leading to the tiny restroom facility, a storage cabinet for personal possessions, and a meal distribution receptacle.

It was a small ship-to-ship shuttle, with only one compartment with seating along the bulkheads, and a cubby for emergency supply storage and a restroom.

It took me a minute—and I mean a full minute, my access speed was terrible—to recognize the symbol on the closed door as an archaic sign for a restroom.

Fugitive Telemetry n=1

Hopefully Aylen was in a restroom and not dead somewhere in a corridor.

NB/PS I also checked for washroom, and there didn’t seem to be any in any of the books

The short story Home (from Mensah’s POV) has one restroom, and no bathrooms or toilets mentioned

The short story Compulsory has no restrooms, bathrooms or toilets mentioned

[wayward-gypsy]

---

📎 Family: Unexpected – Chapter Ten

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Rating: T

Warnings: Surveillance, mild medical anxiety, implied betrayal

Summary: SHIELD wants answers. So does Sharon. And someone’s been listening in where they shouldn’t.

---

Chapter Ten

After the blackout, everything changed.

Security at the compound tightened. More eyes. More questions. More SHIELD agents in places they didn’t belong.

They said it was just protocol.

Tony said it was bullshit.

“Someone’s poking around,” he muttered, scanning the common room with a handheld device. “And they’re not doing it subtly.”

Bucky didn’t let you out of his sight after that.

When Dr. Cho asked you to come in for another scan, you agreed — reluctantly. You trusted her. But the second you stepped into the room, something felt wrong.

She smiled too quickly. Didn’t ask the usual small talk questions. Moved faster than normal.

And every time she looked at you, her eyes flicked toward the far wall.

Bucky noticed.

So did Natasha, who insisted on coming along this time. “Just backup,” she’d said. “In case someone tries anything stupid.”

Halfway through the scan, Tony’s voice buzzed through her comm. Low. Controlled.

“Red Room is compromised.”

Dr. Cho’s hands froze.

You blinked. “What?”

“There’s a listening device in the panel above the vitals monitor,” Tony said. “Sharon Carter’s tech signature. Not SHIELD-issued.”

Bucky moved first.

He was across the room in two strides, grabbing the wall panel and ripping it open with a single, brutal jerk of his metal arm.

Inside: a sleek, unmarked bug. Still active.

Natasha crushed it under her boot without hesitation.

Cho exhaled shakily and sat back. “They told me this room was secure.”

“They lied,” Natasha said flatly.

When you walked out of the medical wing, Sharon was in the hallway.

Leaning against the wall. Arms crossed.

She gave you a pleasant smile. “Good appointment?”

Bucky stepped between you and her without a word.

You didn’t stop him.

Because you weren’t sure what was more terrifying — the fact that she’d been spying on you…

Or the possibility that she wasn’t working alone.

---

[darkbitchithic]

Thinking a Lot about the Colin and audio in The Magnus Protocol

To my understanding, almost every audio clip we have heard (maybe even every?) has been recorded by the computers or various electronic devices spontaneously recording (often without the knowledge of those we are listening in on). we are hijacking someThing or someOne as they listen in and learn about our characters and through that we gain insights

But we have almost no audio of Colin, do we? some of the most recent episodes and a few posts I've seen pointing this out have really put into perspective just *how* little of Colin we've heard. He has built himself a little faraday cave, a blackout zone where no unvetted devices can come in or out. He Knows there is something going on and he is fighting tooth and nail to keep himself separate.

I so desperately want to know what his plans are and what he's thinking but We can only know as much as those listening do, and the longer we don't know, the longer They don't know either. it's such a fun little situation to be in and I'm so eager to see what is done with it!

[nn1895]

Heya, hope you're having a good holiday season and not catching any of the flus and colds going around. Speaking of, how about a Jazz/Prowl sick fic? One sick, both sick, neither sick? Whatever the muse inspires!

Best of wishes to you!

Thank you so much! I wrote two sickfics for you! This one is the very short and sweet one. The other is being edited.

Home

Jazz had two modes when he was sick: Cranky Sparkling and Perfectly Normal Oops I’m On The Floor.  Usually one first, then the other.  When integrating his sensory upgrades for infrared he’d cycled between cheerfully rebuilding his cyber-cello and whining pitifully (according to Arcee) for energon goodies and blackout curtains.

Prowl only got very quiet.  And very still.  And very twitchy.

“Outdated safety protocols,” Prowl had claimed, tucked into the corner of his office sofa, “they come on after the crash knocks out my higher processing.”

Jazz had a different opinion about why someone would want to be hidden and quiet and flinch at shadows when they weren’t at their best.  Why they would hide away in their office rather than ask someone to tow them home.  But he kept his mouth shut and his vocalizer muted.

And today it had paid off.

“Hey Prowler,” Jazz whispered, decibels only barely within audible range.  He crossed their tiny living room floor and lowered himself down beside the couch.

The lump under several thermal wraps shifted and Jazz could see just the faintest slits of blue.

“I came home,” Prowl rasped.  Frag, he sounded worn.  “I felt awful and I came home like you said I could.”

Jazz leaned his helm against the nearest lump (a shoulder?) and felt one more knot in this impossibly complex tangle of emotions start to unravel.

“Tha’s great, love.”