#connected strength machines

[dynamichealthinsights]

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[leftoverpages]

Loyalty’s embrace

Pairing 𓅪 Benjicot "Davos" Blackwood x betrothed!reader

Tags 𓅪 jealous and protective Benjicot, small fight scene (no gore), fluff at the end, romance, reader uses she/her but no physical description

Notes: i have been writing for a while without posting anything so this is making me nervous lmaooo

Wordcount 𓅪 1.3k

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The grand ballroom of Blackwood Manor was awash with warm candlelight and the soft hum of conversation. The air was filled with the scent of roses and the clinking of crystal glasses. Lady Y/N stood at the edge of the room, a vision in her resplendent gown. Her dress, a masterpiece of crimson silk and midnight velvet, flowed around her like a river of fire and shadow. The bodice, embroidered with intricate patterns of gold thread, clung to her form, highlighting her grace and strength. Across her chest and shoulders, the Blackwood sigil was proudly displayed, a symbol of her new allegiance and her own fierce spirit.

The fabric shimmered in the candlelight, every movement sending ripples of light and shadow cascading over her. The skirt, full and layered, swirled around her feet like a tempest, the deep red contrasting beautifully with the inky black. A delicate gold chain rested at her throat, drawing attention to the elegant curve of her neck.

She stood there as her betrothed, Benjicot Blackwood, engaged in conversation with several lords and ladies. She found herself alone for the moment, sipping a glass of champagne and watching the festivities from afar.

Despite the grandeur, there was a nervous flutter in her stomach. Being betrothed to Benjicot, the fierce and enigmatic heir of House Blackwood, was both an honor and a daunting reality. Their engagement was more strategic than romantic, a union meant to strengthen alliances and secure power. Still, she had hoped to find some genuine connection with him, something to hold onto amidst the political machinations.

"Lady Y/N, you look ravishing tonight," a voice interrupted her thoughts. She turned to see Lord Cedric, a notorious flirt and known for his less-than-honorable intentions, standing far too close for comfort.

"Thank you, Lord Cedric," she replied, forcing a polite smile and taking a small step back.

He didn’t seem to notice—or care. "It's a shame you're tied down to Blackwood. A beauty like you deserves better," he said, his eyes raking all over her in a way that made her skin crawl.

"I am perfectly content with my betrothal, Lord Cedric," she replied firmly, trying to edge away. But Cedric persisted, moving closer, his hand reaching to touch her arm.

"Come now, Y/N, you can’t tell me you’ve never wondered what it would be like to be with someone else," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.

Before she could respond, a strong hand gripped Cedric's wrist, pulling him away from her. "I believe the lady has made herself clear," Benjicot’s voice was low and dangerous, his dark eyes blazing with anger.

Cedric paled but tried to maintain his bravado. "I meant no harm, Blackwood. Just a bit of fun," he stammered, taking a step back.

Benjicot stepped between Cedric and Y/N, his posture tense and protective. "Your idea of fun is clearly misguided," he said coldly. "If I ever see you bothering her again, I will not be so forgiving."

Cedric sneered, his fear giving way to indignation. "And what will you do, Blackwood, uh? Throw me out of your pretty little ball?"

A dangerous glint appeared in Benjicot’s eyes. "No, Cedric. I’ll do much worse."

Before Cedric could react, Benjicot’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backward. The ballroom fell silent, guests suddenly turning to witness the confrontation. Cedric, recovering from the initial shock, lunged at Benjicot with a roar, swinging wildly.

Benjicot dodged, his movements controlled and precise. He landed another punch to Cedric's midsection, doubling him over. "You don’t know to quit, do you?" Benjicot muttered, grabbing Cedric by the collar and lifting him to his feet.

"Enough!" Cedric spat, struggling against Benjicot’s grip. "You think you can control everything? Even her?"

Benjicot’s eyes darkened further. "I don’t need to control her, Cedric. I trust her. Something you clearly don’t understand."

With that, Benjicot shoved Cedric away, causing him to stumble and fall to the ground. Cedric, breathing heavily and bruised, glared up at him. "This isn’t over, Blackwood."

"It is," Benjicot replied coldly. "And if you value your life, you’ll stay away from her."

Guards approached then, at Benjicot’s silent command, hauling Cedric to his feet and escorting him out of the ballroom. The guests slowly resumed their conversations, the tension dissipating, but whispers of the altercation lingered.

Benjicot turned to Y/N, his expression softening as he reached out to her. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentle.

She nodded, but her composure faltered, and tears welled up in her eyes. "Thank you, Ben. I didn’t know what to do..."

He stepped closer, his hand tenderly cupping her cheek. "You never have to face such things alone. Not while I'm here."

Y/N looked up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of insincerity. Instead, she found a depth of concern and protectiveness that took her by surprise. She had always seen him as distant, a warrior hardened by duty, but now she glimpsed the man beneath the armor.

"Why do you care?" she asked softly, her voice trembling.

Benjicot sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I know our betrothal was arranged, but that doesn't mean I don't care for your well-being. I've come to admire your strength and grace, Y/N. I want us to be more than just a political alliance."

Her heart skipped a beat at his words. She had longed for some indication that he felt more than obligation towards her. "I want that too, Ben," she whispered.

He smiled then, a rare, genuine smile that made her heart flutter. "Then let's make it so," he said, taking her hand in his. "Together."

As they stood there, hand in hand amidst the glittering ballroom, Y/N felt a warmth spread through her.

Benjicot glanced around the room, the tension in his shoulders easing. He looked back at Y/N, his eyes filled with a tender resolve. "May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice soft and inviting.

Y/N felt her breath catch. She nodded, unable to speak, and he led her to the center of the ballroom. The musicians, sensing the moment, began to play a slow, melodic waltz.

As they took their positions, Benjicot's arm encircled her waist, his hand warm and steady. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and he guided her with a grace that belied his warrior's demeanor. They began to move, their steps perfectly in sync, the world around them fading into a blur of light and sound.

The music swirled around them, a symphony of emotions. They glided across the floor, each step a silent conversation. Y/N felt as if they were floating, the dance a magical respite from the political intrigue and uncertainty that had shadowed their engagement.

Benjicot's eyes never left hers, their dark depths reflecting a myriad of emotions. In that moment, she felt a warmth spread through her chest, a burgeoning hope that perhaps their union could be more than just a strategic alliance.

The music swelled, and Benjicot spun her gracefully, her dress flaring out like a crimson and black flower. When they came back together, he held her a little closer, his gaze softening even further.

"I meant what I said," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want us to be more than a political alliance. I want to know you, Y/N. To truly understand you."

She smiled, her heart fluttering with a mixture of nerves and excitement. "And I want to know you, Ben."

As the final notes of the waltz echoed through the ballroom, they came to a gentle stop. The guests around them erupted into applause, but Y/N and Benjicot remained in their own world, their gazes locked.

"Thank you for the dance," Y/N said softly.

Benjicot brought her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. "The pleasure was mine," he replied.

In that moment, surrounded by the approving smiles of their peers, Y/N felt something shift. The alliance they had been forced into was beginning to transform into something real, something hopeful.

The future was uncertain, but for the first time, she felt truly seen and protected. And perhaps, just perhaps, they could find love in each other’s arms.

[gallusrostromegalus]

I did not care at all for Aizen Sosuke when I first read bleach. I found him boring, and worst, unthreatening.

So it's pretty jarring for me that I have been OBSESSED with him in your AU. I'm rotating him at great speed

Walt Disney was a jackass who was flat-out wrong about a lot of very important things, but he employed a great many geniuses of storytelling, and there's a piece in Disney Animation: The Illusion of Life by Frank Thomas and Ollie Johnson that discusses a key feature of Disney Studios Character Design:

"Of all characters, villains are the most fun to develop because they make everything else happen. They are the instigators, and always more colorful than the Hero. They may be dramatic, awesome, insidious or semi-comic, but they MUST be appealing. Almost any story becomes innocuous if all the evil is eliminated, but we do not necessarily gain strength by being frightening. we want a character that will hold the audience and entertain them, even if it's a Chilling Type of Entertainment."

And I've found that to be an important principle of character design, especially the kind of canon restructuring I do.

Aizen had a LOT going for him in canon- for all of Bleach's other faults, Aizen's conspiracy and THE REVEAL are spectacularly constructed and executed. I legit screamed and threw my mug across my dorm room when I read it in the manga the first time. He's also conventionally attractive and the translations I was reading gave him the speech patterns of Every Douchebag In Your 101 Political Theory Who Thinks He's The Smartest Man In The Room, which made him a terrific combination of Unfortunately Charming, Menacingly Competent and Engagingly Obnoxious.

...But he falls flat in a few key places.

Aizen's reasoning could be MUCH more sympathetic- After all, he is RIGHT. Soul Sciety does suck ass and all the options kind of suck. Who designs a universe like that? An asshole who needs killing, that's who. The best kind of Unhinged Madmen are the kind who spell out their reasoning and you realize that there but for the grace of Not Having Super Powers Go I. Canon!Aizen makes a few Good Rhetorical Points, but seems to lack any personal connection to his all-consuming plan.

Another issue is that nearly every villain with A Plan has a clear end goal AND a lot of the menace is drawn from the fact that the plan *could* work. Aizen's plan for betraying the court guard and then killing them off before proceeding into the Royal Realm to Kill God sorta falls apart when it's clear he planned to use pretty much all his accumulated forces dealing with the court guard and doesn't seem to have a plan for the Even More Powerful Royal Guard, let alone God. For how meticulously planned the rest of the plot is, the last two VERY IMPORTANT steps are just handwaved.

So I sat down and started with the plot beats Aizen MUST hit, and tried to imagine what kind of guy would he have to be to get there? And I came up with this:

Sosuke Aizen is a fundamentally good man with genuinely good intentions who is really trying his best for the whole world.

Think about it- what lengths would you NOT go to if you think you found a genuine shot at Fixing Everything Wrong With The World Forever? We all talk about killing Hitler if we found an actual Time Machine- would you do it if your only chance was when he was a baby? Would you kill an infant if it meant you could stop World War II before it starts? Of course you would! One small life for over 75 million? You'd be insane not to! What if you found out that you could prevent the future extinction of Humanity by killing your best friend today? Ten Billion lives? For theirs? It's simple, really- Hell, it's your Moral Obligation to do that if you were SURE!

-And Aizen IS sure. He is absolutely, totally, completely sure that He Can Save Everyone if he just gets rid of that idiot sitting on the throne of heaven. He's seen the plans! He knows where the gate of heaven is! It's So SIMPLE he just has to get inside, and he knows EXACTLY how to do it, yes it'll be hard and there will be... unpleasant parts but. IT. WILL. WORK.

He is of course, insane.

Aizen didn't have One Bad Day that set him irrevocably on the path of madness. It was a succession of catastrophic disappointments and realizations that he was living in a fundamentally irrational world that made irrational thinking look sane. The Catastrophe that befell his family, working for the central 46 and later the court guard and seeing how the organizations were inept to the point of abuse or corrupt to the core, learning that The Actual House Of God is a place he can just? Go to? Anyone would start thinking you were just a handful of white lies and homicides away from Fixing Everything, Forever.

Not only is Aizen insane, he is nowhere near as smart as he thinks. He is smart- He does have a knack for being able to guess just what will spur someone to action or make them recoil in fear. But mostly he gets extremely lucky Many, Many, MANY times. On some level I think it gives him Confirmation Bias that this is what he's supposed to be doing. Aizen is also nowhere near as smart as (nearly) everyone else thinks he is. His bizarrely good luck makes him look like a hyper-competent genius when really it was really the catastrophic failure of Soul Society as a Society that let a merely mediocre conspirator to evade detection for so long.

Being that he is at most, mediocre, he had to have Outside Help, specifically Gin's emotional support and Tousen's Competence- and if there's a part of the fic that stays true to canon, it's this.

Gin is Aizen's emotional rock in Canon. He's the ONE guy that Aizen genuinely trusts, and considers his 'my only real partner' in his scheme. There's more than one occasion in the manga where Aizen more or less asks Gin "Is this actually a good idea?" and Gin backs him up every time.

...Which is more than a bit at odds with Gin's later stated goal of "I did all this to kill you at your most vulnerable to protect rangiku" . It never rang true to me. So I started thinking why on EARTH Gin would be backing Aizen up like that, and realized there was a hole in my world building that he slotted into nicely :)

On the other hand, the entire fic was started because I didn't like how Tousen's character arc ended, so you can imagine how much he's changed.

But in canon, TOUSEN DOES ALL THE FUCKING WORK.

Lab work? Tousen.

Supervising the arrancar directly? Tousen

Actually getting victims for the Hogyoku experiments? Tousen.

Altering all the archives to keep Aizen's plot hidden? Tousen.

Sending all the Orders allegedly from the central 46? Tousen.

Making sure Unohana believes Aizen's fake body is real? Tousen.

Managing all the day-to-day operations at Las Noches? Tousen.

There's even this little exchange, which is Tousen's first appearance in the Manga:

Aizen establishes this entire meeting is a little fake-out a few pages later with "now isn't that a convenieint time for the alarm to go off?"

which makes him look like he's investigating, but he's also going "Good job on disrupting everyone with the alarm Gin!" It's ballsy of Aizen to do a check-in on his plan with his main nemesis in the room, but also his style.

I think the same thing is happening here with Tousen. To make sure Ukitake wouldn't raise a huge fit about the proposed execution of his beloved lieutenant, which might fuck everything up for Aizen because Ukitake is one of like, three people Yamamoto will listen to (sort of).

...So he had Tousen poison Ukitake to keep him out of the way.

ALL. THE. FUCKING. WORK. It's even in his name! The characters for "Tousen" Refer to a legendary scholar the emperor of China sent out to discover the secret of immortality- only to kill the scholar when he returned with that secret. The character for "Kaname" means "Necessary/Vital/keystone" or "to organize/take account of". His name LITERALLY means "Scholar who is essential for the plan (that we're going to kill later)"

Another thing Kubo did well in Bleach: his name game is Off The Fucking Charts.

-but I digress.

In AEIWAM, it's much the same only this time Aizen sees this very dangerous witness who is immune to his illusions but also extremely snart and capable young man and instead of risking being caught out by the one damn guy who can see right through him, opts to Curse Kaname into doing as Aizen says, and doing all the fucking work of this conspiracy against his will.

It's Not Nice, but Aizen genuinely thinks he's doing Kaname a favor by subjecting him to this degrading and incredibly painful servitude- I mean, Aizen's only other option was to Kill him to keep his silence, and isn't it wonderful that you get to help fix the universe? You're the one always going on about Justice, I don't understand why you didn't jump at the chance to mete out some Divine Justice.

An Excerpt from the captain's meeting in between the Massacre that made the visored and Zaraki's arrival, when Kaname realizes Yamamoto is 100% serious about his promotion to captain of the 9th and goes to throw up in the garden. Aizen offers to go check on him while Unohana very politely reads the general the riot act:

---

"You broke your toy Aizen." Kaname coughs.

"…I really am sorry for running you ragged like this. I really shouldn't have gotten so mad about you hiding the the hogyoku- it was very petty of me." The bastard sighs, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face, entirely genuine.

Kaname stayed on his hands and knees, weaving slightly as another wave of nausea flowed through him, powered by disgust and rage.

"How about this- I've got a lot coming up with the new job, training Gin and disposing of Kiganjo- So how about I promise to not give you any orders for a while? You will have to keep our arrangement a secret and not interfere, of course, but other than that, you're free to do as you please for- a year and a day is traditional isn't it? No, that's not going to heal by then- Oh, would you look at that!"

Kaname didn't have the strength to offer his usual rebuttal that he won't look at anything, ever. The sides of his head tingle like his skul was being pressed between two enormous hands made of static electricity.

"It's 11:11! Alright, I won't give you any Orders until 11:11 am on November 11th, 1911. That's easy to remember! What do you think?" Aizen continued cheerfully, patting his back and the Curse nails.

"…I can't." Kaname groaned. He could scream if he had the energy, but due to Aizen's Illusions, nobody would hear him. "I actually physically can't think. Please…"

"Of course! You really are such a help to me, it would be a shame to lose you. I'll even amend our contract, so you don't get paranoid-" There was a sizzling sound and a new stroke of hot pain up Kaname's spine as Aizen did something to the wretched Bakudo. "There. No compulsions for eleven years and a day. What do you say?"

Kaname grimaced, but dropped his head. Save the energy to fight another day. "…thank you, Aizen-sama."

"Good man! Let's get you on your feet." Aizen beamed, putting his glasses back on and offering him an arm.

---

He genuinely thinks that he's doing everyone a huge favor and if they don't get it it's because they're just not smart enough, but it's alright, He's a Benevolent God and they'll appreciate all his hard work the next time around :)

Aizen is a man who is FULL of joy. He loves what he does! He actively takes pleasure in it! And I think that's something that REALLY delivers in terms of sympathy AND horror for him. Who *Wouldn't* have a great time actually fixing the universe? He's a good man who enjoys doing good works, and this is the greatest work of all!

It also Delivers on the Horror when I get to write the deliciously fun scenes where Aizen is Elbows-deep in a novel War Crime and waxing poetic about how GREAT this is, or being confused why the people around him are reacting with fear. Don't you want to make everything better too?

[coralinnii]

"Eyes are Windows to the Soul"

↳ Admiring your Dark Brown eyes

feat: Idia ❋ Sebek ❋ Kalim ❋ Trey genre: fluff note: no pronouns were used for reader, set before Book 7 (mostly because I haven’t finished it yet),

Idia grew up sheltered in a sterile world, filled with LED lights and sleek metal walls. Shades of brown were not common in his daily routine, so he didn’t have a lot of opinions on it. 

In a world of neon blue and cold silver, your brown eyes ironically stood out in Idia’s world. 

Your eyes remind him of fluffy brown kittens, filled with warmth and mischief. You remind him of those adorable teddy bear prizes in claw machines that everyone covets. You were everything he dreams of holding, but often out of reach.

That is until the two of you grew closer, then he sees your eyes in the ice-cold colas he’s chugging during long grinding sessions with you. He feels a tingling sensation when he sees your eyes in the dry autumn leaves crunching beneath his feet whenever you drag him out to “touch some grass” 

Your brown eyes remind him of everything fluffy and warm, of fuzzy feelings and snugness. 

Your eyes give off energy, but it’s not scary or overwhelming at all. Rather, it’s soft and enjoyable like a refreshing drink on a hot day.

You seem so out of place in his old world, but Idia couldn’t imagine a life without you anymore.

”Uggh, that cat is just too cute, what a sensory overload! Huh, when did brown cats become my fav? I-I guess kinda recently?”

Sebek holds himself with prestige and integrity, a well-kept man with honor to uphold. 

But his experience is filled with the great wilderness, with the natural and unbending beauty of the forest. He proudly recalls his childhood living close to the world of fae and nature. 

You were a human. Your upbringing was nothing like his own, a pair of opposites with nothing in common

But, when you look at him with your sweet brown eyes, Sebek sometimes feels lost in nostalgia. In your eyes, he sees the beautiful trees of his homeland, he sees his beloved worn-out books in his bookshelves passed down by his grandfather. 

Not only his childhood memories, Sebek feels the same feeling of familiarity in his current lifestyle. He’s reminded of the joy and excitement he feels when he trusts his whole self to the majestic brown horses in the campus wooden stables. 

Is it because just like his trusted steed, your warm brown eyes effortlessly shine with so much strength?

Lost in your eyes, he recalls feelings of comfort and home, a connection to what makes Sebek…himself. Though he may not admit it, the stubborn young man finds solace just by staring into your eyes.

"Do I ever feel homesick? Of course I do! I simply… haven’t been feeling all that distant from my homeland as of late”

Kalim is not only surrounded by shades of brown, but also reds, yellows, greens, and everything else in the large spectrum of color. His world is bright and vibrant, never a dull moment for the boisterous heir. 

You fit right into his life, adding more happiness to his routine. Your existence gave off a sense of wholesome, sweet fun. You join him in his highs yet keep him grounded when he flies too close to the Sun

To anyone else, Kalim lacks nothing in terms of riches. He is financially blessed for generations to come, and Kalim is not ignorant enough to deny otherwise. 

But lately, whenever he watches you, he ponders on what the word “rich” truly meant to him. 

Some would call your brown eyes pretty but rather plain, but regardless Kalim would catch himself swimming in the hue of your irises. 

In your eyes, he sees the deep color of expensive cognac that many would gift his parents, he sees the color of flawless leather prized by countless merchants, and he sees the color of fertile soil that nurtures and feeds his country. 

If someone were to ask his opinion, Kalim would say that richness and pricelessness could be defined by your eyes. Kalim may have an abundance of gold and silver but there is no price that could compare to the look of pure love in your exquisite eyes.

"Have you ever seen a chocolate diamond before? They’re really pretty with a wonderful shine. I really like them, I’ll show you one someday!”

While he isn’t against dabbling in certain subjects and interests, Trey has a pretty solid idea of his future, to become a patissier and to either inherit his family's bakery or start his own business. 

Trey doesn’t see himself as anyone extravagant nor does he really want to be. Sure, he may be in a prestigious school, and he may hold an enviable position as a vice-Housewarden, but the green-haired senior holds himself more modestly. 

You knew well of his humble dream, and he appreciated the way you would support him however you can, be it a taste tester for new recipes or assisting him in the kitchen before a busy unbirthday party. 

In this close proximity, Trey is allowed more chances to glance your way, especially your eyes. 

He sees the resemblance in your eyes the color of the chestnuts you collected with the mischievous freshmen, the first day he noticed how cute you were. He’s reminded of warm brownies and cookies he would bake in secret just for you, all to see those very eyes sparkle. He imagines a brick house in the same shade as your eyes, where he’ll live out his peaceful life with you.

In your warm brown eyes, he feels reassurance and security. Trey doesn’t need a lavish lifestyle or a grand plan. All he could wish for is a life where he could bake cakes and pay taxes with you.

“I’m not exactly the most romantic with words, but I do like your eyes. They remind me of…my oven. Ah, that sounded a bit…” 

[yolli-es]

you should do jinx giving reader a tattoo of her name 🙏

That's much better, isn't it?

Tags: possessive, jealousy, manipulation.

You are so active omg, is it because of season 2? I also have to say that this is quite proprietary and reminds me of a Yandere!Jinx.

This is starting to get annoying. Everything was going so well, and now?

Usually, you were always closely connected to each other, not just emotionally. It was so long and constant that it became an unspoken rule of Zaun. You've done many things, from having dinner together to revolution.

But now you've suddenly started going out "on business" too often. How could Jinx not worry?

Jinx followed yours next time. It's only for your safety, of course. A couple of hours, and she saw the root of the problem—the weird girl you were discussing with. A small, about 20 years old. It was annoying that she caught your attention like that. Weird, painful, and absolutely unbearable. It took all of Jinx's strength to contain herself. These meetings continued, and, in fact, there was nothing too close about them. On the contrary, you kept your distance and spoke absolutely calmly. Which could not be said about this girl. She was strangely leaning towards you, constantly fixing her hair and trying to touch you all the time. Jinx was really nervous, waiting for the right moment to ruin everything.

The moment when you give in to her.

This did not happen, and the truth came to light.

Luckily, it was much more prosaic. You were sneaking off to meet a jeweler for a cute hair clip. It was a gift for Jinx for your third anniversary. With all the running around, she forgot about it. How awkward...

"So... this is for me, huh? It's very beautiful," her fingers slid over the chilling metal of the small pin. The shape of the curved cross suited her. She didn't know what kind of metal it was, but it shimmered blue and pink in the light, remaining chillingly black in the shadows. Beautiful.

"Cool, huh? I had to work hard to get this, but... whatever. It was worth it." You seemed happier than Jinx herself, leaning over in front of her as you picked up her right braid and wondered where to put it, "It might not be very practical, but I'm sure it's really cute. Don't worry if it gets lost, okay?"

You finally looked at your girlfriend and understood her mood. She shrank, looking tensely at the floor and picking at her pants with her nails. Stuck in her dark thoughts right now. However, having anticipated your next move, Jinx spoke up: "I have a gift for you too." It suddenly dawned on her; her eyes lit up, and her back straightened. Jinx was ready to flare up with impatience. "M.. yeah? I'm so glad it is. I like it already, trust me," you giggled, sitting down next to Jinx as she grabbed your hands in anticipation. The hairpin would wait on the table for now. "Oh, something unusual," Jinx sat you down with your back to her, stood up, and rushed over to a huge box of art supplies.

You sat quietly, expecting something like a painting or a painted gun. The same one you got last time. Two is better than one!

Jinx will always be unpredictable.

When the noise became more than an explanation, you finally turned around. There was a small table behind you with colorful bottles on it and... a tattoo machine? This can't be.

"Ta-dam!" Jinx sat down on a chair on one side of the table, gesturing for you to sit opposite. "What? Wait, wait, you want to give me a tattoo?" Your voice wavered. You loved Jinx and trusted her in many ways, but let her give you a tattoo? "Oh, come on!" Jinx rolled her eyes, slamming her head down on the table, "You think I can't do it? Don't tell me you didn't check out my tattoos. I got them myself, you know!"

This didn't give you any confidence.

"No, you know... I just don't know what kind of tattoo I want," you turned away, shrugging awkwardly. Jinx chuckled, propping her head up in her hands and licking her lips. "I already decided, toots. What could be cooler than your girlfriend's name, hm?", Her voice sounded confident. So you didn't take it as a joke. However, Jinx didn't let you answer, grabbing your hands and not very carefully sitting you down opposite. "You know, I saw you with that girl... I was worried," she started slowly and from a distance. "You did nothing wrong, and I didn't doubt you. And yet, people are very tricky," she paused, gently taking your hand and looking into your eyes, "So I would like you to have a small tattoo; how about you? I promise it will look stylish." That stumped you for a minute. Yes, you wanted your tattoo, and yes, you love Jinx. But getting one for that reason? "Please," Jinx looked at you with her doe eyes, and that huskiness in her voice was driving you crazy. "Oh, maybe just one, huh? A small one," you chuckled. 

Of course, Jinx was manipulating you for what she wanted. In the most childish and stupid way, you just couldn't help but sneer. Was it a double game, and Jinx knew about your understanding from the start? It doesn't matter; She has already started working.

Pink is the most beautiful color, isn't it?

Despite her obviously selfish desire and rather daring start, Jinx did everything carefully. After all, it was your first time doing it, and she couldn't make you feel anything other than excitement and admiration. She was spinning around you, unable to sit still, turning on music, telling all sorts of nonsense, and taking breaks to relax. She just didn't want to make things worse than she probably already did.

It all ended quickly.

"That's much better, isn't it?", Jinx couldn't help but smile as she looked at the fresh tattoo on your skin. "You look your best, as always, toots." You liked it no less; it actually looked sweet. And very possessive. You liked this display of her love; this affection gave you a strange strength.

You smiled as you took her hand and said with a deliberately innocent look, "Okay, now it's your turn."

The problem is that you love her no less.

Still, there is not a word about yandere in the request, so she's just super jealous and possessive. I hope that the person who asked was thinking about something like this 🙌🏻

[monstersholygrail]

Okay for the birds. Since you asked so nicely. (And because I am on my knees BEGGING for crumbs of this!!!) How would they react to reader living in a run down apartment? Like it takes a lot of money to keep a studio going, even with such... passionate attendees. Yeah they spoil reader at the studio, but what about seeing reader out and about? At home, out shopping?

For Scarlet Macaw Bird Hybrids the colony keeps coming at you like they’re vultures. They’re greedy for your cum, needy for the tight clench of your fat cunt milking their cocks dry, desperate for your cries of pleasure and who can force them out of you, and they crave the feel of your pliable flesh in their loving hands as they take you over and over again.

They’ve all lost themselves in you, as if you’ve pulled a veil of lust over their eyes and they are nothing but mindless machines set for your pleasure. It’s all they want. To feel that deep connection with you, their precious mate.

One after the other they fuck you dumb, bringing you release after release. Even as your body grows more tired they can see the need in your eyes and they won’t stop until their mate is fully satisfied.

As your next orgasm crashes into you, your eyes roll back, your body no longer having the strength to fully seize and shudder with the sheer force of your pleasure.

Your mates currently taking care of you each unload a hefty amount of cum inside your gushing walls. It isn’t until they slip out of you to lightly peck kisses along your face that they realized they fucked you till you passed out.

All the bird hybrids coo at you in worry, their wings flapping as they surround your plush fucked out form. All limp and beautiful. Their hands lovingly caress every inch of your body, making sure you’re alright.

“I’ll take her to her human apartment. Make sure she gets there safe,” one of the bird hybrids speak up.

Instantly a chorus of over bird hybrids chirp out their disagreement. All of them wanting to be the one who takes you home and tucks you into bed. Anything just to be with you for a little bit longer and to take care of you. But the first bird hybrid stands his ground and insists.

Taking you into his arms he begins to fly you home. You had never shown any of the bird hybrids in the colony where you lived but a few started following you home after your night class with them and soon after everyone knew where you lived and would follow you to make sure you got home safe after that class.

Silly humans would call it stalking. But they were only looking after you! They made sure you never got hurt and hurt anyone who dared try.

You didn’t live in a very good neighborhood after all, putting most of your money into your studio, so they had to take care of you. Even if that meant scaring off anyone who looked at you funny or with any interest.

But none of the birds had ever been inside your apartment before. As the bird hybrid uses your key to enter, his eyes widen in horror at the sight of your run down apartment. Their mate could not live like this. Not under their watch.

After tucking you into bed, the bird hybrid gets out his phone and enters their colony group chat dedicated specifically to talking about you.

“OUR MATE IS LIVING IN SHAMBLES!” The bird hybrid texts into the chat to convey his panic. Seconds later and the group chat is blowing up.

“I knew we didn't pay ‘nough for her classes!"

"Should demand she raise them…"

"Do dance teachers get random bonuses?"

“Would she feel insulted if we gave her money at the end of classes after we’ve fucked her raw?”

“Not if she’s too blissed out to notice us slipping the money in her bag.”

“Nah, she wouldn’t like. I think the humans call it Pros— Pollution? Or Hook— something to do with fishing, I don’t know. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s not the point! What are we going to do about this? We can’t allow this to continue,” the bird hybrid types, interrupting their rambling.

“Could always take her back to the nest…” one hybrid suggests. He thinks about it for a moment before he shakes his head.

“An idea for another day. She wouldn’t go for it now. We need to fix up her place until she’s ready.” The bird hybrid with you concludes.

As you sleep the bird hybrid plans for everything. He sends for a whole bunch of them to head over to your apartment. A team of them flying around and taking what they need to help fix up your apartment while another team prepares the place for work.

When everyone arrives at your apartment things quickly dissolve into chaos. Of course, all the Bird Hybrids want to see you first sleeping all pretty and fucked out in your bed. The Hybrids at that night class immediately start boasting about how good they fucked you and others immediately raise their voices, pleading their own case.

It’s only when you shift on the bed that the Bird Hybrid that brought you home immediately shushes them.

“Stop, stop, stop! We can’t wake her,” he whispers.

Their eyes all fall back onto you, silently watching your plush figure squirm and settle back on the bed. The small action alone causing them to get a little hard and they have to force themselves not to clamber onto the bed and wake you up.

No, instead they get to work. Upgrading your apartment in every possible way they know how. Cleaning it up and making it into a real home. While also enforcing it and making sure you’re the safest person in the neighborhood.

Creating the near perfect nest. Only second to their own they hope to bring you to someday.

They can’t wait for you to finally wake up. They all imagine the look on your face when you rouse from your slumber to see them all there and your apartment completely changed. But most of all… they can’t wait for the thank you gifts you’re bound to give them all.

You have to break in your new apartment somehow, don’t you?

[hunkpossession0]

**Riding a New Life: A Ghost's Journey**

I had been a wandering spirit for what felt like an eternity. Ever since the accident that severed my connection to the living world, I had been drifting through the ether, invisible and forgotten. That is, until today.

I found myself in a dimly lit parking garage, the scent of gasoline and rubber filling the air. The growl of an engine echoed off the walls, and that’s when I saw him—a young biker, effortlessly cool in his black and red leather suit, leaning casually against his sleek Honda. He was everything I had once admired from afar, back when I was alive.

I watched him for a moment, a pang of envy and longing coursing through my spectral form. Then, almost instinctively, I felt myself drawn toward him. There was a sudden pull, a rush of energy, and before I knew it, I was inside his body.

The moment I slipped into his form, it was as if the world exploded in sensation. The first thing I noticed was the heat—the intoxicating warmth of his skin, the snug embrace of the leather suit wrapping around me. It was a second skin, tight and form-fitting, accentuating every contour and muscle. The leather was smooth and supple, a mix of security and allure that was almost overwhelming.

I flexed my fingers, feeling the resistance of the gloves, the reassuring grip they provided. I couldn't help but admire the strength in these hands, the power in this body. My heart raced, not just from the thrill of possession, but from the sheer intensity of feeling alive again. The suit clung to me, a perfect fit, and I relished the way it made me look—strong, confident, and undeniably hot.

Every step I took in the leather suit was a new discovery. The way it accentuated my broad shoulders, the way it hugged my biceps and triceps, making every muscle pop with definition. I could feel the smooth caress of the leather against my skin, the way it moved with me, an extension of my newfound strength.

After an exhilarating ride through the city, I decided to explore more of what this new life had to offer. I had noticed a gym bag in the trunk of his bike, and an idea struck me. I headed to the local gym, eager to test the limits of this new body.

Entering the gym, I felt a wave of excitement. The scent of sweat and metal filled the air, and the rhythmic clanking of weights created a motivating soundtrack. I walked confidently to the locker room, changing into a tank top and workout pants that showed off my muscular physique. The reflection in the mirror was almost surreal—I was now this fit, handsome biker with a body that drew admiration and respect.

I started with some light stretches, feeling every muscle respond with a fluidity and power I had never experienced before. Moving to the weight section, I picked up a dumbbell, the cold metal heavy in my hand. I began a series of bicep curls, watching in awe as the muscles in my arms bulged and flexed.

The intensity of the workout was intoxicating. I pushed myself harder, feeling the burn in my muscles, the rush of endorphins coursing through my veins. I moved from one machine to another, challenging myself with each set, reveling in the strength and endurance of this body.

Between sets, I caught glimpses of myself in the mirror. The way the tank top clung to my chest and shoulders, the way my arms looked pumped and powerful—it was a heady mix of vanity and pride. I couldn't help but snap a quick selfie, capturing the moment of pure, unadulterated strength.

As the workout continued, I felt a growing sense of accomplishment. This body was capable of so much, and I was determined to explore its limits. The sweat poured down my skin, a testament to the hard work and effort I was putting in. And with each rep, each lift, I could feel myself growing more confident, more comfortable in this new skin.

But something was missing. My spectral journey had been long and lonely, and I longed to share this new life with someone who understood. That’s when I remembered my closest ghost friend, another lost soul who had wandered with me through the void. He deserved this chance too.

Later that evening, I returned to the parking garage, where I found another biker—a friend of the man whose body I had claimed. He was tall and lean, with a rugged handsomeness that made my decision easy. I called out to my ghost friend, guiding him to this new vessel.

With a rush of energy, my friend entered the biker’s body. The transformation was immediate. He blinked, adjusting to the new sensations, then looked at me with a mixture of awe and gratitude. We were no longer lost souls. We were alive, and we had each other.

Together, we returned to the gym. It was a surreal experience, seeing my friend in his new form, watching him flex and admire his new physique. We took a moment to capture it—a selfie of the two of us, side by side, strong and proud. The bond we shared as ghosts had transformed into something deeper, something more intimate.

In the gym mirror, we stood close, our bodies radiating strength and confidence. My friend, now in his own muscular form, flexed his bicep while I wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Our tank tops clung to us, revealing every sculpted muscle, every defined line. The pride in our eyes was unmistakable. Here we were, two souls reborn, finding a new life and love in the most unexpected way.

As the days passed, we explored our new lives together. We rode our bikes through the city, feeling the wind on our faces, the thrill of speed and freedom. We worked out side by side, pushing each other to new heights, celebrating every achievement.

Our connection grew stronger, evolving into a romantic bond that felt natural and right. We were a couple now, navigating this new world together. The love we had for each other, forged in the ethereal realm, blossomed in our new, physical forms.

And as we stood together, gazing at our reflections, we knew that this was just the beginning. We had found a new home, a new life, and most importantly, we had found each other. The road ahead was ours to conquer, and we were ready to face it together.

The leather suit, which had started it all, became a symbol of our transformation. Every time I slipped into it, I felt a rush of excitement and power. The way it hugged my body, the way it made me look and feel—it was exhilarating. And as we rode together, side by side, I knew that we were more than just bikers. We were partners, lovers, and together, we were unstoppable.

[buck-star]

Saviour

Supposed to be a weapon but somehow the emotions will always bring out the human in him.

Pairing: WS!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 4.055 Words (with alternate ending 5.412 Words]

Warnings/Tags: hurt/comfort, mention of brainwashing, torture, captured, PTSD, anxiety, established relationship, mention of violence, gun, blood, nightmare, fluff, read at your own risk

Authors Note: The Oneshot has an alternate ending, it’s a bit more fluffy to the end if you choose to read the alternative. It’s marked when the alternate starts, so you can decide if you want to read it or not. Thanks to @soelstress for proofreading. Dividers made by me.

Events: Bucky Barnes Bingo [BO23 | B5 | Brock Runlow/Crossbones | @buckybarnesbingo], Marvel-OC -Hub [Row Two-One | Knight in shining armour | @marvel-oc-hub], Bucky Boy Bingo [G5 | Crying | @buckyboybingo]

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

A strong smell of sweat and blood fills the room. The loud screams and weak begging are audible in the room. You're standing in the corner of the room, your eyes on the man who's strapped to the metallic chair in the middle of the room. A bunch of men surround him, while Pierce sits in front of the soldier on a stool.

With a nod toward a man next to him Pierce gets up and takes a step backwards, a smug grin on his face when the other man pushes the Winter Soldier back into the chair. The thick fingers of the soldier dig into the metal of the armrests, his body shaking when everyone takes a step backwards.

And you're standing there, watching the man torturing the soldier so he will do whatever they ask him to do. He's nothing but a toy for them, a doll that’s good as long as he obeys, and if he doesn't, they will help him.

“Please. NO!” The man screams, his voice breaking when one of the men secures him with another strap around his arms. Within a moment the soldier isn't able to get off the chair anyway; he never was, and he never will be able to unless they want him to. There are too many men around; not even with his strength and his abilities would he fight them all without being on the ground, bleeding, and at their mercy again. “No…no…no…no…”

His voice is barely above a whimper when he leans his head back and closes his eyes for a moment. His mouth opens almost automatically when one of the men pushes something against his lips. He pushes the plastic into the soldier's mouth, making sure it sits perfectly on his teeth. Then the man takes a step backwards too and taps something on the computer that's connected with the chair.

Pierce turns to you, the grin still plastered all over his face. He takes a step closer, watching you intensely. Your expression is cold and empty, the feelings bottled up deep inside of you. “Bring him into his cell after; you know your job,” he says with a dark glint in his eyes. You nod, your eyes trailing back to the soldier.

He's still keeping his eyes closed, more tears leaking down his cheeks as he whimpers quietly. His whole body is trembling, his knuckles already white from the strength he used to dig his fingers into the metallic armrests.

“Good, then wipe him. We start over again with him,” Pierce says loudly, waving at a few of his men before they walk to the door and out of the cell. It’s only you, another man, and the soldier in the cell. The man shows no emotion either, his fingers dancing over the keyboard of the computer a few more times before he hums.

The man hits a button, and the machine above the soldier's head is moving, settling perfectly around his head. One plate on his right cheek and another pressing over the top of the left side of his face. The sounds of electricity mixed with the pained screams of the soldier fill the room, making you almost flinch.

But just almost, because you’re too familiar with the sounds to let your body rule your actions. If you show fear or uncertainty, you will no longer be free; you will end up in one of the cells for them for experiments for super soldiers.

The soldier keeps struggling against the straps that hold him in place. His screams loud, the pain audible in them. His back arches, his chest sweaty, and he pants between his screams.

After a few minutes the machine turns itself off. The soldier stares at the ground in front of him, his expression and eyes cold as ice. He doesn't know anything — he doesn't know who he is, where he is, who you are, or what he has to do for the men here.

The other Hydra agent grumbles something under his breath and leaves the cell as well — leaving you alone with the Winter Soldier. You slowly approach the soldier, staying quiet when you remove the straps around his arms and legs, looking at him. He doesn't move; he just sits there and stares into the air.

You narrow your eyes; usually the soldier would sit up straight and wait for something — a command. However, this time he remains in this position. A whimper escapes his plump lips after a while, and tears form in his ocean blue eyes once again. The features of his face contort, and he takes a shaky breath.

“Soldier?” You ask, your voice soft and your expression concerned, when his body starts trembling again. The soldier opens his mouth; there are no words leaving his lips. His fingers dig into the chair again, trying to grip anything — like he’s trying to ground himself with something when he can't remember anything.

The soldier looks up, his eyes still watery, and he takes a shaky breath. “P-Please, no more… I c-can't…” He whispers, a few tears rolling down his cheeks while he keeps staring at you. “I-It hurts.”

Your eyes widen; you know that it hurts; he wouldn't scream like that if it was pleasurable. But instead of asking where he is or who he is, he shows his most vulnerable side. The side of him they would immediately get rid of with another brainwashing.

“I'm not doing such things. You probably don't remember me, but—” You take a deep breath. He doesn't remember you; he never does, and it always aches in your chest. When the soldier shows one human emotion, he gets wiped, and then you can only see the cold, distanced expression on his face. Except right now, he's trembling and whimpering like a puppy who got kicked, and you can't blame him for that.

“P-Please, don't…” He mumbles, his voice rough from all the screaming. His blue eyes show so much pain, searching for some comfort, something to hold on to.”Why… What… What did I do?”

‘Showing emotions,’ you think. You don't dare to speak it out loud and scare him further. Instead you walk to the little counter that's at the side of the room, taking a cup and filling it with some water. His eyes following you, he could jump up; he could try to escape, to fight, but he keeps sitting on the chair, only moving a bit to the edge of it and leaning forward.

When you turn around to walk back to him, he sits with his head low and in his hands there. His body is shaking, quiet sobs leaving his lips. He runs his fingers through his brown locks, tugging at them.

“Soldier?” You ask softly, trying to get back his attention. He shakes his head, tugging harsher on his hair, and you're pretty sure it already hurts. But maybe the pain is nothing compared to the other pain Hydra causes in him. He takes another shaky breath, his breathing shorter than before, and he starts bouncing one of his legs. “Soldier, take a deep breath. I got you some water; it will help a bit.”

He remains in the position; his back moves erratically up and down. Without thinking much, you put the cup to the side and kneel down in front of him. The soldier is on edge with his emotions, and you’re not sure how to react to anything, but calling someone isn't an option — he shouldn't suffer more of that pain.

You put your hands on his knees, caressing him through the black pants that belong to his suit. His head shoots up, his eyes widen. The soldier stares at you, slowly settling his eyes on your hands before coming back to your face. He's still breathing heavily, but his tears stop for a moment, and he looks like he has to process what you're doing.

“P-Please, don't hurt… Please, I… I'm sorry,” he whispers, not even sure what he's sorry for because he doesn't know anything. His body is tense, but somehow your soft touch soothes him, and he relaxes slightly into your touch. Until more tears fill his eyes and he leans his head into his hands again, sobbing loudly this time.

You kneel there, keeping the soft motions of your fingers over his knees. This man hasn't felt any kind of comfort in decades, so you're not surprised that he reacts with tears. Especially not since you know he's on edge with his emotions.

“Can you take a deep breath for me, please,” you whisper, getting a soft nod in response. The soldier inhales deeply, his exhale shaky while he grabs his hair tightly, grounding himself. “Doing so good for me. Now sit up a bit and take a sip of the water.”

He nods again, doing as you say. Your heart aches when you look at him; he looks so broken, so hurt. You reach for the cup, and the moment the warmth of your hands is missing on his knees, he whimpers, his breath immediately shaking again. You hand him the cup and put your hands back on his knees, tracing them slowly.

“T-Thank you. What is that?” The soldier questions and looks into the cup. You swallow down the lump in your throat. They didn't just destroy his current memories; they destroyed so much more whenever they whipped him. Sometimes he doesn't know what certain things are; sometimes he just forgets his past, and right now he doesn’t even know what he's holding in his hand.

“That's water in a cup. You can drink it; it helps to soothe the itch in your throat,” you explain. He nods, his eyes still focused on the liquid before he brings the cup to his plump lips and takes a small sip of it. The soldier hums quietly, taking another sip.

“It’s good; it's warming my throat,” he mumbles, and you frown. He takes another sip and hums once again. The water shouldn't be warm; it should be cool.

“Soldier, can you touch the metal of the chair, please?” You request. He looks up from the cup, nodding before he touches the armrest of the chair. “What does it feel like?”

“It's warm, hard,” he voices, looking at you with slight confusion. You lift one of your hands, holding it in front of him. He tilts his head and touches your arm this time, sighing softly. “It's cool and sooo soft.”

You nod, bringing it back to his knee. For a moment you're lost in your thoughts while he looks at you and keeps drinking the water. He doesn't feel it is different; he just doesn't know the right word. You slowly get up, holding your hand out for him to take it and get up as well. He nods and gets up, holding your hand tightly.

“Look down, and let me lead you. Don't look up, please,” you mumble, and the soldier immediately nods. He still looks confused, but the way your voice changes is a bit hesitant, he knows it's important that he does exactly what you're asking for. “Can you walk?”

He nods again, taking a step to show you that he can walk. The soldier is a bit wobbly on his legs, but it will bring the two of you to his cell, where you will have some privacy. Your grip around his hand tightens a bit, and you walk to the door of the cell, the soldier doing the same.

Just as you asked, he keeps his head low, looking at your feet. When you open the door, the lights are way brighter, and the voices that echo through the hallway are loud. He almost flinches but tries to hide it as best as he can. He shouldn't show anything that could count as emotion; otherwise, you wouldn’t have urged him to look down.

You lead the soldier through the hallway, stopping in front of a heavy metal door. He doesn't look up, but his body starts trembling when you open it and wait for him to walk inside.

“Please, I don't wanna be alone. P-Please, don't wanna be in the dark…” His voice breaks slightly when he whispers those words. He shakes his head slightly, wanting to back away but also not wanting anyone to notice. You run your thumb softly over the back of his hand, taking a step into the room to turn on the light.

The soldier breathes out, still trembling, but he walks into the cell. It looks familiar, but at the same time he can't remember that he has ever seen that cell. There is an old bed with an even older mattress in the one corner, a small table with a bunch of books, and a wardrobe. Next to it is a door that leads to a little bathroom.

You walk into the cell after him, closing the door. The soldier turns around and looks at you, his eyes widened. “Are you going to hurt me?”

“No, I'm not like them,” you explain, nodding to the bed. The soldier walks closer, sitting down and looking back at you. You take the chair and take a seat opposite him. A soft smile spreads on your lips, and he feels his insides warming; it's the most beautiful smile he has ever seen. Even though he can’t remember any other smile, he’s sure yours is the most beautiful smile of them all.

“Y-You know me, don't you? You have that hurt expression in your eyes whenever you look at me,” he questions. You nod slightly, looking down with a soft sigh. How do you explain to someone that his mind — his memories — got wiped and that you’re always there to take care of the soldier? He takes a deep breath, clearing his throat. His voice breaks once more when he continues to talk. “It's not the first time that I can't remember you or anything…”

You shake your head once again, looking up at him. The soldier leans forward, his hands once again in his hair and his breathing heavy. He can't remember; he tries so hard, but there is nothing but emptiness.

“You remembered... you felt something,” you confess, getting ready for being shouted at, getting a punch, but he just remains in his position. The soldier slowly moves back and forth to calm himself down. You're unsure if you should tell him more about him, about Hydra, about the wiping, or if you should just wait for him to say anything. But somehow the words come out before you can stop them. “They wipe your brain every time you can remember or feel anything. They say it's for the best, so you can do your jo— you can do what they command.”

“It's nothing legal…” he mumbles under his breath. Of course, it isn't. No boss wipes their employees' minds to make them work however the boss wants. “Please, tell me more about me. About… anything.”

“If they find out you're on edge with your emotions, they would wipe you and start over. With the trigger words, they would turn you into the weapon they made you. I don't know much about you; they didn't tell me a lot, so I can't use it to my advantage. But your name is James — but you prefer being called Bucky,” you tell him. He looks like he’s saying the name in his mind over and over again — his name. He's not ‘Soldier’; no, he's James, who likes being called Bucky. Even if it's weird to have a nickname that doesn't fit with his first name.

“James, Bucky. It doesn't fit that well. But I don't complain; at least I have a name,” he says thoughtfully. “James. Bucky. I like both, and you… do you like them?”

A soft chuckle leaves your lips, and you nod. “I like them. I guess Bucky comes from Buchanan. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes; it's a beautiful name.”

He keeps looking at you; his eyes soften, and it looks like he slowly calms down a bit. There is still a storm of emotions in his ocean blue orbs, but there is also a slight smile that tugs at his lips. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

You tell him your name, and Bucky says it a few times before he nods. He's trying so hard to keep it in his mind, saying it over and over again so nothing can wipe it out of his mind again. “Do you still have pain?”

Bucky narrows his eyes; he was so busy admiring you and feeling a warmth he hasn’t felt in so long around you that he almost forgot about it. But he nods slowly, his body aching, and he still doesn't feel too comfortable with too much light or noise.

You reach into a drawer next to you, pulling out a few pills. You give one to him. Bucky looks at you with narrowed eyes, taking the pill from you. He waits a moment, placing the pill on his tongue. You chuckle softly, pointing at the bottle next to his bed.

Bucky turns, smirking when he grabs the bottle. He gulps down the pill with a sip of water and shakes his head. “Mhm… isn’t it… a bit dangerous to put pills into a room with a man who doesn’t even know who he is?”

“I’m here with you most of the time. Unless you’re on missions or something,” you say, putting the pills back into the drawer. “Do you want to get some sleep?”

Bucky shakes his head. Even if he tried, he couldn’t sleep now. “What am I doing for them…? Will-Will they let me go?”

You swallow thickly; of course he would ask questions. But telling the man who’s on edge with his feelings that he’s captured by them? “I-I don’t know. I don’t think so. You’re doing… a good job; that’s what they say. You’re the most successful.”

“In what? Does it have to do with my enhanced strength, my enhanced abilities? Or with that arm?” He keeps asking, holding up his metal arm. His blue eyes roaming.over the glistening metal before they settle on your face again.

"Assassin. The winter soldier. The reason why you’re not allowed to remember or feel. And that arm. You had an accident years back, and they found you and… Your arm was damaged, so you got the metal one,” you explain, watching him intensely. To your surprise, he’s pretty quiet and relaxed.

“Thought so… Why else would everyone keep weapons in their hands? Why did I never try to be less successful so they wouldn’t want me?”

“You did. You failed missions, you got wiped, and they turned you into a cold weapon. You tried to rip off your arm — they connected it with your shoulder,” you keep explaining. Bucky nods, listening intensely and taking in every detail he can get.

“Why don’t I just punch myself through these hallways? I’m a super soldier,” he mumbles quietly. Bucky takes a deep breath, looking around the room. “Doesn’t look that nice, so.”

“Because of a promise.”

“A promise? What promise?” He asks, his eyes narrowing. Bucky tilts his head, looking like a cute puppy with his soft blue eyes and his soft, plump lips, which are slightly pulled upwards into a slight smile.

“You... you promised me you wouldn’t run without me. I mean... I know you can’t remember. We… It's hard to escape here as someone who’s known as good as you. And for me, as someone who’s known as your lover…” you whisper, looking down. He can’t remember you; he can’t remember your relationships or his feelings for you. “So we made a plan, but somehow… you… they noticed the change in your expression in more situations than just when you're with me.”

“We… I… what?” Bucky stumbles over his words. Within a second he gets off the bed and down on his knees in front of you. He brings one of his hands to your chin, lifting it up slightly so you have to look at him. “I might be broken. I can’t remember a lot, but if that heart belongs to you, it always will.”

You smile softly; Bucky looks so sure with what he says. He doesn’t even know who he is, but yet he comforts you. You place your hands on his cheeks, feeling the bruises he got from Pierce and the brainwashing.

Bucky leans into your touch; it feels familiar, so soft and loving. “A plan, you say, huh? What's the plan?” You shake your head; he has had enough stress and pain; you don’t want him to be someone he has to be for Hydra to escape with you. “No, baby doll, tell me. There’s no head shaking.”

Baby doll. You smile softly. “Do you remember the nickname?”

“Mhm, actually not. It just… I said it before I even thought about it,” he confesses. “But I like it, my baby doll. So what’s the plan to escape?”

“It includes the Winter Soldier. Or a part of him. Tonight, before the curfew, an agent goes through the cells. If you… when he opens the door, you have to knock him out. And after that we have to work our way through the hallway. There are cameras… not much, but a few agents and alarms. If someone notices, they press the alarm, and the doors are shut and locked.”

Bucky nods, and you stroke his cheeks softly. His eyes are so soft, the same way they were when he remembered everything. He leans closer, his hair falling slightly into his face, and you brush the strands back. He’s so close, you can feel his breath against your lips and then his lips. So soft and warm, fitting perfectly against yours.

Flashes appear in front of Bucky’s eyes; he sees you and him. He feels your warmth. He feels his hands on your body. He feels what he didn’t know he ever felt, but there it is. Flashbacks — things he hated to have, suddenly the most wonderful thing.

He keeps his lips pressed on yours, refusing to pull back. But when his lungs burn, he slowly pulls away, panting just like you. A soft smile on his lips. “I remember you, my baby doll.”

Tears form in your eyes, and you pull Bucky into another kiss. His cheeks pink and his breath heavy, he kisses you back with as much love and warmth as you kiss him. His lips slightly swollen when he pulls back again, leaning his forehead against yours.

Who knew it would help to kiss him to make him remember. And you’re sure when he gets his memories of you back, he will get his others back too. It will need a lot of time to heal his mind, his mental health, but it’s possible.

“I love you; we will escape here. Tonight, baby doll. I will be the Winter Soldier, this time to free both of us, and then I don’t have to be him again,” Bucky promises, and you know he keeps it. Your plan is perfect, especially since there are barely any people working at night, and the cameras, as well as the alarm, can be turned off with a gun. A gun you will get once Bucky has the agent knocked out, because they all wear at least one in their belts.

“I love you too, Bucky,” you mumble, tangling your hands into his soft brown hair. You stroke your thumbs over his cheekbones, kissing the tip of his nose. No matter how often you do it, his cheeks already heat up, and a soft but low grumble comes from deep in his chest.

His blue eyes no longer empty or hurt, at least not as much as before. There is still a certain amping of feelings — of course there is; he still doesn’t know who he is or what his past was like. But the knowledge that he’s not completely lost, that there’s someone who loves him as the man he is, makes his expression soften. His blue orbs filled with love, with warmth, affection, and deep feelings for you — for his baby doll.

ALTERNATE ENDING

Suddenly the door slams open, the metal connecting with the stone wall. Bucky immediately flinches, covering his ears with his hands, and falls to the ground.

You turn around, your eyes widened as you see Pierce and two men with weapons behind him in the door. The smug grin back on his face when he walks slowly into the cell.

“You think you can hide his feelings? We agreed to him having only enough emotions to be entertained by you,” he says, his voice rough and dark. “And then you betray us, hiding that he still has feelings, telling him about himself, and planning to escape.”

You get up, shielding Bucky with yourself, and glare at the other man in front of you. With a wave of his hand, a shot echoes through the cell, and Bucky whimpers once again. You feel pain in your lower leg; looking down, you see the blood soaking your pants immediately. The shock keeps most of the pain away, but you lose your balance and fall down on your knees.

“That’s where you belong, on your knees for a man,” he laughs, nodding. Brock Rumlow, who shot the bullet, walks to you, grinning before he pushes you to the side to get to Bucky.

“GET AWAY FROM—“ you shout but only earn a kick into your side from Rumlow. He grasps Bucky harshly by his hair, literally dragging him over the floor out of the room.

“Need him wiped and obedient and not a puppy in love,” Pierce tells you with a devilish grin on his face. You would punch him, kick him, but the pain of the wound gets worse, and you keep lying still so it hurts less.

“No… please,” Bucky screams, fighting against the man whose fingers are mercilessly tangled in Bucky’s soft, brown locks. “No, please, you need to stop the bleeding. Please… NO! No, not again, please; it hurts; let go! Please, you need to help her with the wound.”

Bucky keeps fighting against the other man — kicking and punching around. But he doesn’t get the other man to let go of him. His screams echo through the hallway, mixed with cries and pleas. Pierce smirks next to you, looking down before he throws a bandage into your face.

“Bucky? Bucky, hey, baby,” your soft voice is audible. It sounds so distant, but he can feel your warmth. Your soft touch — your hand stroking over his tensed muscles, soothing him slightly. “Bucky, baby.”

Bucky slowly opens his eyes, blinking a few times. He’s in a room with dim light, a soft mattress underneath him, and a familiar smell — you and home — surrounding him. The touch on his shoulder feels real, your voice sounding not as distant anymore, and he immediately sits up.

“Baby doll. Did they hurt you? Where are we? I’m so sorry; I should have fought more against Rumlow. I should have protected you,” Bucky stumbles over his own words, his eyes widened when he turns his head to look at you.

You’re sitting next to him, wearing one of his big shirts, and a soft smile is plastered on your face. Aren’t you hurt? Where’s Rumlow? Where’s Pierce? How did he escape them and land in a bed with you by dim light?

“Baby doll, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. But I remember you. I-I said your name when they put me on the chair. I remember you, baby doll,” he whispers, tears welling in his eyes.

Bucky doesn’t even give you a moment to answer; he barely takes a breath before he keeps apologizing for something you can’t quite put your finger on at the moment.

“Buck… we are home. Our home, our house, take a deep breath for me, please,” you say softly. You let your hand slide down his arm to his thigh, caressing his skin softly. Bucky does as you say; he takes a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent surrounding him before he exhales. He then looks down at his hands, playing with his fingers.

He's still tense, the muscles of his jaw visible, and you keep the soft motion on his thigh. “Do you want us to do the method you learned?”

Bucky nods, waiting for you to continue talking. At first he hated the method; he didn’t think it could work to name things and feel better after, but somehow it became one of his favorite methods to get out of his panic or flashbacks.

“Good then, tell me five things you can see,” you start, following his blue eyes, which scan the room for a moment. He doesn’t want to always say the same thing, so he takes a moment, taking in his surroundings to calm down.

“My book,” he mumbles. The Hobbit, from 1937, when it first came out. You found it between some other stuff a while back in one of his boxes Steve kept even when Bucky fell off the train and was captured by Hydra. When you started dating Bucky and he introduced him to Steve, you talked about it, and he gave the box to Bucky. “You, my baby doll. Your fluffy socks. Our bookshelf. The moon.”

You nod, smiling. For a moment you let your eyes trail to the window, looking at the bright moon, then you focus back on Bucky. “Now, can you tell me five things you can feel physically?”

“Your hand on my thigh, soft and warm,” Bucky sighs softly, putting his hand on yours on his thigh with a soft smile. “I can feel the sheets, your breath, the blanket. And I can feel my heartbeat.”

Bucky brings his other hand to his chest, pressing down to feel his steady heartbeat. You nod once again. “So, we’re home, Buck, in our bed. You’re safe; I’m safe. Do you want to tell me about your nightmare?”

”It was during the time of the Winter Soldier. But you were there, and you comforted me after they wiped me. It hurt so bad… and I begged them to stop. But when they did, I felt so much emptiness and fear, but you were there. And you told me about a plan to escape and that we were in a relationship,” Bucky tells you.

He scoots closer to you and wraps his arms around your waist while he pulls you down and places his head on your chest. You immediately bring your hands to his soft brown locks and run your fingers through them, massaging his scalp and neck.

“And then we wanted to escape there, but suddenly Pierce was there, and Rumlow shot your leg, and they dragged me out… and I couldn’t help you… I wanted to help you, baby doll,” he whispers, a few tears soaking the shirt you’re wearing.

“It’s oke, Buck. It was just a nightmare. Neither Pierce nor Rumlow were here; no one is hurt,” you mumble, pressing soft kisses to the top of his head. He hums, gripping your hips before he moves himself to lay between your legs with his head on your chest.

"That good, comfy?" He mumbles, looking up with the most adorable expression on his face. The slight pout, his soft blue eyes, while his fingers curl further around your hips. You chuckle softly and nod.

“Yes, now close your eyes and try to sleep. We are safe, Bucky. I love you,” you say, running your fingers further through his hair before your eyes settle down on his Hobbit book. “Do you want me to read out loud?”

“I love you, too, baby doll. Keeping you safe, all mine,” he grumbles against your skin. Bucky nods to answer your question, snuggling further into you. He kisses your collarbone before he closes his eyes and listens to your steady heartbeat as well as to your soft voice reading the Hobbit for him. A soft smile forms on his lips, and he relaxes further, his insides warming when he thinks about the love he feels for you and the love you offer him. “My baby doll, mine, all mine. Love you so much, my precious baby doll.”

Taglist: @rogersbarber @loki-laufeyson68 @etherealdisneyvillainness @winterschildren8 @pono-pura-vida @kimmie113080 @sergeantbarnessdoll @sebastianstanisahotmf @mercurial-chuckles @holylulusworld @randomawesomeperson102 @looking1016 @multiversefanfics @kpopgirlbtssvt @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @iris-xoxo-juhu @fckedupandbeautiful @hisredheadedgoddess28 @casa-boiardi @blackhawkfanatic @mrsalexstan @thesarcasmqueen-22 @kandis-mom @peachy-satan00 @armystay89 @queen-honeybee-stories [add yourself]

[probablyasocialecologist]

“The machines we have now, they’re not conscious,” he says. “When one person teaches another person, that is an interaction between consciousnesses.” Meanwhile, AI models are trained by toggling so-called “weights” or the strength of connections between different variables in the model, in order to get a desired output. “It would be a real mistake to think that when you’re teaching a child, all you are doing is adjusting the weights in a network.”

Chiang’s main objection, a writerly one, is with the words we choose to describe all this. Anthropomorphic language such as “learn”, “understand”, “know” and personal pronouns such as “I” that AI engineers and journalists project on to chatbots such as ChatGPT create an illusion. This hasty shorthand pushes all of us, he says — even those intimately familiar with how these systems work — towards seeing sparks of sentience in AI tools, where there are none.

“There was an exchange on Twitter a while back where someone said, ‘What is artificial intelligence?’ And someone else said, ‘A poor choice of words in 1954’,” he says. “And, you know, they’re right. I think that if we had chosen a different phrase for it, back in the ’50s, we might have avoided a lot of the confusion that we’re having now.”

So if he had to invent a term, what would it be? His answer is instant: applied statistics.

“It’s genuinely amazing that . . . these sorts of things can be extracted from a statistical analysis of a large body of text,” he says. But, in his view, that doesn’t make the tools intelligent. Applied statistics is a far more precise descriptor, “but no one wants to use that term, because it’s not as sexy”.

[...]

Given his fascination with the relationship between language and intelligence, I’m particularly curious about his views on AI writing, the type of text produced by the likes of ChatGPT. How, I ask, will machine-generated words change the type of writing we both do? For the first time in our conversation, I see a flash of irritation. “Do they write things that speak to people? I mean, has there been any ChatGPT-generated essay that actually spoke to people?” he says.

Chiang’s view is that large language models (or LLMs), the technology underlying chatbots such as ChatGPT and Google’s Bard, are useful mostly for producing filler text that no one necessarily wants to read or write, tasks that anthropologist David Graeber called “bullshit jobs”. AI-generated text is not delightful, but it could perhaps be useful in those certain areas, he concedes.

“But the fact that LLMs are able to do some of that — that’s not exactly a resounding endorsement of their abilities,” he says. “That’s more a statement about how much bullshit we are required to generate and deal with in our daily lives.”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

To Need Somebody

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, angst, very light fluff, pre-established relationship, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: After a hunt goes poorly, Dean retreats down a well-tread path of self-loathing. You've been here before, and you'll be here again, and you'll stay every time. Self-esteem warning, but that's it.

Author's Note: First Dean fic! A very good excuse to rewatch supernatural and say it's for my own edification as if he doesn't live in my head rent-free.

Title from Renegade by Big Red Machine ft Taylor Swift.

Word Count: 3.8k

The night doesn’t pass as quickly as you’d like it to. It’s long and slow, treelines and yellow grass moving in blur out the window as the stinging, stabbing pain in your leg keeps you awake.

You keep your face pressed to the glass, hidden in shadows and under your makeshift blanket—it’s just a jacket, but it’s Dean’s so it smells like him and might be better than a blanket—so that the light reflecting off your tired, tear-stained face doesn’t catch the attention of the rear-view mirror.

Doesn’t catch the attention of Dean.

He hasn’t spoken since the drive home began. He’d carried you to the car, then into the motel, then on the bed, holding you still while Sam cleaned and sewed up the gash in your thigh. Dean had muttered words of comfort and let you bite down on his shirt through the stitches. He’d told you that you’d done well, and that the kid was going to be fine.

The kid with you was going to be fine. You’d been faster than the demon—but not faster than its blade aimed at your leg—and the little girl who had attached to you was going to be traumatized, but had a lifetime ahead of her to heal from it.

The little boy that had been with Dean didn’t. He was ash scattered over the skyline and stuck to wet grass. And you knew Dean blamed himself, even though Sam had told you in hushed words at a gas station that it there was nothing anyone could have done. The kids eyes had started to go black, and he’d wandered to the window with an expression of wonder Dean had caught immediately, because he was a good hunter and better man.

And it wasn’t Dean’s fault the kid had punched through the window with inhuman strength. You’d all assumed that the crazy fucking ritual was more of an offering than a conversion. If your kid had punched through a window, you would have likely lost her as well.

But you hadn’t. Sam’s hadn’t lost his either. By pure, shit luck, Dean’s was the one that formed a stronger connection. That fell under faster, and died for it.

So now Dean wasn’t speaking to you or Sam. He’d helped you to the Impala, checked that you were comfortable, and set his jacket over your body, even after you told him you were okay. You’d reached a hand up to his face, told him you loved him, and gotten a grimacing smile in return.

You know he loves you. He’s not good at saying it, but you know. You know because he’s driving slower than usual, to avoid bumps. You know because the music is low, and it’s one of his better tapes. One of the one’s you’ve told him you like more than the others, and the one he always put it on when you’re in pain.

There isn’t a doubt in your mind that Dean loves you. And the silent acts of attention and service make the exact three times he has said it all the more meaningful.

The first time, when you’d tried to leave—reaching a breaking point of I can’t keep loving him like this, but I can’t get over him while I’m here—and he’d shot down your every fear with begging words and a confession he’d sounded afraid to make.

The second time, when you’d died. Really died, and Dean had tried to break up with you to protect you when you’d come back. You’d called an idiot, but your idiot, and simply refused to leave him. You’d told him to give you one good reason he wanted you to go, and he’d never see you again. He’d shouted, and you’d screamed, and you think you won. You’re still here, so you won. 

The third time, which you called the good time. Where he hadn’t said it in a shout or plea, or because he was in afraid of losing you in whatever form, but because he wanted to. Dean had really just wanted you to know that he loved you, and now you did. And you’d never doubt it again.

But this still hurts. The wall that forms over Dean—a form of protection from this silent burden and self-inflicted torture you know must be unbearable and heavier than the world, crushing on his shoulders and head and ribs—is like a stray dog that you just have to watch tear itself apart, and hope it will accept your outstretched hand. Offering comfort it doesn’t know it deserves.

You know Dean loves you, and you know he never takes your hand, and it still really fucking hurts. A fight would be better than this. Screaming would be a relief to the heavy silence that had started to form a weight in your lungs. Your head felt like iron, and you were beginning to wonder if your tongue with ever stop being a pointless muscle that was uncomfortable in your mouth. Stop just itching at your teeth and finally become useful. Find the right words that would make Dean do anything, anything at all. Literally anything that wasn’t sitting like a sentry and holding the wheel like—if he choked it and it spat out blood—something would fix itself.

It’s dawn when you hear the engine stop, and you can’t move. A little because you still can’t fully support any weight on your leg, but mostly because moving will be acknowledging that you’re awake. And being awake comes with choices. You either have to look at Dean and pretend you don’t see the way he’s ripping himself apart before smashing everything back together in a way that’s just a little less stable than before, or you have to not look at Dean.

He’ll notice. He notices everything, especially obvious things like you not looking at him. And it will hurt him—make this hole you think lives in his ribcage or spine bigger and more hollow—so no matter what pain it causes you, you need to look at Dean.

You push up your forearms with a groan, and he’s right there. Already watching you, so obviously in pain, and so obviously guarded from it that there’s not much for you to do right now. These are things Dean has to ask you for before you can give them. If you offer kind words, he’ll think they’re tainted with pity and spit venomous ones back. If you offer a body he’ll take it, but then the hole will grow larger as the guilt sets in for using you, even if you were the one that asked.

When it’s like this, all you can do is sit with him. Let him help you into the bunker, and—when he tries to put you in bed—insist he stays here, or you go where he goes.

You can make that about you, about not wanting to be abandoned in the midst of your physical turmoil, instead of Dean. He’ll let you follow him if it’s for you.

“You need to rest,” he grunts your name, and these are the first words he’s spoken in almost twelve hours. They’re almost inaudible, and a little angry, but they’re the most amazing sounds you’ve ever heard. “Been a long night. You’re hurt-“

“I can rest with you.” You whisper, and he looks like you shot him. “I don’t want to be alone, Dean. Please.”

There’s a long, horrible moment where you think he’ll say no. Where he’ll mutter that he’s never a productive in a bedroom setting for anything like resting, give you an empty smirk and a sleep well, Sweetheart before walking out the door and closing it behind him. If he does, you won’t be near him until he comes to bed in the dead of night, finally deeming himself worthy of undeserved luxuries like blankets and pillows.

In that awful moment, you consider crawling to him and dragging the entire bed set with you. Demanding that he gives you just proximity, because you both need it. He won’t have to touch you, or look at you, or speak to you, but he’ll be near you. At an acceptable distance, in case something in him escapes and you need to be there to catch it.

Dean doesn’t help you out of bed to follow him. But he does climb onto the mattress at your side, sitting up at the headboard and resting his hands in fists against his thighs, staring ahead with a practiced, unreadable expression.

You take it. Loving Dean is a lot of taking things. A lot of trying to give things back and having them be refused. It’s worth it, worth every screamed fight and strange, empty moment of only being near him, because most of the time it’s not like this. Most of the time it’s jokes and shared, sparring words. It’s almost all watching him be goofy and charming, and kissing a stubbled cheek when he gets in a mock fight with Sam and loses. Smiling and telling him you’ll get him next time, Buddy.

But these darker, emptier times are an unavoidable hazard of the trade. People who date in offices have to navigate HR, people who date in entertainment have to deal with the media and hunters who date have to deal with the fact that loss is inevitable, and you can’t afford to be attached to anything. On top of that, Winchesters who date have to grapple with their whole… everything.

But Dean is still with you. And that means he’s decided the joy of having you is worth the pain of losing you. It’s why when you slip your hand into his, he doesn’t pull it away. He squeezes it, and clings to it like a lifeline.

Sleep fades in and out in a haze, never long enough to dream or feel rested, but enough to register that Dean is crumbling. It starts with his body suddenly slouched down the mattress, then his legs are tangled in yours. Soon after your face is near his neck, and finally, he’s asleep at your side.

From there the day is traded sleep. You’re awake, and you shift the blanket to cover his body with yours. He’s awake, and suddenly your hair has been brushed from your face. You’re awake, your leg is hooked over his waist. He’s awake, you’re on top of him.

When you’re finally awake together, you just watch each other. You don’t speak first—Dean always to speaks first during these things—but you might have to stay here for a while until he does.

His eyes strained as if something is going to burst out of him, and he’s using every fiber and crevice of his will to keep it in. You don’t want to keep demanding more of Dean’s will. You don’t want to demand anything of him at all. So you just wait for him to fall a little further—keeping a soft, encouraging smile on your face the whole time—until he comes down entirely and speaks again. Light words coated in a pain that makes your head and heart ache, but words all the same.

“How’d you end up there, Sweetheart?”

You shrug, matching his tone but making your face more open. Wide and almost innocent, considering the position of resting over to your sex-god boyfriend, whose hands are wandering to hold you by your thigh. “Not sure.” You lean down, smiling at Dean like you have a secret as your voice drops to a whisper. “Between you and me, I think someone keeps putting me here. I go to sleep and wake up in the same place every time.”

He chuckles. “We should do something’ about that. Tie you to the bed so you can’t be moved.”

“I think,” you kiss his jaw, tangling your fingers in the soft, spiky hair at the nape of his neck. “That might just spur him on. He’d like the challenge.”

You start to kiss over his cheek—because it’s rare you get moment to just touch him without any need to go further, with neither of you asking for more, so you’re taking full advantage—and Dean’s head falling back with a low, long sigh, eyes closing as you continue your self-set task.

“He might.” Dean mutters. “But he also might not let you get to the sleepin’ stage.”

“He would.” You say against his skin, rising back up to watch his face, a strange combination of relaxed pain on his features that you knew too well. Where his brown was drawn but his breathing was slow and easy, and his mouth was parted but in a small frown. “Or he’d end up sleeping on me. The joke would be on him, though, because I love that too.”

“You seem to know this guy real well,” he says your name, dragging his eyes open to hold your gaze, and almost breaking your heart with how tired he looks. How he doesn’t seem to find peace in the truth of the words he’s saying. “He know you?”

“Better than anyone.” You whisper. “And I do know him. I’d like to think it’s better than most.”

“Do ya?”

“I do.” You drop your chin to prop on his chest, and Dean shift up to keep watching you as you speak. “He’s a bit of a goof, but very serious when he needs to be. He’s charming and handsome and a total cowboy, right down to the very odd chivalry and voice.”

“Odd chivalry?”

“He’ll hold my hair back when I’m sick and open every door, but he gets all bitchy when I ask for a fry, even when I offer a blowjob in return.”

“I always give you the fry, even when you just fucking ate all your own. And I don’t take the blowjob.” Dean grumbles, and your smile widens.

“Because you’re a very chivalrous guy, Winchester. Even if you keep moving me on top of you in the middle of the night.”

He frowns, scanning over your face. “I can stop that-“

“Don’t. I think I’ll find my way back here anyway.”

“Yeah? You like it here, huh.”

Dean’s words aren’t teasing like they might have been on another morning, but defeated. All you can do is hold your ground, and stay.

“I love it here.” You hum, playing with his hair under your hands in the way that always slows his breathing and eases the storm in his brain. “I love you.”

Dean sighs, and you know exactly what’s coming before he says it. “Look, Baby-“

“Don’t call me Baby, Dean.” You mutter, continuing your movements. “That’s either a sex name or an apology name, and we’re not about to have sex."

He says your name again, and it’s lower and deeper than before. Like he never wants to stop saying it, but can’t afford to anymore. “You gotta understand that I’m no good for you. Hell, no one’s good for you, but son of a bitch, I’m plain bad-“

You drop your head down to his chest, and take a long, laboring breath. This happens, in some form, every time. You don’t want his apologies or excuses or attempts to convince you to leave. If anything they just cement your place here, because you can be a little spiteful, and you’re not one to give up. As long as Dean keeps loving you, you’ll keep waiting out the darker nights at his side. 

But you’re also a little sick of it. How pointless this is, how it only wastes the finite time life has to offer to anyone, let alone two hunters. How it hurts Dean to say, and you to hear, and he seems to think he’s doing you some sort of favor by pushing you away. That this is saving you and not killing you. Slowly, slowly eating at you until you don’t leave—you won’t leave—but you do start to wonder if it’s you. If Dean just doesn’t trust you or like you all that much, and doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. It’s just as irrational as Dean’s own logic—if only because he’s hurt your feelings a lot before, and always torn himself apart for it after out of love and pain after, making it up to you tenfold—but it remains a little, nagging voice in your head. That people who want you don’t try to push you away. That he does love you, but maybe can’t see a life with you, and just wants you gone.

You try and offer yourself some grace for your doubt, because it’s really, truly, not about Dean. Despite what he seems to believe, you’re not perfect either. You don’t end up hunting because you’re incredibly emotionally stable and have a pristine, joyful past. It just all happened to fall into place that your breaks and cracks line up with Deans. That he can fill in divets and depressions that eat at you—not pretty enough, not likable, nothing anyone could really chose to stay around, always the backup, always the poet and the prophet but never with a name people will remember when you’re inevitably gone—and you can do the same for him.

You need to try to keep doing the same for him. There are parts of you Dean knows that soothing and healing will take time to do, and parts of Dean you’re worried to touch and make worse, but there are also breaking points. Where your words start to spill out in a desperate play to just make it a little better for you both.

This is one of them. And all he’ll have to do is listen.

“You don’t need to agree with me,” when you start your voice is soft but cracked, like a breath you have to fight to take. “And you can even tell me I’m wrong after. But please don’t leave.” 

He looks mostly confused at that, at the sudden shift in the air and spaces between it. Still heavy and clouded with sorrow, but also wired. Detriment. “I ain’t leaving you-“ He says your name, and you cut him off with a sigh. 

“Don’t leave the room. Don’t leave the bed. Just stay here and listen.” 

His frown deepens, but he nods. And now you have to talk. 

It’s not rehearsed or prepared, but it doesn’t need to be. You know what you need to say.

“I’m not going to tell you it wasn’t your fault, because I know you hate that. But I hate when you do this. When you blame yourself, or try to. It’s mean to me.” 

Dean’s hands tense on your body, and he looks like a wounded animal, but you keep going.

“I love you. A lot. And when you tell me I shouldn’t it’s, it hurts.” You sigh, trying to just keep your eyes fixed on a freckle near his nose as you start to choke on your own words and the salty taste they bring. “It doesn’t feel good. It’s like you think I don’t know what I’m doing. Like you’ve tricked me into loving you, when I want to be here. I really like being here, and I know it’s not about me, but I want it to be.” You chance a look at his eyes, and they’re glossy. No tears—you’ve never seen them before, and you likely won’t see them now—but the closest thing you ever get from him. A storm that stays green and trapped, instead of crashing out onto golden, soft skin for you to brush away.

You feel a little selfish, because this is really not about you.

And you can’t really bring yourself to care, or stop.

“I wish you’d let this be about me too.” You whisper, your voice almost inaudible over the lump and ache in your throat. “I wish you’d let me help. I let you help, Dean, and it’s not fair.”

“’S different, Baby.” Dean’s voice is hoarse, and a little unsteady as he shakes his head. “I don’t-“ 

“If you say need help, Winchester, you’re going to need to start rehearsing your speech to convince Chuck to send you back again.”

“You don’t know I was gonna to say that-“

“Yes, you were. And it’s not different. I want to help, Dean.” You’re almost pleasing, and it’s an effort not to crawl up his chest and outright beg. “Let me help, or stop telling me I should fucking leave you. I’m not going to, and I know you don’t really want me to, or we’d have been done two years ago.”

“You shoulda listened two years ago-“

“But I didn’t. And I won’t now.”

Dean shakes his head, huffing a dry laugh. “You’re real damn stubborn, anyone ever told you that?”

“You have.” You let a smile twitch at your lips, but you still don’t relent. “And I’ve told you that you’re no better. And it’s one of the many reasons why I don’t want anyone else.”

“You should-“ 

“No, I shouldn’t.” You give a full, close-lipped smile that’s mostly made of hope. You haven’t fixed anything, but you may have soothed it. Found a way to make his hated a little less consuming, because this is hurting you, and Dean hates hurting you. If he can’t start to change or listen to genuine reason, you can use his own twisted logic against him. “And I’m staying here. Because I love you, and I don’t want to hear about how I deserve better. I know what I deserve, and I know what I want.”

“Me.” 

Dean says his word like he hates it, and you say yours like it’s a prayer. “You.” 

He looks defeated, but not in pain. When his hand wanders up your back, tangling in your hair and tugging it just enough for you to know what he wants, you comply. Falling carefully forward and letting Dean’s lips find yours, allowing him to lead the kiss and decide where it ends. Long and soft and almost delicate, his free hand still rubbing and squeezing on your thigh, but nothing more.

It doesn’t need to be more. Because Dean pulls back slowly, staring at you with a slight awe as he clears his throat, and his voice come out slow, but not forced.

“I,” he swallows, shaking his head at mostly himself. “I love you. And I, uh, I’m glad you’re still here. Glad you’re stubborn.” 

Your smile makes your cheeks hurt, but it’s pain born of joy, so it’s not really pain at all. “I’m glad I’m stubborn too.” You rest back down against him, and know neither of you will move for a long while. “It means I get to stay here.” 

End Note: I'm pre-gaming something. Thank you so, so much for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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@artemys-ackles

[sincerelykimii]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰?

𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝐒𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺， 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴, 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵．

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴， 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘺．

𝐀/𝐍: 𝘐 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺！

Growing up, you always felt a sense of detachment from those around you. Your parents were preoccupied with their own struggles, leaving you to navigate your emotions alone. As a result, you built walls around your heart, finding it easier to keep your feelings hidden rather than risk vulnerability. Friendships and relationships were challenging, as you often seemed distant and aloof. Despite your longing for connection, the fear of getting hurt kept you emotionally unavailable.

When you joined the avengers, you had a hard time connecting with the others. The first couple of weeks you were cooped up in your room keeping to yourself, often finding yourself reflecting on your past life, mirroring the experiences and emotions you once lived through. Whether it was the way you approached relationships or handled adversity, your past life served as a constant reminder and guide. This mirroring allowed you to draw strength from your history, using it as a foundation to build a better future while remaining deeply connected to your roots. Over time you slowly started to join the conversations, showed up at events, even staying for movie nights.

After years of feeling like you were constantly on edge, you finally found a sense of calm. The anxious thoughts began to quiet down, and you felt a newfound sense of control over your emotions. The once overwhelming stressors in your life seemed more manageable, and slowly you approached each day with a serene confidence, bringing a deep sense of inner peace you longed for.

That was until you met Bucky.

You truly didn’t have a problem with him, you found him almost intriguing. His cold demeanor, his attitude, his attractive features. You felt drawn to him. Until you finally drew him out. His snarky comments, his shameful teasing, the pure hatred in his eyes when you walked in the room. Lowering your walls was already hard enough to overcome, but letting in the hatred that spat from his lips wasn’t what you were expecting whatsoever.

You had always been sensitive to the harsh words and negativity thrown your way, but over time, you learned to block out his antics, keeping your calm personality you’ve built. Constantly reminding yourself of your strengths and the small acts of love received from those who truly mattered.

———

You walked into the gym, finally getting some alone time to work out in peace. Well, you thought you did.

There he was. Shirtless, lifting an overly weighted bar over his chest. You didn’t pass up the opportunity, letting your eyes travel down his toned abdomen. That didn’t last long, because as soon as your eyes met his, it felt like the air shifted completely. He was up within seconds, walking over to you. Great.

“Leave.” he practically growled.

You let out a scoff, setting your bag at one of the weight machines, “I didn’t know you owned the gym?” Your retort, your words dripping with annoyance. His eyes flash with just as much annoyance dripping in your tone. He takes a step towards you, his voice dropping an octave lower.

“I don't own the gym, but I make the rules here. And the rule is, you leave.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing spare weights placing them on the bar. Does he hear how stupid he sounds? Like actually. What kind of comeback is that? “I don’t know who you think you are, but you have no right to try and boss me around.” your tone is calm, you didn’t want him to think he can get under your skin so easily, and you surely didn’t want to provoke him. You weren’t mentally prepared for another unnecessary argument. You simply throw your headphones on, not wanting to hear any more of his ‘rules’.

You start your work out, pushing the heavy bar above your chest then slowly back down, letting your arms really feel the weight. Your music plays almost eardrum shattering loud, almost forgetting about Bucky.

Almost.

He finds himself watching how you smoothly handle the weight, his initial anger turning into something more... admiring. His usual sharp tongue stays silent for once, caught off guard by your calm defiance. Instead of chasing you out, he walks closer, deliberately trying to disturb your peaceful workout.

Pushing the bar above your chest a final time, you Finish your set. You glance up, looking into the mirror taking a double take as you see bucky standing too close for comfort. You lower your headphones, letting them fall around your neck before turning to face him. “Did you need something?” You ask, brows furrowing in confusion. You could already hear his sarcastic tone coming from a mile away.

"Need something?"

He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest, still standing uncomfortably close. "I thought I already made it clear you weren't welcome here." Despite his harsh words, there's no real malice behind them now, just pure curiosity on how you'll react.

He wanted a reaction out of you, and you refused to let him get one.

“I’m not going to argue with you.”

Bucky narrows his eyes suspiciously as you abruptly change tactics, his usual confrontation tactic failing miserably. He uncrosses his arms, unsure how to proceed without getting a reaction out of you.

"So, what? You just gonna ignore me?"

You nod at him through the mirror, hands lingering on your headphones, “That exactly.” You say, sliding your headphones back on your head, starting your next set. As you take the weighted bar in your hands, the weight feels lighter than before, almost like a weight being lifted off your shoulders. That weight in question being, Bucky.

He eventually walks away, going back to his own workout. He looks…upset? Usually the two of you would be biting eachothers heads off, but now it’s, peaceful, almost too peaceful. The rest of your workout goes smoothly, no sharp remarks, no bickering, just peace. That’s how you liked it, well you thought you did. Something in the back of your mind, was screaming at you to go and talk to him. The other part telling you to leave him alone.

You began packing your bag back up, glancing over every so often at Bucky, his expression still a frown. Maybe you were too harsh? You leave the gym, taking a final glance at Bucky, his eyes meeting yours briefly before looking away.

Bucky’s head was spiraling just as much as yours, maybe even worse. He watched you pack your bag, your quiet, care free workout making him realize how much he feeds off of the arguments. He sees you look at him multiple times, your expression unreadable. He unconsciously unclenches his jaw when you finally leave, his frown deepening. He had always struggled with expressing his feelings, just as you did. Especially when it came to the person he found himself heavily drawn too. Instead of telling you how much you meant to him, he found himself teasing and picking on you. It was his way of getting your attention, but deep down, he knew it wasn't the best approach. He admired you from afar, wishing he could find the right words to show his affection.

———

A few hours later, you found yourself rummaging through the fridge for what felt like the hundredth time. Just as you reached out to grab something, the door closes almost catching your nose. “What the fuck.” You spat out, jerking your head back.

Once again, there he was. Leaning against the counter, his muscular arms crossed over his chest, a smirk playing on his lips. "Language," he chastises lightly, his tone teasing rather than scolding. He tilts his head slightly, studying you with an unreadable expression.

You roll your eyes opening the fridge again, grabbing a pre-made caeser salad Peter picked up for you at the deli. “Do you ever get tired?” you ask, opening the salad, taking a bite.

“Of what?”

“Being a pain in my ass.” you retort, chuckling softly.

He laughs unexpectedly, throwing his head back slightly. "No," he answers simply, uncrossing his arms. He watches you eat, his smirk softening. "You know what's funny?" He adds suddenly. "You never seem to snap at me anymore." He watches your expression shift, mesmerized by your beautiful features. "You're always calm," He points out thoughtfully, his voice lower than usual. "Like nothing gets to you."

He unconsciously mirrors your action, leaning back against the counter again.

"Do you ever get mad?"

Instead of finding a healthy way to communicate, you often let her frustration and anger take over. You would lash out at those around you, even when they had done nothing wrong. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" You snapped at your friend, who was only trying to help. It was your way of coping, but it left you feeling isolated and misunderstood.

You set your fork down, suddenly losing your appetite. “Not really, you don’t get under my skin as much as you think you do.” you say, sliding the bowl towards him.

He raises an eyebrow, taking the bowl from you and sitting on the counter instead. He starts eating the salad, his mind reeling with questions. "So you're telling me that none of my jokes, or pranks, or constant bickering bothers you?" He asks incredulously.

You shake your head, leaning further against the counter. “I like to think you just like me so much, the only way you think you can talk to me is through those insults.” you reply calmly, knowing just how to get under his skin. You can see his jaw tighten slightly, though there's a flicker of amusement in his eyes at your calm confidence.

He swallows a bite hurriedly, trying to maintain his composure. "You think you've got me all figured out, don't you?

“You didn’t deny it.”

For a split second, his eyes darken with something more than his usual teasing - a mix of frustration and awareness. Then he covers it with a smirk, "Just because I don't deny something doesn't mean it's true," he says.

“Well it stands, till denied.”

He chuckles, taking another bite before speaking. "Fine, I'll deny it. I don't like you, and I only talk to you through insults because I hate your calm, annoying personality." He says, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Your lips curl into a grin, “Lying is a sin Barnes.” you retort, a full smile on your lips now.

He rolls his eyes, but he can't help the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Every time you smiled, it was as if the world around him lit up. Your smile had a way of reaching your eyes, making them sparkle with a warmth that melted his heart.

“And what about you, huh? Always so perfect and put together.” He says, his eyes trailing over your face.

A quiet scoff leaves your lips, “No one’s perfect. Fake it till you make it.” you say, shrugging your shoulders.

His eyes narrow slightly at your words, a hint of vulnerability flashing in their depths before he masks it with a scowl. "Fake it till you make it, huh? Is that what you're doing with your whole perfect act?" He challenges, his tone a bit sharper than before.

You nod, eyes focusing anywhere but his, “yeah.” you coo, softly. Your tone wasn’t as playful anymore, it’s was vulnerable, it was...real.

This obviously didn’t go unnoticed by Bucky.

His scowl deepens, his mind reeling with questions. He's crossed a line, he can tell by the way your voice has lost its usual teasing tone. He swallows hard, his eyes searching your face for any sign that you're really faking it. He can see it now - the way you won't look at him, the way your shoulders have tensed up. He's hit a nerve, and he hates that he feels a strange sense of satisfaction from it.

Before he could say anything, you jump off the counter. “Goodnight.” you say, before dissapearing to your room.

His jaw tightens as he watches you retreat, his mind racing. For the first time in a long time, he feels like an actual asshole. "Shit," he mutters to himself, running a hand through his hair. He knows he's hurt you, can feel it in his gut.

———

The sun came shining strong through your window, illuminating your face. Tossing and turning trying to avoid it, your eyes eventually flutter open taking in the light. You layed in bed longer than you usually would, finding yourself daydreaming about what it would be like to experience true love. The kind of love that made your heart race and your soul feel complete. You longed for someone who would understand you in ways no one else could, someone who would stand by your side through the highs and lows. You yearned for the gentle touch, the shared laughter, and the comforting silence that only one could bring. Finally getting up from the place you enjoyed most, you enter the kitchen pouring coffee into the mug Tony got you for Christmas. ‘Be Happy!’

How ironic.

Bucky hears the soft footsteps down the hall, his eyes watching as you enter the kitchen. He notices the dark circles under your eyes, the tight lines around your mouth.

"Morning," He grunts softly, testing the waters.

You glance over at him, a small smile tugging at your lips, “Mornin.” you coo, voice still gravely from sleep.

He nods, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment longer than necessary. He wants to say something, anything to break the tension between you two. But he's never been great with words, especially when it comes to emotional shit.

"You...uh...look tired."

A small chuckle leaves your lips, before taking a sip of the caffeinated drink. “Thanks.” you mumble, leaning against the counter. Your hair is a mess evident you just awoken, still in your pajama pants hanging low on your hips, paired with a black tank top. He looks you up and down, taking in the sleep-mussed hair, the worn-out pajamas, the way you lean against the counter. There's something about the picture that makes his chest tighten. He sets his own coffee down, moving to stand next to you.

"You okay?"

You nod mimicking his movements, “Yeah, not really a morning person.” Lie. You loved the mornings, just not particularly…this morning. Something about last night hit a nerve, shifting your whole mood. He raises an eyebrow at that, his gaze lingering on your face. He knows a lie when he sees one, and right now, you're practically screaming it. "Liar," he says bluntly, his voice low. "You love mornings. Always have."

Your eyes widen slightly, shocked he knew that. “Someone’s been paying attention, you’re only proving my point from last night.” you retort, taking a long sip of your coffee, loving the feeling of your body warming up.

He tenses at the mention of last night, his jaw clenched tight. He knows he fucked up, knows he hurt you with his careless words. "I'm sorry about last night," he says gruffly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I was an asshole."

You simply brush it off shrugging your shoulders, “It’s fine.” you mutter. He frowns slightly at your dismissive shrug, knowing full well that 'fine' doesn't necessarily mean fine. He leans in a bit closer, trying to maintain eye contact. "It's not 'fine'. I was a prick, plain and simple. Didn't mean to make you feel like shit."

Your heart tightens at his words, an unfamiliar flutter making itself present. “It wasn’t you, just…not my day today.” You weren’t lying, although he was being a real ass last night, he wasn’t the full reason to your mood change.

He watches you closely, buying your excuse. He knows you're not a great liar - your nose wrinkles when you do it. "You hungry?" He asks instead, changing the subject. He's not an idiot, he knows there's something off about you today, but he won't push. You shake your head, setting your mug in the sink. “No, I’m gonna go shower. I’ll see you later Bucky.” You say before disappearing back to your room.

He watches you leave, a furrowed brow and a heavy heart. Something's definitely off with you, and it's bothering him more than he cares to admit. With a sigh, he turns back to the coffee maker, pouring himself another cup. He has a feeling he's going to need it.

———

An hour or so later you emerge to the living room, finding Bucky reading a book, settled comfortably on the sofa. You smile softly at him as he meets your eyes. Grabbing another caeser salad from the fridge, you open it immediately digging in. Thank god for Peter. He looks up from his book as you enter, his eyes following you as you move to the fridge. He watches as you pull out the salad, his eyebrow raising slightly. "That's the second one of those you've had in two days," he comments, setting his book aside.

You stuff another mouthful past your lips, shrugging your shoulders, “It’s so good.” you mumble, a hand coming up to cover your mouth.

He grins slightly, watching you eat. God, you're like a guy when you eat. No lady-like small bites for you. He watches your shoulders, seeing them tense up slightly. "You do this when you're stressed," he realizes softly.

“What?” You mutter.

"Eat like that."

Your eyes widen in shock once again, for someone who hates you, he sure notices a lot of small details. “Barnes if you didn’t pick with me every other day, I would think you’re in love with me” you say casually.

He almost chokes on his own saliva, shocked at your teasing tone. His face flushes slightly red, and he clears his throat roughly. "Fuck off," is his immediate response, trying to keep his voice casual, but his eyes betray him. "Just stating fact." He adds.

Your lips tug into a smirk, his response telling you everything you needed to know. “Once again, not denying it.” you retort, laughing softly.

He rolls his eyes, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. "You're delusional," he mutters, trying to play it cool. He hates that you can read him like an open book.

You coo a soft, almost sarcastic,“uh huh.” stuffing another bite of salad in your mouth. I gotta thank Peter when he gets here. Finally tossing the empty container, you make your way to the couch opening your own book to read, before putting on your headphones. The music is painfully loud, blasting John Wayne, just how you liked it.

He watches you from the corner of his eye, noticing your choice of music. Cigarettes after sex- predictable. Then again, it suits you. His jaw ticks slightly at how damn cute you look with your headphones on. Focus, idiot. You're supposed to hate her.

The song plays peacefully through your ears, the soft singing easing all your thoughts. You glance up at Bucky to find him already looking at you. offering a warm smile before returning back to reading your book.

He catches your smile, feeling his heart skip a beat and internally curses himself. Your warm smile does something to him, things he can't fucking ignore anymore. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, then abruptly stands. "I'm going for a run," he mutters, grabbing his coat.

You look up at him, a confused expression all over your face. “It’s raining…? Just wait, I’ll go with you.” you mutter, jogging to get your own coat. It’s not like you had anything better to do.

He nearly tells you to stay inside, but seeing your determined expression stops him. Instead, he tightens his jaw, trying to ignore how his heart does that stupid flutter thing again. "It's fucking pouring," he argues, partly hoping you'd change your mind. "You'll get soaked."

You roll your eyes in response as you slide your coat on, “So will you, someone has to make sure you don’t slip.”

He scoffs, but secretly smiles at your stubbornness. God, why does she have to be so- fuck, stop thinking like that. "I'm not some damsel in distress," he grumbles, stepping out into the rain.

“Sure act like one.”

He hears your whispered comment and his eyes narrow slightly. He's about to retort when he realizes the cold rain is seeping into his bones. Fucking hell. He quickens his pace, hoping to get this over with. "Just keep up," he calls back, his voice muffled by the rain.

“Yeah, yeah.” you mumble, jogging not too far behind him. You can hear his hushed ‘hurry ups’ so you quicken your pace reaching him, just as you do you miss a step almost tripping. You close your eyes preparing for the fall.

Without thinking, Bucky's hand shoots out reflexively, catching you before you face-plant onto the slick pavement. His arms instinctively wrap around you, holding you steady against him as rain pouring down both of you. He blinks, momentarily stunned by how perfectly you fit against him.

Your arms wrap around his body instinctively, the rain pouring down soaking your hair. His arms wrapped protectively around you make your heart flutter, “Thank you.” you whisper, faces inches from his.

They found themselves wrapped in each other's embrace, completely unaware of the feelings that had blossomed between them. The world around them seemed to fade away as they held on tightly, seeking warmth and comfort in each other's arms. The rain soaked through their clothes, but they didn't mind; the closeness they shared was all that mattered. They looked into each other's eyes, feeling a connection that words couldn't describe, yet neither of them realized that was love.

Bucky's breath catches in his throat, his eyes searching yours for a long moment. The rain pounds around you both, but he barely notices, captivated by your proximity. His grip on you loosens slightly, yet he doesn't pull away. "Careful," he murmurs, his voice rough. You nod, pulling away from his embrace. As soon as you do, you regretted it. His touch is warm, fitting, nearly perfect.

“We should go back, if I get sick, I’m gonna kill you.”

Bucky can't help but smirk at your words, despite the cold biting into him. He falls into step beside you as you both head back, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Yeah, yeah, blame it on me if you catch a cold,"

You snort out a laugh, placing your hands in your own pockets. “Oh I will.”

———

You prayed you didn’t get sick, really prayed. But with your luck, it was bound to happen. The next day, you woke up chest burning, and nose stuffy.

“I’m gonna kill him.” You mumble, a cough following.

Bucky on the other hand was perfectly fine, not an single thing wrong with him. He was heading to the kitchen for a snack, but stopped abruptly hearing coughing down the hall. He freezes, listening intently. "Shit," he mutters, spinning on his heels, heading towards your room. He tiptoes to your door, pushing it open slightly. As the door opens, you’re already looking at him, standing there, your face flushed red and your eyes watery from constant sniffles. Irritation written all over your face. He crosses his arms, trying to look stern. "You sound terrible," he states, his tone unintentionally softening slightly.

You shake your head, walking closer to him, “Thanks.” you mumble, pushing him aside so you can open the door. You enter the kitchen, grabbing a bottled water immediately taking a long sip.

He watches you grab a bottle of water, only to have to suppress a smirk as you stagger past him, clearly irritated. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed as he observes your attempt to hydrate dramatically.

"Feel better?"

You send him a glare, before setting the water down. “If I had the energy, I would -makes a stabbing motion- you right here.” you say, before flopping on the sofa, curling into a ball. He chuckles at the threatened gesture, finding it hard to stay annoyed at you when you're sick and grumpy like this. He sits down beside you on the sofa, turning on the TV to distract himself from your miserable presence.

"You're so dramatic when you're sick,"

You roll your eyes, if it wasn’t for his little dramatic episode you wouldn’t be sick. You reach for your headphones instead met with air, you curse softly under your breath. “Can you go to my room, and grab my headphones, please?” you coo, sweetly.

He raises an eyebrow at the sudden sweet tone, knowing full well you're buttering him up to get what you want. He gets up reluctantly, heading to your room to fetch the headphones. He returns a minute later, tossing them onto your lap. "Here," You catch them, swiftly putting them on.

“Thanks hun.”

Bucky blinks, momentarily taken aback by the endearment slipping so casually from your lips. A faint blush creeps up his neck, quickly masked by a scowl. He flops back down on the couch, stretching his legs out. "Yeah, whatever,"

You hum to the song, immediately feeling better, eyes glancing at Bucky every so often.

Ever since that day in the rain, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way he held you, how he looked at you, something about it had your head spinning and you’re slowly getting dizzier and dizzier. It was in the quiet moments, the ones where words weren't needed, that you finally realized your feelings. As they sat together in comfortable silence, you felt an overwhelming sense of peace and belonging. It was the way he understood you without needing explanations, the way his presence alone could calm your restless mind. In that moment, you knew that what you felt went beyond friendship or admiration—it was love.

As you continue to glance at him, Bucky starts to notice. He catches your gaze a few times, furrowing his brow in confusion. After a while, he reaches out and gently removes your headphones, setting them aside. "Hey, you okay? You look kinda pale."

You nod, despite the uneasy feeling in your stomach. Maybe it wasn’t just your head getting dizzy…you rush to the bathroom, throwing up everything but those damn feelings. A few minutes later, you returned back to the living room, flopping on the couch. He watches you rush to the bathroom and return looking worse than before. He sits up straight, his brows furrowing in concern. "You're still sick," he states the obvious, reaching for the remote to pause the TV.

You groan, looking up at him. “No shit, captain obvious.” you retort.

He ignores the sarcastic remark, his mind more focused on the fact that you look worse by the minute. He gets up, standing over you. "You need to drink more," he insists, heading to the kitchen to grab another bottle of water. For the first time, you comply sitting up against the sofa. You take the water bottle from his hands, taking slow sips.

“Thank you.”

He freezes slightly at your genuine 'thank you'. He's so used to your snarky remarks that this catches him off guard. He watches you carefully, noting the dark circles under your eyes and your faded complexion. "You hungry?" He asks softly. "Like, actual food?"

You nod, another unfamiliar flutter in your chest. You’ve must of got it bad, the sickness is affecting your heart. Right?

He nods, pleased with your response. It's a small victory, but he'll take it. He heads to the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. After a moment, he emerges with a bowl of soup and some crackers. "Chicken noodle, okay?" Your eyes light up, the warm soup clouding your senses. “I think you’re going soft on me Bucky.” you say, your words dripping with sarcasm. You raise the spoon full of warm broth to your lips, quietly sipping it. Your body immediately relaxing.

He rolls his eyes at your teasing remark, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't get used to it," he mutters, watching you sip the soup. Seeing you relax, even slightly, brings an unexpected warmth to his chest. "It's just soup."

It’s more than just soup, the thoughtfulness behind it warming your heart, he’ll never truly know how much this meant to you. You eat slower than usual, savoring the broth, the taste making you feel all cozy inside. As you eat, Bucky settles back onto the couch, his gaze lingering on you. He tells himself it's just because he's making sure you eat, nothing more.

You glance at Bucky catching his baby blues staring, you squint your eyes at him, “Do I have something on my face?” you say, as he practically stares into your soul, it’s kind of sweet actually.

He quickly looks away, running a hand through his hair. "No... just making sure you're actually eating." He tries to play it cool, but his eyes keep drifting back to you. "You're usually not this quiet." He adds, trying to break the unusual silence.

Heat rushes to your cheeks at his words, since when did he care? And why is it making you feel all warm inside. Are you gonna die? “I’m usually not sick, but thanks to somebody.” you mumble playfully.

His smirk returns at your mumbling, he can't help but feel a strange warmth at the fact that you're blaming him for your sickness. "Yeah, yeah, blame the guy taking care of you." He teases back, leaning against the armrest. You smile softly, picking the almost empty bowl up in your hands, placing it in the kitchen. As you return you grab the remote out of Buckys grasp, changing it to a rom com.

Sick days equal Romantic Comedy’s. I don’t make the rules.

Bucky's eyes widen in surprise as you take the remote and change the channel. He watches as a cheesy rom-com starts playing, his initial annoyance quickly turning into a soft smile. "Seriously?" He asks, his voice a little quieter than usual. “Yup.” you reply, popping the ‘P’ dramatically before taking your seat next to Bucky on the sofa, trying to siphon his warmth.

Bucky shifts slightly as you snuggle up next to him, trying to ignore the sudden surge of warmth flooding through him. He clears his throat, looking away from the mushy scenes unfolding on screen. "You do realize these movies are all lies, right?"

You gasp turning to look at him, “Not cool Barnes, they’re real to me.”

He chuckles, his arm instinctively draping behind your body, resting on the sofa. "Oh, come on. You can't seriously believe in all that sappy love stuff, do you?" He asks, his voice a little softer as he looks down at you. You meet his gaze, pondering for a moment. You’ve never really seen it first hand, but you like to believe you’ll experience it one day. Cuddling, romantic dinners, taking care of eachother when you’re sick…kisses, chocolates for Valentine’s Day. You wanted all that sappy love stuff. “I do.” you say almost too soft.

His expression softens slightly as he looks at you, seeing the dreamy look in your eyes. He swallows hard, pushing down the strange feeling in his chest. "You really believe in all that stuff? The grand gestures, the love at first sight, the happily ever after?"

You nod, “I never got see that sorta thing growing up, always made me wanna experience it.” you admit, feeling a bit too vulnerable around him.

Something inside him shifts at your vulnerability, the way you talk about something you've never even had. He suddenly feels a strong urge to protect you from every hurt in the world. He really needed to get it together. "What kind of fucked up place did you grow up in that you didn't even see people in love?"

“My home.”

You sat quietly in the corner, watching as your parents argued yet again. The harsh words and raised voices filled the room, creating an atmosphere thick with tension. You longed to see them show the love they once had for each other, to witness a simple hug or a gentle kiss. Instead, they avoided each other's gaze, their interactions cold and distant. It broke your heart to see the people who were supposed to be her role models in love and unity drift further apart with each passing day. You wished they could remember the warmth and affection they once shared, instead of letting anger and resentment take over.

His expression immediately turns serious, voice dropping to a gentle rumble as he realizes he struck a nerve. "Hey..." He shifts slightly, tilting your chin up so you meet his eyes. The concern in his gaze is stark. "Bad enough you're sick. Stop giving me those sad eyes, doll.” A weak laugh slips from your lips, soaking in the comfort of his hand resting on your chin comfortably.

His thumb caresses your jaw unconsciously. He realizes how soft your skin is, how small your face is compared to his large palm. "So, wait..." He hesitates, trying to word his question carefully. "No one ever showed you what real love was?" He asks softly.

You shake your head, “It’s not just that, my parents never really showed their love for eachother. They didn’t kiss, hug, hell…they barely even talked to eachother. It affected me heavily growing up, I couldn’t even stay in a relationship. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the person I was with, I just didn’t know how to show them.” The confession was enough to fully break the walls you’ve built, it hurt. In another sense you felt relieved, relieved you could finally open up to somebody. To tell them what you were feeling without being afraid how they’ll react.

His heart clenches painfully at your words, a fierce protectiveness rising inside him. No wonder you're so closed off. No one ever showed you what love could be. He wants to be the one to show you, to break through those walls you've built up. What if he was.

"That's..."

You cut him off with your own words, “Fucked up. I know.” you mutter, focusing back on the movie.

Bucky watches you for a long moment, the soft glow of the TV illuminating your profile. He realizes then, more than ever, how much you need those cheesy rom-coms. They're not just entertainment—they're a glimpse into the kind of love you've never known.

"Hey..."

He looks at you intently, his voice soft but firm. "You deserve better than what you've had. You deserve someone who'll make you laugh, who'll hold you when you're sick, who'll kiss you just because." You deserved him. The man who makes you laugh no matter what mood you’re in, the man who’s currently holding you while you’re sick, the man you wished lips were on yours instead of talking.

“You check off three of those boxes.”

His breath hitches at your words, his heart racing in his chest. He looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the vulnerability in your eyes, the longing. Without thinking, he leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "And the fourth?"

Your breath catches in your throat, your free hand subconsciously moving to his jaw. “Hasn’t been checked off yet.” you whisper, leaning in just enough to feel his breath against your lips. His eyes flick down to your lips, his own parting slightly. He can feel your warm breath mixing with his, can see the way your pupils dilate. Slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull back, he closes the distance between you.

"Let me check it off for you."

You had spent years keeping your emotions locked away, convinced that love was something you could never truly have. But in that moment, love came into your life, patient and kind, completely breaking down the walls you had built around your heart. For the first time, you allowed yourself to be vulnerable, realizing that you had finally found the love you had yearned for.

[jellyfishsthings]

Hold Your Breath My Darling

WARNINGS: angst, like super angst, lovesick and whipped Spencer, earlier seasons Spencer, Hotch trained reader, Ex spy, fem reader, dying (or coming close to it), panic attacks, HOTCHNISS IS A THING bcuz i said so, typical criminal minds violence... there will be a part two soon, please let my know if I am missing anything else

requests are open

The ending was based on this fic by @nereidprinc3ss

part 1

It had been one month since the Incident—a term that spoke volumes without revealing too much. The Incident was the moment everything changed, the day the world they've fought to protect threatened to swallow them whole. One harrowing act of violence had almost stolen her from the living, leaving scars deeper than flesh, echoing through the halls of the BAU and private lives of those who cared.

For Aaron Hotchner, the air was thick with the weight of his own guilt. He wandered through days shrouded in shadows, each movement a reminder of his instinct to protect, to lead, to ensure the safety of his team. And how had he failed? He coped with drowning himself in whiskey after a long day's work—a futile attempt to numb the regret clawing at his insides. In the back of his mind, the echoes of her screams lingered. They came back to him every time he closed his eyes.

His office was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. He stared at a framed picture of the team at some holiday gathering, her flashing one of her radiant smiles, arms flung around Morgan and Reid. It should have been the happiest memory, but now it felt like a ghost lurking in the corner, reminding him of what could have been lost forever. Where there should have been laughter, the room was filled with an uneasy silence, punctuated only by the sound of ice rattling in his glass.

Then there was Emily, who wore her pain like a second skin. Each night, she gave in to silent tears that left her breathless. Hotch held her, wrapped her in his arms, wanting to lend strength but unsure of how to piece together the fragments of their shattering experience. It was during these quiet moments, swaddled in darkness, that they both recognized the fragility of their connection. What they had once built was now tempered by guilt and fear—fear of losing a woman, a kid practically, they had helped qrow and turn into the amazingAgent she was.

Meanwhile, in a sterile white room, Spencer Reid kept vigil at her bedside. He had transformed into a specter of the man he had always been. Days blended into nights, and he often felt unmoored. The memory of her laughter used to be a melody he longed to hear; now it haunted him. In the clinical light of the hospital room, he counted the rhythmic beeping of the machines, which stood stark contrast to the chaos within him. Every time he heard her heart, steady and strong, he found a flicker of hope. But hope was an elusive thing, dampened by the anxiety that had seeped into his bones.

Reid often found himself lost in thought, reflecting on the moments that brought them all together, the little things that made them a unit—a family of sorts. He remembered their case that had turned deadly, the precision of her instincts leading them into a dangerous trap. But he also remembered the resolve in her eyes as they fought, a fierce determination that now seemed barely a whisper in the sanctuary of her hospital room.

For a while, recovery felt like an unattainable vision—like a mirage shimmering just beyond their reach. It was a miracle she was still alive even in a sedated state. When she was admitted in the hospital the doctors wore horrified looks as they finally located her file, asking for goverment permission to unseal it and rightfully so. When Spencer himself read it he felt nauseous to his core and ready to lose his hold on reality.

Bones broken more than one time.

Broken back that function only with a chip insisted in the spine.

Various signs of abuse, which could be traced back to her childhood at eight years old.

Signs of sexual assault and rape to a terrifying degree.

She was covered in old scars.

Yet he knew that the worst damage must live inside her head. What a scary life she had lived. And she was only a few months younger than him. The memories that must haunt her ... he only felt sick at the thought, he could imagine how it would be like to live with them.

Still it made sense. How good she was at fighting, that she was an excellent shot, how quickly she adapted into this new lifestyle. He was filled with questions, how, why, are you well, I still love you you do not have to hide I promise. But he didn't have a choice and so he waited for what seemed an eternity.

Days passed, and with them came the wait. But her eyes still remained closed, and so did the door to their shared perception of certainty. A week turned into a month, and the seasons shifted outside like a clock wound down to a dim hum.

Then, one evening, under the flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital, a breakthrough came. Her eyelids fluttered, her breathing quickened, and suddenly—her eyes opened, revealing the storm brewing inside them. Spencer was at her side, gripping her hand gently, his heart hammering in his chest. Ready to fall down on his knees and thank every diety for bringing her back.

“Snoopy?,” he breathed out, the air catching in his throat. Using after what seemed the longest time the nickname he had for her, the one he only used because he was the only one who knew her crazy obsession with the cartoon.

Her gaze was unfocused at first, wandering into the corners of the room as if piecing together where she was. But recognition slowly dawned on her, and the corners of her lips managed a faint curve.

“Reid?” she croaked, her voice raspy yet threaded with life.

Spencer felt a swell of emotions. Relief surged through him, casting away the shadows that had clung tightly for weeks. “You’re back. You’re really back.”

She blinked, and as realization dawned fully, the weight of her condition pressed down on her. “What happened?”

The moment reverberated with unspoken understanding; the memories were shrouded yet defined by the pain they collectively held. But what mattered now was her presence, the warmth of her being returning to where it belonged.

Yet nothing would ever be the same again.

Her transition to get back to work was tedious and long, but she faced with extreme determination and stubbornness. But one bright Monday morning at the Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU), and the scent of hope lingered in the air like freshly brewed coffee. The team was abuzz with excitement—she was finally back after her traumatic injury. The office was a cacophony of cheers, “Welcome back!” and “It’s about time!” amid the clatter of keyboards and the rustle of paperwork.

She smiled brightly, radiating enthusiasm as she exchanged warm hugs and playful jabs. Despite feeling a little stiff, she was ready to jump back into the chaos that was the BAU. Her final physical test had gone splendidly, and she had passed with flying colors, much to the delight of her colleagues.

“Just don't overdo it, shortcake,” Derek Morgan chuckled, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You wouldn’t want to break a sweat before lunch.”

“I think my stitches would disagree with you,” she replied, tossing her hair back and puffing out her chest, “but who needs stitches when you have determination?”

She winked, but even she could feel the tight twinge near her abdomen as she waved dismissively.

A few hours later, as the excitement faded into the hum of agents at work, she started to feel a slight tugging pain. Her physical test had been strenuous, and perhaps she had overexerted herself a tad too much. Dismissing it as minor, she continued her duties until, unceremoniously, during a particularly animated discussion with Spencer Reid, she felt something give way. Looking down in horror, she saw her bandage had opened—one stitch had given it all up.

“Oh, come on,” she muttered under her breath. “Not now.”

The bathroom was not far, but the urgency and pain propelled her into a sprint that was definitely not recommended for someone still healing. She burst through the bathroom door, clutching her midriff, and locked the door behind her.

Meanwhile, after Snoopy had vanished for a suspiciously long time, Spencer felt a tickle of worry. She had burst into action rather enthusiastically, but it had turned into hours of radio silence. Ever the nerdy detective, his mind began churning. What if she had passed out? What if the bathroom monster had gotten her?

Spencer stood up, adjusted his glasses, and awkwardly edged toward the restrooms, bursting into the first one. Empty. Next, he slammed the door of the supply closet, scanned the room, found it empty, and moved on. He was a bull in a china shop—he knocked on a few more doors before finally giving in and charging towards the ladies’ restroom.

“Snoopy?” he called out hesitantly. “Are you in here? Did you win a new Olympic event—like bathroom hiding?”

Inside, she was struggling for a fresh bandage, maneuvering between the threading of her clothes, still trying to maintain a semblance of dignity despite her predicament. “I’m fine!” she half-shouted. “Just dealing with some wardrobe malfunctions. You know how it is!”

“Are you sure? You sound a little… flustered.” Spencer pushed through the door—pride was overrated, and so was personal space when it came to friends in need.

There she stood, half-naked, staring wide-eyed at Spencer. She was trying to maneuver a roll of bandages across her back, struggling with the awkward angles as she attempted to wrap around her injuries. The moment was a whirlwind of awkwardness and genuine surprise that left Spencer rooted to the floor.

“Oh, uh…!” Spencer stammered, his eyes widening. “I—Sorry! I didn’t mean to—!”

She blushed, realizing the comedic irony of a boy who often got caught in his brain's overdrive now turning into a flustered mess. “Spencer, a little warning next time? I’m just trying to change my bandages!”

“Oh! Right! Of course! Bandages!” He shuffled awkwardly, racking his brain for something—anything—that resembled confidence. “Do you need help?”

“Help?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “With what? Watching me struggle or ensuring a full-fledged theatrical performance?”

Reid swallowed hard and stepped forward, grabbing the roll of bandages. “I have a PhD in cognitive neuroscience, but bandaging wounds shouldn't be too complicated, right?”

She laughed, a melodic sound that diffused the tension as he gingerly held the fabric ready to assist her. “You say that, but let’s just put your academic prowess to the test.”

As he meticulously began to wrap her wounds, their banter threw open a door to easy flirting. “You know, if you hadn’t decided to writhe around like a fish out of water, I wouldn’t have had to barge in here like a raging bull,” he teased, focusing on the bandages but stealing glances at her.

She snorted softly. “And if you hadn’t decided to play the role of ‘Spencer the Bull’ and barged in like that, I might have had a more dignified experience here.”

“Next time, I’ll knock,” he agreed. “But first, if I let you get hurt again, I’ll have to rat you out to HR.”

She feigned shock. “Spencer Reid! How could you? Aren’t we a team?”

He didn’t dare reply immediately, wrapping the bandages with precision while his own cheeks flushed. “They also say you can’t handle a little risk in the name of love—because that’s totally what HR deals with.”

She grinned. “Oh please, they’d love the gossip. ‘Reid and Snoopy engage in dangerous bandaging maneuvers!’”

“Right?” He chuckled. “They’d probably get the wrong idea, and we’d spend our afternoons dodging accusations.”

“Accusations? Of what? Excessive flirting under the guise of medical assistance?”

Their eyes met, and the emphasis was palpable—a line they’d somehow danced across during the cheerful mockery. As the gentle laughter enveloped them, both realizing they had easily slipped into a territory where playful banter morphed into flirty undertones, Spencer’s heart thumped against his chest as he finished the bandage and fought the impulse to lean in a little closer.

“So,” she started, cutting through the air of comfort, “do we have a pact then? No more HR rumbles if you keep barging in on me uninvited?”

“I think that sounds reasonable,” Spencer replied, a charming smile emerging on his lips.

As they shared another laugh, an understanding settled between them—one wrapped in bandages, hints of crushes, and adventure, leaving behind awkwardness and opening the door to a world wrapped in flirtation and camaraderie, all set against the delightful backdrop of the BAU.

Tags: @sturnioloenthousiast

[kingdom-of-sins]

Homelander x Reader

Homelander was told that you were gone, dead, never to return to him again. He just didn't know how big of a lie it was

Homelander stepped through the ruined doors of the lab, his presence an overwhelming force in the desolate space. The facility was a tomb of memories, the walls steeped in the screams of his childhood. This was where they had forged him in fire and agony, a place of sterile white rooms, needles, and cold, unforgiving hands. And it was here, too, where he had lost the only person who had ever mattered to him.

The floors were slick with blood, the bodies of scientists and doctors strewn about like broken dolls. He had hunted them down with methodical cruelty, each one meeting a brutal end under his unrelenting fury. They deserved worse, far worse, for what they had done—not just to him, but to her.

She had been everything to him back then. The girl with eyes that reflected the same pain, the same fear. Her ability to mimic the powers of others had fascinated the scientists, turning her into a living experiment, just like him. Together, they had endured the tortures, finding strength in each other’s presence. She had been his anchor, his one source of light in that pit of darkness.

But then, one day, she was gone. They told him she was dead, and something inside him snapped. That was the day he stopped being the boy with a name and became Homelander, the unfeeling weapon Vought wanted.

Now, all these years later, he was back. The lab was eerily quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of machines still running despite the carnage. He was ready to leave this place behind, to burn it to the ground and let it be consumed by the flames of his vengeance. But then, he heard it—a heartbeat.

Homelander froze, his super hearing honing in on the faint, rhythmic sound. It was coming from deep within the facility, far below the main level, where the most secret and secure rooms lay hidden. His heart pounded in his chest as he followed the sound, a flicker of something strange and unwanted stirring in the pit of his stomach—hope.

He reached a metal door, thick and fortified, sealed with a lock designed to keep out even the most determined intruder. With a single thought, he tore the door from its hinges, the steel groaning in protest before crashing to the ground. He stepped inside, his breath catching in his throat at what he saw.

There, on a medical bed in the center of the small, sterile room, lay the girl he had thought lost forever.

She was still, her body connected to an array of medical equipment. Tubes ran from her veins to machines that hummed with a sickening familiarity, and her skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh lights. But she was alive—he could hear her heartbeat, weak but steady, echoing in the small space.

Homelander’s chest tightened, a mixture of rage and grief crashing over him like a tidal wave. They had lied to him. They had kept her alive, hidden away, draining her of whatever they thought she could give them. And he had been too blind, too consumed by his own darkness, to see the truth.

He moved to her side, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch her face. Her skin was cool beneath his fingertips, soft and fragile, and for a moment, he feared she might shatter under his touch. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek, tracing the delicate line of her jaw.

She was still as beautiful as he remembered, but there was something different now—an emptiness in her that hadn’t been there before. She looked like a ghost, a shell of the vibrant, resilient girl he had known. And it was all because of them, the people he had just slaughtered, the people who had kept her in this hell.

A tear slipped down his cheek, an unwelcome sign of the emotions he had buried for so long. He wiped it away quickly, his expression hardening. There was no time for weakness now. He had to get her out of here, had to save her, even if he didn’t know if she could be saved.

Homelander began disconnecting the tubes and wires from her body, his movements slow and careful. Each piece of equipment that fell away felt like a chain being broken, a step closer to freeing her from this nightmare. He lifted her into his arms, holding her close to his chest, her head resting against his shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve got you.”

He walked out of the lab, carrying her as if she were the most precious thing in the world, his grip firm but gentle. The night air was cold against his skin as he emerged into the open, but he barely noticed it. All he could focus on was her—the girl who had once been his only source of light in the darkness.

He flew to Vought Tower, faster than he had ever flown before, the world a blur around him. He couldn’t lose her again. He wouldn’t.

When he arrived, he stormed into the medical wing, barking orders at the staff to get the best doctors, the best equipment. The scientists scurried like frightened mice, too afraid of the wrath that radiated off him to question anything. They worked quickly, setting her up in a private room, hooking her up to machines that would monitor her vitals, but Homelander never left her side.

He watched as they worked, his eyes never leaving her face. He didn’t trust them, didn’t trust anyone with her life except himself. But he knew he couldn’t save her alone. Not this time.

As the night wore on, he sat by her bedside, his hand gently holding hers. He could feel the warmth returning to her skin, hear her heartbeat growing stronger, but she still hadn’t woken up. He prayed, silently and desperately, to whatever gods might listen, that she would open her eyes, that she would come back to him.

For hours, he stayed there, refusing to leave even when the doctors assured him she was stable. He couldn’t leave her, not again. The sight of her lying there, so still and fragile, filled him with a fear he hadn’t felt in years. The fear of losing her all over again.

As dawn broke, casting a soft light through the window, he finally allowed himself to hope. Her breathing was steady, her heartbeat strong, and though she was still unconscious, he could see the signs of life returning to her.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice filled with a determination that had carried him through countless battles. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, the first real sign of tenderness he had shown anyone in years. As he pulled back, he saw a flicker of movement in her eyes, a twitch of her fingers, and his heart leaped in his chest.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “Please.”

And for the first time since he had found her, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she would.

[paintedlight1]

Part 2

Her plans for the West are clear: to conquer and reshape the world into a place ruled by the Zeniths, where the human tribes are subjugated or eradicated entirely. But Alpha doesn't see herself as just a servant of the Zeniths—she sees herself as their true heir. She wants to be the one who rules, the one who controls the fate of humankind.

In her eyes, Aloy is the last remaining obstacle to her achieving this goal. And so, she sends her newly transformed allies to kill Aloy—no mercy, no second chances.

Alpha’s Psychological Warfare

The real danger with Alpha lies not just in her enhanced strength or intelligence, but in her ability to break people down emotionally and mentally. She would never just kill Aloy. Instead, she wants to torment her. She enjoys watching others suffer, especially when their suffering involves the betrayal of those they hold dear.

Erend might have been a pillar of loyalty and friendship, but Alpha sees his bond with Aloy as a weakness to exploit. She knows how to manipulate his grief, playing on his sense of duty and guilt over the loss of his sister. Alpha could twist his emotions, making him doubt his own memories and ultimately turning him into a weapon against Aloy.

Kotallo, the noble warrior, could be pushed to the edge by Alpha’s psychological tactics. His honor is everything to him, so Alpha could use his sense of honor and duty to manipulate him into believing that Aloy is the true enemy of the West. She might even promise him an eternal place of honor within the Zeniths' new world order, using his dreams of a better future to turn him into an agent of destruction.

Zo is a natural tactician, and Alpha could exploit her strategic mind, turning her into a manipulative agent of war. With her intellect and tactical knowledge, Zo would make a fearsome foe who knows exactly how to undermine and defeat Aloy in battle. But with Alpha controlling her, Zo could become a calculating machine who sees no value in the old world, only in creating the perfect one under Zenith rule.

Alva, whose emotional fragility might have made her susceptible to manipulation in the past, could be twisted by Alpha’s promises of a new order—one where the old world’s constraints no longer bind her. Alva’s intellectual brilliance would be harnessed for Alpha’s advantage, allowing her to design weapons and tactics to defeat Aloy’s every move.

Varl, once a mentor figure, is perhaps the most tragic of all. Alpha could exploit Varl’s sense of family and duty to break him down, making him believe that the future Aloy seeks is futile. She could twist his deep connection to the past, using his memories of his family and his painful loss to turn him against her.

Beta: The cruelest irony of all—Beta, who once shared a sisterly bond with Aloy, has been turned against her. In this version of the story, Beta may still harbor some shred of love for Aloy deep inside, but the Zenith transformation has buried it beneath layers of Alpha’s manipulation. Alpha could use Beta as a final instrument of betrayal—having her face Aloy in a direct confrontation, perhaps forcing Beta to kill Aloy, only to leave her with the unbearable knowledge of what she’s become.

[theburialofstrawberries]

Jackie says she was bullied as a fat kid and learned "how to fight back;" she goes crazy in Vegas when she hallucinates someone calling her fat. I think there's a direct line connecting this with Jackie's fight instinct to Lou constantly reiterating that Jackie killed J.J., and Lou locking Jackie inside the house. Over the payphone, Jackie's foster mother, curt: "Stay away from us, you monster." Lou doesn't know she is treating Jackie like a monster. Jackie can't have that feeling. Perhaps that's why she needs to run away to Vegas and win so bad: to disarm her size and her strength, to have those qualities be unimpeachable, only for show and admiration.

Jackie in turn is tripping all of Lou's wires. We know Lou thinks her mother ran away, and fears that Lou Sr. maybe killed her. But Lou Sr. goads her about an even deeper fear: that Lou's mom ran away not only to get away from her husband, but also to get away from her awful, complicit daughter. (Lou is so terrified this is true that she has red nightmares about it all movie long. When she's more afraid, there's more red on the screen, like the glow from the hospital's Coke vending machine when Lou Sr. confronts her about J.J.'s body.) If Jackie's response to being perceived as a monster is to fight, Lou's is to take flight: exit the situation for fear of abandonment. She comes close to doing this in the confrontation with Jackie after dinner with J.J. and Beth (a confrontation aborted only because of the lingering F.B.I. agent), but J.J.'s murder flings the shit into the fan.

Lou does everything in her power to cover up J.J.'s murder, and then Daisy's, so that Jackie doesn't leave her. But everything Lou does reminds Jackie that she's a monster (Daisy naked, victorious, whispering: "Lou doesn't want you anymore"). When Lou frees Jackie from her binds in the shed, Jackie takes off running, so caustic is the effect of this reminder ("I wish I never met you!") We know she's not running away for fear that Lou will kill her, because Jackie only really calms down when Lou convinces her that 1) she still desires Jackie, and (2) Jackie is not morally culpable for the murders of J.J. and Daisy. She was forced, for fear of Beth's life, for fear of Lou Sr. (Lou in her recounting was also forced to sleep with Daisy. Everyone is only ever forced to do bad things; no one is ever a bad person. Convenient!)

Lou has freed Jackie from several mental hang-ups. So Jackie joyfully reclaims her size and strength and breaks a guy's arms as easy as wringing a wet t-shirt. And Lou is now more aware of Jackie's inner turmoil than she was before. In the last scene, when she slips quietly out of the truck to kill Daisy, she is loathe to disturb Jackie's sleep, yes, and also her conscience.

[littlerequiem]

the hitchhiker's guide to isekai ˚⁎⁺ levi x gn!reader

CONTENT — Levi getting isekai'd into our world, (questionable) humor, slice of life, swearing, Levi is a boomer when it comes to technology, pop culture refs, suggestive, mentions of bondage (wc: 1.1k words). Written for Day 3 - Isekai, Levi Month 2024 - @levievent

For as long as you could remember, Levi Ackerman had always been your favorite fictional character. There was something about his strength, his empathy, and his kindness that drew you to him.

Then, one day, the universe delivered him on a silver platter.

It was midsummer night when you found him. There he was, lying in your new antique wardrobe, groggy and half asleep, dark hair tousled to the side. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing; was this really your favorite anime character, in the flesh?

Before you could think on the logistics of it all, however, Levi was already reaching for the small knife tucked in his boot.

And threatening you with it.

It all happened in a flash.

With your heart drumming in your chest, you remember fumbling for words, looking straight into those sharp, silver eyes you’d always imagined must shine like starlight (and gods, they truly did).

Looking back, your first words lacked a certain decorum. “Wh—who—is this some kind of skit, huh? Are you some kind of pervert?!?”

Levi looked at you then like you were a complete idiot.

As it turned out, Levi was not, in fact, a pervert, nor did he mean to end up here in the first place.

Instead, he told you the hard facts: that he was Levi Ackerman, Captain of the Survey Corps. That he owned the same closet in his office, only in his own world. That the last thing he remembers was falling asleep in this piece of furniture, an attempt to hide from Hange who’d been up in arms trying to convince him to help with an experiment.

Your reality, it seemed, was connected to the Attack on Titan universe through a mysterious wardrobe.

(Like fucking Narnia.)

It was then that it was decided that he would stay with you until he found a way home.

A month has passed since this first moment, and to say that your daily life has been altered would be an understatement. You’re living with one of your personal heroes, after all—not that you let him know you view him as such.

Levi is trying to get back to his world, and in the meantime, Levi gets to discover your world: the joys of washing machines, the taste of matcha tea, the ease of hoovers, rock music.

And today, he’s uncovering the mystery that is the internet.

“I don’t understand,” Levi grumbles, his voice rough like sandpaper. Lines of tension form across his pale forehead, his gaze fixed on your laptop propped on the kitchen table. “People spend their time looking at cat... paintings?”

He’s perusing your blog.

“These are actually photographs that you’re looking at, but I suppose people also love drawings of cats. Cats are a very popular topic, see,” you explain, coming closer as you stop him from clicking on a sketchy looking pop up: ‘Free iPhone 15! Claim Yours Now’.

Levi's charged gaze follows as he watches you go about it; you have the thought he smells nice, like fresh linen and tea.

You clear your throat, withdrawing from his personal space. “Um... anyway, that’s not all you can do with the internet. People use it for all sorts of things: you can look up the news, the weather, forums…”

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair. “What’s that? Sounds like a disease.”

Ah, where to start...

“Forums are online spaces where people can discuss things. You can host debates, provide instructions, and more. Personally, I use them to gush about things I love. Like books!”

Levi clicks his tongue. “So, a bookclub?”

“Mm, yes, and no. Like sure, on the forum I'm a mod for, I love to discuss the plot, the characters, and the writing, but I also just enjoy goofing around with my friends and sharing memes.”

“Me...mes.” Levi looks puzzled by this word.

You stifle a snort. “Memes are like... jokes. Only sometimes, they're also cultural staples.” At his skeptical expression, you shrug. “I guess this world is different from yours, in that respect. We have... less immediate dangers, more free time.”

“That's not a bad thing,” he mutters, tone oddly soft. He averts his tepid gaze, looking back to your blog as he exhales through his nose. “But your world still makes no sense to me. Especially all of this.”

He nods towards the web page.

“It’s okay, the internet takes a while to get used to," you say. "Even for me... I constantly feel like an old crone whenever I hear all the lingo kids are coming up with these days.”

“Hmph.”

Levi looks unimpressed. So, forums—and the internet, it seems—aren’t his thing. Probably for the better—the last thing you need right now is for him to realize there’s a whole fanbase devoted to discussing his character (not to mention the other, less PG-friendly aspects of the conversation).

“Hey, how about we take a break?" You tilt your head, flashing him an easy smile. "You’ve been staring at the screen all morning. It can be a strain on your eyesight.”

Levi’s half-lidded stare crinkles, his lips pursing into a thoughtful pout, the same look he gets whenever you throw him scraps of information about your world and its strange customs.

“I was planning to make some tea,” you add, “want a cup?”

“… if you're making one anyway,” he mumbles, scowling in a way that reminds you of a grumpy cat. Cute.

You head towards your small kitchen, grabbing Levi’s favorite tea bag and laying out clean cups. As the kettle groans alive and you eventually hear that familiar sizzling that tells you the water’s come to a boil, another noise coming from behind garners your attention.

“Oi, something happened to your cat photo-thing,” you overhear Levi drawl.

You turn with a raised brow.

That’s when you notice that Levi’s somehow ended up on your desktop page, the familiar sight of your screensaver (more cats!) appearing into view.

But that’s also when you notice the mouse is hovering dangerous close to one of your folders... your babygirl folder.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no...

“DON’T CLICK THAT!” you plead, attempting to rush to his side to avoid the embarrassment of a lifetime.

Too late. Levi has entered the folder and somehow managed to click on one of the more scandalous pictures; your peripheral catches his expression, and it's the most stupor you've seen on his face yet... and is that pink dusting his cheeks?

Because Levi is looking straight at one of the fanarts you’d saved of him months ago.

Where his pixelated counterpart is tied up. Stark naked.

Well, shit.

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