#desperately need a full version
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bowl-of-soupie · 4 months ago
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@heavenbreaker7
Legend has it if you listen to this soundcheck on repeat it will clear your skin, water your crops, and cure your depression. I hope this heals all of you like it has healed me.
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captain-krow-drozdov · 6 months ago
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Danny Is An Alternate Version Of Ra's Al Ghul And Flash Already Called Dibs On Adopting Him
Danny In All His Sleep Deprived Slightly Scuffed Up From A Fight Glory Is On His Way To Clockworks Tower To Hopefully Get A Nap And Maybe Some Homework Done When A Natural Portal Opens Up In Front Of Him And Proceeds To Unceremoniously Drop Him In The DC Verse Just Outside Of Central City Before Promptly Closing Leaving A Tired Danny Behind In A Run Down Abandoned Parking Lot.
It's Times Like This When Danny Regrets Putting Off Learning How To Make His Own Portals, Cause Now He Is Very Much Stuck For The Foreseeable Future And He Has No Idea Where Or When He Is. Luckily For Him However Central City Isn't Too Far Away, Unlucky For Him However Is That Once In The City He Realizes This Isn't His Dimension. He's Pretty Sure He'd Remember Something Called The Justice League.
So What Do You Do When Supernatural Bullshit Fails You? You Fall Back On Your Mad Scientist Roots And You Make A Portal Gun. So That's Exactly What Danny Plans To Do.
Unfortunately Staying Alive And Building Questionably Safe Portal Technology Requires Money And Supplies, So He Ends Up Wandering From City To City Doing Odd Jobs/Fixing Up Busted Tech For Cash Or Unwanted Electronics For His "Operation: Get Home" Needs. This Obviously Ends In A Few Superhero Encounter Shenanigans.
Though He Always Ends Up Back Near Central City, Both On The Off Chance The Natural Portal Will Open Up Again And Because Out Of All The Superheroes That Apparently Exist In This Universe The Speedsters Are His Favorite (Red Robin Is Solidly His Second Favorite Ever Since The Gotham Vigilante Gave Him A Large Coffee Filled With Enough Caffeine To Kill A Man).
Unbeknownst To Danny However Is That Every Hero/Vigilante He Has Encountered Has Come To At Least One Of The Following Conclusions; 1. Run Away Meta Who Is In Desperate Need Of A Good Meal/Adoption Bait. 2. Possibly Red Robin/Tim Drake Clone 3. A Good Kid But Could Possibly Be A Future Rouge If Left Unsupervised. 4. Did Bats Get A New Kid And Why Is He Here?
All Flash Knows Is That He Saw The Kid First And Therefore Has Dibs. Suck It Bruce.
Fast-forward A Few Months And Danny Gets Hurt During A Rogue Attack While Trying To Help Some Civilians Get To Safety (Old Hero Habits Die Hard (Ha Die Hard) And All That Jazz) And He Nopes Out Once Everyone Is Safe And When The Paramedics Are Busy With Other People Unaware He Left A Blood Sample Behind.
One DNA Test Brought To You By Paranoid Bat Concerns Of A Possible Red Robin Clone Later And They Find Out That Dannys DNA Matches One Ra's Al Ghul.
They Now Think Danny Is An Escaped Ra's Al Ghul Clone.
Memes For The Vibes:
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#captain's posts#this has been haunting me#the flash/any of the speedsters:*exist*#danny:*can feel the speedforce on them* i like your vibe funny man#basically danny is actually an alternate version of Ra's Al Ghul and gets chucked into the dc vesrse#because natural portals are bitches hijinks ensue#and while i do love batfam adopting danny i think its very funny for flash to just yoink him while the big bad bat isn't looking#i desperately need him and tim to be besties tho specifically before they find out danny is an alternate Ra's Al Ghul#danny:*sitting in a park and tinkering with some circuitry* oh hey flash :)#flash: hey kid! great news i might be adopting a kid soon!#danny: oh really? thats cool-#flash:*holding out adoption papers and doing his best puppy eyes* its you. sign here.#danny:*vague memory of clockwork complaining about speedster pops into his mind* hmmm#danny:*deciding to be a little shit cause what else do you do when you're almost a year into being stuck in an alternate dimension* >=)#danny: sure why not? soooo full name or what?#flash:*didn't expect to get this far* uh-#i also really like danny being clockworks apprentice/time line clean upper so danny just remembers cw bitchin about the speedsters#also cause im a sucker for tim x danny...#tim:*having a crisis cause the cute meta kid he befriended/has a crush on may or may not be a vlone of Ra's Al Ghul* aaaaasaaaaaaaasaaaaaaa#dick: you okay buddy?#tim:*aggressively points at the dna match of danny to Ra's Al Ghul on the bat computer* AAAAAAAAAAAAAA#dick: Oh-#dc x dp#dp x dc#dp x dc crossover#dp x dc prompt#dpxdc
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vaguely-concerned · 4 months ago
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just going about my day idly contemplating how some of the ways hawke can interact with a romanced anders are not at all unlike how they interact with leandra (and a bit of carver too, especially with a purple hawke), and then thought about my hawke in the timeline where he romances anders and was hit straight in the face with 'was he ever actually in love, or was he just desperately trying to renegotiate with his mother's ghost in any way he could' and now i need to lie down. this is the power of dragon age 2
#'you don't know my mother' haunting me through the years#dragon age#dragon age 2#hawke#On second thought let's not go to Kirkwall; it is a silly place#there are of course as many ways to do/read that relationship as there are players to interact with it haha and all valid!#but my personal version of handers is sooo fucked up and bad times for everyone involved and I love it haha.#this is a relationship neither of them should have been in and that made everything worse and everyone unhappy in the end#locked tomb levels of the horrors of love. i ship it but in the way that I want to make it sadder and more gutwrenching each time#to be clear this is a very mutual two-way kind of fucked up but I think varric in his loyalty and love would downplay hawke's side of it#for huge swathes of their relationship anders is not in a mental place to be a good partner and the emotional blackmail is Not Okay#(but it's just like how mother used to make it! hawke's soul cries sadly as it reaches for it hungrily)#which is in some ways fair enough no one could accuse him of not warning you ahead of time fjskda#but hawke is messy about it in a way only available to a covert people pleaser who has never had a millisecond of therapy#with some added stuff that my hawke is always acespec in some form and when he gets together with anders...#is the sex something he doesn't particularly care to have or not have but it 'makes anders happy'/he longs to feel wanted *and* needed#and also a way he gets out of ever being *actually* vulnerable (which I think he'd had to be with varric for example if he Went There )#'you want the hawke who's in your head so badly and I kind of wish I were that hawke too. so let's be collaborateurs with that fantasy'#(and then maybe if I do it right every time you'll finally be happy hawke says in his heart looking at this leandra-anders phantom form)#(and echoing stuff in varric's relationship to hawke but I think the important distinction there is that varric -- is a craftsman haha#he KNOWS when he's lying/making up a story he KNOWS the difference between what is and what he wishes the world was#(I think there's some deep longing there to not know; for it to blend together or have the power to change things. but he always knows)#which ironically leaves him in a better position to actually see and understand hawke the person#even as he is creating hawke the literary figure. almost to protect him in some ways? god da2 is so full of STUFF!!! I adore it)#and of course anders gets so disillusioned with hawke's inertia and lack of action (you all but married this man anders!#you should know this about him he's already carrying the whole family and city on his shoulders if you add a gram more he'll collapse!)#and hawke feels so desperately hurt that the promise anders seemed to make that he'd be enough -- that he could fix things for him --#('I'm the one bright light in kirkwall and that apparently doesn't count for shit so I'm just slowly turning to ash for you')#turned out to be untrue. anyway. sad now. imagine them meeting like twenty years on what the fuck could you even say to each other then#(I can't imagine Hawke ever physically hurting anyone he loves so he just tells Anders to leave at the end of DA2. they COULD meet again
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yuzushifuo · 1 month ago
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Im deadass addicted to this stupid game its so dumb how im so addicted ever since i have done shit like kurogrotto im just dumping some pics bye
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jichanxo · 8 months ago
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hobbs and joiner, who are @four-white-trees' ocs! these sure are some guys...
less clothed version under the cut (because i didn't go to all the effort of making all these layers to not show em)
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paradife-loft · 2 years ago
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breaking news! grown adult discovers concept of "gardening gloves"; personally confirms that yes, they do in fact make the whole experience of planting things more pleasant. amazing and groundbreaking.
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areyoueatingtho · 9 months ago
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there is nothing i love more in apocalypse media than when the main group of survivors we are following have faced so much and are irritable and sniping at each other before finally finding a sanctuary and oh no!! it turns out that the sanctuary’s charismatic handsome leader is evil somehow!! i eat that shit up every time
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danidoesathing · 1 year ago
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i cant believe we just have a full recording of one of frankie's songs. like we just have that on spotify and no one talks about it
like we just have this. this exists. wild
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corvidfeathers · 8 months ago
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looking at sir lucan like im sorry bro but you are in a horror story. you will just have to do something with that honor of yours and it will hurt
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toiletpotato · 2 years ago
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Norm Lewis singing Waiting for Life is SO JOYFUL AND WONDERFUL oh my gOODNESS
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rqnarok · 4 months ago
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summary: old man!logan finds himself having a breeding kink.
cws/tags: smut, mdni! old man!logan. fem!reader. heavy breeding kink. dom/sub dynamics. unprotected p in v. pet names. not proofread. 
Logan’s younger self would not approve of this idea. 
Hell, it would not even cross his youthful, unbound, and liberated version. Younger Logan would have brushed off the idea - dodging it like a bullet - revolting against it. 
Having a kid? A noisy five-year-old child running around the house, screaming and kicking everything in sight? Yeah, fuck no. 
He’d even hate just thinking about it. 
But now that years have gone by and he’s almost hitting 200 years of age–a lot has changed in how he sees things, alright. Suddenly he’s not that idealistic-insufferable-annoying fuck anymore.
The heavy feels of his own body, his poor visions, his utter tiredness and wounds are slowly tended by settling down with you. Living in a small countryside home just outside Texas is the life Logan needed all along.
So he just can’t fucking help it when he sees how you act with those children at the Barbeque party. How you treat them with such care as if they’re yours. 
The smile plastered on your face after you give each one of them a cookie is Heaven sent for Logan. He’s too focused on being mesmerized by your acts that he almost does not realize how his trousers feel tighter.
He quickly hides his bulge whilst embarrassed of himself, thinking ‘M fuckin’ old for this shit. But who gives a fuck anyway? 
Oh, he in the past would not approve of this at all. 
“Fuck. You’d look so fuckin’ good with y’r belly swollen with my child.” Logan grunts out, thrusting his girth into you as his mind fills up with visions of you carrying his child. 
The images themselves make Logan go feral—growling when he feels how your velvet walls manage to clench around him.
“A-ah! Please!” The high-pitched noise you let out is almost humiliating as you bounce yourself on top of your husband, making the head hit your gummy spot every time you fall down.
“Hm? Y’want that, Little Missy? Want me t’give you a baby?” His calloused fingers rub shapes on your sticky skin, guiding your hips as he tries to search for the answer in your eyes.
You reply with a frantic nod, your mind feels empty as his tip deliciously kisses your cervix. The thought of being full of his seed, pregnant and giving him a baby—makes your eyes roll back in pleasure.
With one movement, Logan manages to manhandle you to a new position, his cock never slips out from your heat, “Want this old man t’give you one? Make you a momma?” 
The sound of his full balls slapping against your ass makes you squeeze your eyes shut. 
Now clearly hearing the obscene moans emitting through the dim room, “Yeahyeahyea—W-wanna be a momma—”
While you wonder how he still has this much stamina at that age, Logan leans down to your ear and buries his face on your neck, “Pretty wife. Gonna make the cutest goddamn babies, y’know tha’?” 
His palms hold your thighs spread open to reach deeper inside you, “Let me fill ya’ up real good.”
Logan’s eyes flicker to watch your pussy swallow his cock in and out. The sight alone makes him throw his head and let guilt wash him over for a minute.
He feels perverted—corrupting you by plugging his cock to the hilt as if it is trying to mold your insides. A dilemma growing.
You could feel how his thrusts steadily became desperate, “L-Lo.” Whining out, your fingers crawl into his back to pull him tighter. 
He can’t fucking wait to have you round up. Shit. You’d be so dependent on him—need him at all times. And he’d fulfill everything you ask him to do. Logan would never even let you move an inch. 
Everything caught up to him as an acute wave, “F-Fuck. There ya’ go, baby.” Logan mutters - his hands shake slightly as they lose their grip on your thighs. 
His cock never pulling out, “D’ya think it takes, pretty?” You could feel him deep inside you—how your walls are painted by his thick ropes of cum. 
Logan gives lazy circles of his hips before pressing a sweet kiss on your lips, whispering several ‘I love you’s’ before lowering himself so his face could level with your pussy.  
“Fuck.” The older man has never seen a far more beautiful sight than this. Watching his cum begin to leak out of you makes his cock twitches again. 
The scruffy feel of his beard scratches your inner thighs as he leans closer—dragging the tips of his fingers along your folds before plugging his digits back inside. 
“Logan-n!” 
A deep rumble comes out of Logan, “Shh. Be a good girl for your husband, yeah? Need’a to make sure it takes.”
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percheduphere · 1 year ago
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LET'S TALK ABOUT LOKI'S SHOES (ACTUALLY, HIS WHOLE WARDROBE)
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Production costs aside, clothes tell the audience about how characters think of themselves.
Loki's shoes in the S2 finale raised a lot eyebrows, but I find them quite fitting: they are comfortable, practical, and most importantly, they are humble. The camera brings this to our attention to communicate his evolution in character.
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Loki has always dressed well, often times ostentatiously. Whether he is at war, passing as a Midgardian, or held captive as an Asgardian prisoner, Loki communicates his social class and sense of superiority through clothing. For him, clothing armors his fragile sense of self and against others' opinions of him. He intends to be perceived as deadly charming but ultimately unapproachable.
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His attire in the first Thor movie is roughly equal parts green and gold, signifying his royal status. His style is dressed down for his brother's misadventures in Jotenheim, yet overall both silhouettes are lofty, princely, but not hardened or threatening.
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In Avengers, Loki's look has more black and leather, with exaggerated emphasis on his shoulders meant to intimidate as he assumes the role of villain. The silhouette is very hard, heavy, and edgy. Gold detailing is prevalent as well. Combined with the goat's helm, this is Loki's most pretentious outfit, which speaks to an undercurrent of low self-esteem and a compulsive need to impress. There's no mistaking he is the main antagonist of the story.
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In Thor 2, Loki's attire is similar to Avengers but the overcoat is exchanged for a less bulky version (perhaps conveying he is less guarded now that the effects of the Mind Stone are no longer influencing him). Loki's role likewise pivots from the harsh lines of a villain to the more flexible edges of a reluctant villain-turned-ally. This aligns with his character arc when he protects both Jane and Thor, seemingly sacrificing himself.
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In Thor 3, Loki's silhouette is streamlined even further. The overcoat is done away with in favor of what appears to be a leather doublet, pauldrons, and vambraces. Gold accents are minimal. While stylish, Loki's attire is more practical than showy, and his helm serves the dual purpose of protection as well as weaponry. At this point in his arc, Loki has become a full antihero, joining his brother's side in rescuing as many Asgardians as possible, and eventually dying in a vain bid to protect Thor from Thanos.
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The TVA does something very fun and interesting in taking away Loki's ability to dress himself. Since Loki cannot use his magic in the TVA, he is forced to wear the same clothing as his captor/advocate, who eventually becomes his best friend and peer.
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Perhaps, on a subconscious level, this helped Loki to feel included. We know by his pwn admission that Loki fears being alone and desperately craves a sense of belonging. At the same time, he intentionally dresses to put people at a distance, thereby protecting himself from potential rejection at the cost of isolating himself further.
When Mobius gives him that TVA jacket for the first time, Loki seems uncharacteristically pleased. It is not an attractive jacket by any means, yet he neither scoffs at it nor refuses to wear it. Instead, Loki puts it on and is content when Mobius says it looks "smart" on him. He continues to dress like Mobius and, indeed, mimic some of his mannerisms such as placing his hands on his hips. Without clothing meant to push people away, Loki opens up, has more fun, and makes friends.
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Loki's choice of attire as he assumes the mantle of God of Stories (and time) is fascinating. Setting aside the clear design inspiration from the comics, Loki's silhouette is soft, remarkably so. His colors are earthy hues of green, and the only bit of flare are the light gold trimming and crown. The look brings to mind the garb of sages and wise wizards rather than royalty or warriors. He's powerful yet approachable because there is humility in his bearing. And that humility springs from a well of healthy self-worth, self-love, and a deep love for others.
The shoes are not meant to be attractive. They are meant to help him ascend the throne, nothing more.
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cupcakedieabetes · 2 months ago
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DPXDC prompt: Greatest Treasure
In Gotham, there was a new rogue named Box Ghost who had been stealing random things. But, as his name suggests, the random things he stole all were boxes or box shaped. He stole from stores and pharmacies as long as they had a box shape. They were all random, and it didn't matter what inside of the boxes.
To name a few, he stole food that was packed in boxes, packaged furniture, toys, clothes, shipment, diapers, blankets, fishing gear, books, bags, jewelries, etc.
Then, there came the rumors. Despite all the boxes, he had a box that he loved the most. "The Greatest Treasure".
It became a man hunt soon after as many speculated it may be expensive things inside, maybe gold bars since that's box shaped.
As people (not only rogues bc normal people also need money, duh), they started frantically searching for "The Greatest Treasure".
It was too chaotic and the bats knew that they had to act quickly. Time was against them and it was running quickly as practically EVERY gothamites were searching for it.
Idk who manages to find it, maybe a rogue, maybe one of the bats, but they managed to trick Box Ghost from being away from the box he was guarding.
He was guarding it so desperately that it made them wonder what exactly was in the box that made him go bat shit.
Inside the box were two children, one older and the other an infant, sleeping peacefully next to each other, covered in blankets and toys.
Oh
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Box Ghost had to flee Amity Park alone. In his arms were 2 vulnerable children. One is his own daughter and the other is a de-aged Phantom. His wife stayed behind to give him more time.
The GIW had been capturing anyone that was 'infected' with ectoplasm. As Amity Park was full of it, a lot of people were, of course, exposed to it.
Maddie and Jack, after discovering that their son was kidnapped by the GIW otw home from school, they pretended they were on the GIW's side.
As soon as they located their son and had a chance, they broke out and freed everyone who was captured there—well, anyone who was still existing.
Box Ghost, Lunch Lady, and Box Lunch were some of the few there and were surprised when they were handed an infant version of Phantom.
There was absolutely no time for any explanation for that, so as the Fentons helped fend off the enemies, Box Ghost and Lunch Lady were both carrying a child in their arms.
They had to get separated from the Fentons as they sacrificed themselves for the sake of their now-infant son.
But, they were ambushed once more by the white agents. Lunch Lady, carrying their daughter, shoved her at him and told him to run.
Box Ghost tried to refuse, but she yelled at him so fiercely. Full of love and tears, but she would do anything for their family.
She turned into a large meat monster to be a better target and to keep eyes away from her fleeing husband, roaring at anyone and fighting against them as best as she could as a distraction.
Box Ghost fled. He had two children to protect now. His daughter was clinging to him tightly while shutting her eyes. Phantom still sleeping, dressed in rags and covered in stitches.
He didn't know where his friends were, but he had no time to think about that. He had two children to care for, so he needed to prioritise a place to run to.
The only place he knew with enough ambient ectoplasm was Gotham. It may take him some time to get there, but he needs to get to safety.
When he stole in Gotham, he may have kept stealing anything that was box-shaped, but many things are in box-shaped containers now, and he couldn't let anyone know what he was stealing. So, what he stole may have been random, but some were needed, and some were distractions. He couldn't let anyone go after his 'Greatest Treasure'.
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Prompt:
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embbarnes · 2 months ago
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Подарок. | W.S
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summary: You give the soldier a present for Christmas.
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warnings: Fluff & Angst | Fem!reader | Winter Soldier!Bucky | Post!CA:TWS | PTSD mentions | Mention of medical treatments | Recovery | Brief talk of nightmares
a/n: Sort of unofficial part two to Sugar Plums since I had a few people asking for a part two. Same universe I guess, with some time between. Uhh probably rushed idk. To be edited later. ;; wc: 3.3k
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Recovery.
Fickle, fragile, exhausting.
He gradually accepted being called Bucky, though the name stirred something uncomfortable within him each time it reached his ears. Steve, ever persistent and hopeful, would use various versions of the name - Bucky, Buck, or sometimes James - in his unwavering attempts to resurrect the friend he once knew, unable to accept that the Bucky from his memories had faded away like footprints in snow.
Winter had completely erased the old Bucky.
While these names would trigger a subtle internal struggle, he maintained an almost perfect mask of indifference, with only the slightest furrowing of his brow betraying any sign of his inner turmoil.
You, however, carefully navigated between calling him Bucky and Soldat, aware that using his old code name might reinforce programming you wished to help him break free from. Yet there was a slight relaxation in his shoulders when you used the familiar designation, the way it seemed to ease the constant tension he carried made it impossible to completely abandon - his comfort, however small, had become your priority.
Even if that comfort stemmed from a dehumanizing name.
It required negotiation and persistent discussions to convince Tony to finally allow the soldier access to the medbay wing for his necessary medical treatments. Despite the soldier's extended stay in the tower passing without any concerning incidents, Tony maintained a strong hesitation about providing medical assistance. His deeply-rooted skepticism and apparent distrust were sources of frustration for you, though you consciously chose to avoid escalating the situation into a full-blown argument, knowing it would only make matters more complicated.
You had already gotten into intense scuffles with Tony over the soldier’s stay, how he needed to be looked over, physically and internally. The dislocated arm Steve caused never healed, and he had been carrying his arm awkwardly close to his body. Other physical injuries on top of the apparent dehydration and malnourishment, he was constantly under a veil of sickness.
The situation was particularly delicate because Soldat struggled with being in the presence of the other tower residents. He was acutely aware of how everyone seemed to cautiously moderate their behavior around him, treating each interaction as if they were navigating through a minefield of potential triggers. Like they were walking along eggshells every time they were near him.
It felt like he was walking on glass.
You were his only source of comfort, though traces of caution still lingered in his demeanor. He knew you posed no threat to his wellbeing. You had been patient and gentle the entire time, regardless of his panic or prone sense to lash out if he got stressed enough.
Long nights stretched endlessly in the sterile medbay rooms, where you faithfully maintained your vigil in the uncomfortable chair positioned beside the standard-issue medical bed. The soldier’s bed remained empty, as he consistently chose to rest on the cold floor instead. Sleep was an elusive companion for him, a nightly battle he rarely won. More often than not, his rest was violently interrupted by his own terrified screams or desperate shouts, his body jerking upright with defensive movements, arms swinging at invisible threats.
You would spend countless minutes trying everything in your power to bring him back to reality and calm his frantic state. Sometimes, despite your best efforts and gentle words, the situation would escalate beyond your ability to manage, forcing the medical staff on standby to intervene with sedatives to prevent him from unintentionally causing harm during these episodes.
Luckily his recovery progressed slowly but surely, transitioning from those intensive IV treatments in the clinical environment of the medbay to the more comfortable setting of your personal quarters. His sleeping arrangements evolved as gradually as his treatment; first from the hard floor, then to the modest couch tucked against the far wall, and finally to your bed.
These days, he found his rest beside you each night, his body instinctively seeking comfort by curling close to yours, desperately trying to make up for all those decades of disturbed sleep and haunted dreams.
Over time, his attachment to you had grown increasingly intense, and he began experiencing waves of jealousy whenever your attention was directed elsewhere. You helped around the tower a lot, so you tended to be distracted with tasks or aiding in another’s need. The soldier didn’t like it, so he began leaving his mark on you. It started subtly at first, he would rub your clothes on himself, in his mind it was good enough that you smelled like him. He saw it in a documentary once, of animals, but he had been in such a dehumanized state for so long, it made sense to him. His body’s scent on you, others would back off. That would work.
But, no, it wasn’t enough.
One day, crossing an unspoken boundary between you, he started placing love bites along your skin, positioning these tender marks from your neck down to your shoulders, eventually becoming bold enough to venture lower, marking your chest with these plum bruises.
The possessive displays sent warmth coursing through your body, and you willingly accepted his territorial behavior. After all, you had become his sole source of comfort and security in this world, making it perfectly natural for him to want to claim you in some way - whether through his distinctive scent (you knew about him rubbing your clothes on his body) or these carefully placed marks. His need to establish this connection, to make his claim visible, he was terrified you’d be taken from him.
Progress was being made in your relationship.
While he was still cautious with physical contact, he had begun to allow gentle touches and brief moments of closeness, though always within carefully maintained boundaries. He was like a cat, deciding when he wanted physical attention and when he wanted it to stop. The challenge of memory recovery remained a significant hurdle in his healing process. You had to help him remember specific things, he often mixed Russian and English, or plainly forgot the simplest of words.
He couldn’t for the life of him remember what a pillow was.
When Steve would speak to him, sharing stories and memories of their past, Bucky would often find himself lost in confusion, unable to connect with the vivid recollections that Steve so enthusiastically shared. The determination in Steve's eyes was evident as he tried desperately to help his lost friend remember the bond they once shared, but for Bucky, these memories remained frustratingly out of reach.
Steve's enthusiasm was well-intentioned, but sometimes, it manifested as an overwhelming flood of information and expectations. You could sense Bucky's growing distress during these interactions, the way his shoulders would tense, how his eyes would dart anxiously around the room. The stark reality was that Bucky's memories of Steve were minimal at best, yet Steve continued to share detailed accounts of their past experiences with increasing intensity.
Your became a careful mediator, providing emotional support to Bucky while gently helping Steve understand that his passionate approach was more hindering rather than helping the delicate process of memory recovery.
Bucky would get frustrated with himself during his journey of recovery. His collection of journals became a sanctuary for his fragmented memories, filled with carefully preserved photographs (provided by Steve), detailed notes written in an unsteady hand, and hastily scrawled thoughts or recollections that would suddenly surface from the depths of his consciousness throughout all hours of the day and night. These journals became both a source of comfort and torment, evidence of his struggle to piece himself back together like a puzzle without a photo.
Even with help from you or Steve, he maintained strict control over his recovery process. He deliberately chose not to document anything that Steve mentioned or tried to convince him of, instead focusing solely on recording memories that emerged organically from within his own mind.
Having experienced decades of mental manipulation, he didn’t want anyone influencing his thoughts or memories ever again. He couldn't bring himself to simply accept Steve's version of events without questioning them, needing to verify everything through his own recollections.
You knew it hurt Steve to see Bucky this way, how he refused to listen or believe him, but you couldn’t blame the man. Either of them, really. It was delicate, it took a lot of patience on everyone’s part.
Bucky’s dedication to recovering his past manifested in sleepless marathons that would stretch on for days at a time. The soldier within him approached the task with military precision, attempting to reconstruct his shattered memories in a specific manner. Yet despite his efforts, the majority of his recollections remained disjointed and fractured, with memories of his time with HYDRA dominating his consciousness more than anything else.
While Bucky was trying to recall his elusive past, you dedicated yourself to helping him build new neural pathways and retain more recent experiences, hoping to make his daily life more manageable and give him a sense of independence. The simplest tasks had become foreign territory for him - the muscle memory and basic understanding of everyday activities having slipped away like water through cupped hands. Modern appliances like microwaves, coffee makers, or the oven had become objects that he approached with confusion.
His relationship with food had become particularly concerning. Unable to prepare proper meals, you would find him furtively consuming makeshift sandwiches, but only when he believed he could finish them before being discovered. His posture during meals was hunched, protectively positioning himself over his plate or bowl, shoveling food into his mouth at an alarming pace, his entire body tense as though preparing to defend his meal from unseen threats.
Food aggression, apparently, wasn't restrictive to just animals.
Among the numerous concerns, his recurring nightmares stood out as the most troubling and pressing issue. The frequency and intensity of these night terrors had become increasingly worrisome, regardless of how well he had progressed otherwise.
Night after night, his anguished screams would pierce the darkness, and these episodes gradually evolved into extended periods where sleep became completely impossible for him to achieve. Bucky would remain awake for days and nights at a stretch, fighting against his own exhaustion, scribbling nonsense into his journals until his body would finally surrender and he would collapse into a brief, troubled slumber.
This cycle would repeat, each time more severe than the last.
Your began looking into different methods that might help ease his troubled sleep so that Bucky could experience the simple luxury of peaceful rest. Your research led you through a wide array of options; from various herbal teas and natural sleep remedies to more conventional medical interventions. However, given his strong aversion to pharmaceutical solutions, you deliberately steered clear of medication-based approaches, knowing they would likely be met with resistance.
Over time, you discovered that a soothing routine of warm herbal tea and gentle companionship proved to be an effective remedy for his nightmares. The nightly ritual of sharing your sleeping space had become second nature, and you observed how this consistent presence brought him the comfort and stability his life lacked for seven decades. His sleep patterns were delicately intertwined with his emotional state, thus during periods of anxiety or perceived threat, his rest would become noticeably disturbed and fitful.
However, your unwavering presence served as a constant source of reassurance, creating a safe haven where he could finally find peaceful rest. Plus, it helped him regain new memories to write down and you could see how proud he was every time he recounted something from his past.
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Christmas morning.
Every corner and crevice of the tower sparkled with festive décor, tinsel draped from every available surface, and twinkling lights illuminated the halls in a dazzling display. It was an extravagant winter wonderland that bordered on excessive, but that was exactly Tony's style - he approached every holiday with unbridled enthusiasm, and Christmas was undoubtedly his crowning achievement.
With his seemingly limitless resources at his disposal, there was nothing holding him back from creating the most elaborate celebrations possible.
Aka…he was rich so he could.
In contrast to Tony's lavish approach, you took a more modest approach when it came to gift-giving. The act of receiving presents always made you somewhat uncomfortable, as you found far more joy in being the one doing the giving. You selected meaningful presents for each team member, carefully considering their individual interests and preferences. You couldn't match Tony's extravagant spending (something he never failed to remind everyone of that morning), but you firmly believed that the genuine thought and personal consideration behind a gift carried far more significance than its monetary value (Tony disagrees).
Bucky perched uncomfortably at the far end of the plush couch, his posture tense and rigid while the other team members enthusiastically tore through their wrapped presents with childlike excitement. Your general annoyance with Tony's characteristic swagger and showmanship failed you this morning, a warmth spread through your chest at the genuine joy radiating from Pepper's face when she discovered the exquisite diamond ring he had carefully selected for her and presented after she freed it from the tight wrapping paper.
You stayed by Bucky all morning, carefully observing his reactions to the bustling holiday atmosphere. It was clear he was struggling to process the overwhelming sensory experience and you didn’t blame him. The twinkling lights and shimmering tinsel to the constant chatter and laughter of the group, on top of holiday music and the smells of breakfast and baked goods from the kitchen, were surely a lot to process. His discomfort grew and you recognized the telltale signs of sensory overload in his slightly widened eyes and shallow breathing. The social expectations was clearly taking its toll.
He had wanted to try, he wanted to sit down with you that morning, but he had been struggling.
Your gift pile was modest, exactly as you had requested. You insisted that presents weren't necessary, you found yourself the recipient of a generously stuffed Christmas stocking and an assortment of small, meaningful items carefully chosen by your teammates in a way that made it impossible for you to object to their kindness.
When Steve presented Bucky with a collection of carefully preserved mementos from their past, but the soldier's response wasn’t what he wanted. His eyes fixed on the items that should have sparked recognition, should have ignited memories of happier times, but instead were met with blank confusion and growing distress. You sensed the uncomfortable scene and noticed the mounting anxiety in Bucky's expression, you decided to intervene with a present you got for him.
"Here, I got this for you." You handed him a carefully wrapped bag with delicate tissue paper peeking out from the top, rustling softly with each movement. "Nothing all that special but...I figured it might be nice to have something like this." You replied gently, your voice carrying a hint of nervousness as you watched him, waiting with anticipation for him to open the gift.
Bucky held the bag tentatively, his eyes fixed on the festive baby blue packaging adorned with an intricate pattern of darker blue ornaments. The glitter-coated decorations caught the light as they spiraled across the surface of the bag. He had to blink a few times to refocus his eyes, his hand slowly reached up and grasped the white tissue paper that had been carefully arranged at the top, concealing the gift. He pulled it free, soft crinkling sounded as he removed it.
He reached into the depths of the bag, his fingers brushing against something soft before grasping it. As he drew it out, his hand revealed a charming stuffed elephant, its plush grey body soft to the touch. The toy was perfectly proportioned, with endearing fat limbs that dangled naturally from its tear-shaped body. Its oversized ears flopped gently and its trunk curved in a friendly manner that seemed to welcome embrace. The stuffed animal sat comfortably in his hands, sized just right for holding close and cuddling.
"Elephants are known for their memories, you know." You gave him a gentle, encouraging nudge, your voice soft and hopeful. "Who knows? Maybe having this elephant around will help spark some of those lost memories of yours. They say elephants never forget, after all."
Bucky turned to face you, his expression one of confusion and curiosity. His eyes held that familiar, guarded look the soldier usually carried - a careful blend of wariness and interest that never quite revealed his inner thoughts. He examined the stuffed toy with an almost childlike fascination, as if encountering one for the first time.
His flesh hand explored every detail of the plush elephant with careful attention, fingers trailing along the soft fabric. He wrapped them around the trunk, testing its flexibility, then moved to rub the floppy ears between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezing the body gently as if checking its softness.
"There's something else too." You smiled warmly, gesturing toward the bag with enthusiasm. "Go ahead, take another look." He complied, reaching in until his hand emerged clutching a brand new journal. Following the theme, the journal was decorated in a soothing light blue shade, its cover stamped with a delicately printed elephant in the center. "I noticed your other journals were getting pretty full, so I thought you might need a fresh start. This one's got plenty of space, lots of room for all those thoughts and memories you want to keep safe."
His hands gently set the items down after examining each one carefully, his eyes lingering on every detail as if trying to memorize them. Then he turned to you, his expression unreadable. "You...got these...for me." Bucky spoke slowly, each word carefully chosen, as if he was having trouble processing the simple act of kindness. "To help me remember?"
"And, the elephant will be a nice cuddle buddy for those long nights you tend to have," you explained softly, watching his reaction. "It has special infusions of lavender and bergamot oils that I picked specifically to help you sleep better. The aromatherapy might even help soothe away those bad dreams you've been having. Well, at least according to the sales clerk." You reached out and lifted the soft plush elephant, bringing it to your nose and inhaling deeply. "See? It's really calming, isn't it?"
He took the toy back and smelled it deeply, letting out a contented sigh as the aroma filled his nose and sent waves of comfort through his body, making him feel warm and fuzzy inside. He carefully lowered the elephant into his lap, treating it as if it were made of delicate porcelain. His throat tightened with emotion as he swallowed hard and looked back at you, his eyes wide with disbelief and gratitude.
"All this for me?" he whispered, his voice barely audible as he struggled to process the reality that someone would think to get him anything at all (Steve didn’t count). The concept of receiving gifts was so foreign to him, so far removed from his perception of what he deserved, that he could barely wrap his mind around it.
You thought maybe it looked sill to some people, but it was more about why you got it, not what you got him.
You nodded, offering a warm smile, "Yes...I got this just for you."
The soldier's gaze slowly drifted back to his lap, his fingers lingering momentarily on the thoughtful gifts before carefully pushing the journal and elephant to rest beside him. He then leaned forward quickly, closing the distance between you and wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace. The display caught you off guard, given his usual hesitance to initiate any form of contact beyond nightly cuddling or his possessive love-bites.
After you recovered from the sudden gesture, your arms encircled him in return. You drew him closer as he nestled himself against your body, seeking comfort in your warmth and smell. It was one of the only things he could consistently rely on.
A knowing smile played across your lips as you whispered against his ear, "I take it you like it?"
"...Да."
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Thanks for reading. -em 🌿
Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.
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wendichester · 2 months ago
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˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ on his wrist,
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summary. dean loves your simple, worn-out, black hair tie. it's awfully handy for your extracurricular activities.
pairing. dean winchester + reader
wordcout. 589.
notes. 18+, implied intimacy. mdni .ᐟ
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Dean Winchester always has your hair tie on his wrist. It's one of those little back ones—plain, stretchy, and just slightly frayed from being used too many times. It doesn't look like much, but it's there, circling his wrist snugly like it just belongs.
The first time you noticed it, you thought maybe he just forgot to take it off. After all, you'd tossed it onto the nightstand, and Dean being Dean, probably scooped it up without even thinking. But now, it's always there. Always.
Even when he's stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets or wiping grease off them after working on the Impala, the hair tie stays on.
It's kind of adorable, really. Not that anyone would dare call Dean Winchester adorable. Not out loud, anyway.
"You gonna keep that on forever?" Sam asks one morning, arching a brow at his brother over a cup of coffee.
Dean doesn't even bother look up. "Yep,"
Sam smirks and mutters something under his breath about how Dean is "whipped", but the oldest Winchester just shrugs it off, casually twirling the band around his wrist like it's no big deal. But it is a big deal. To you, at least.
Because, sure, it's just a hair tie, but everyone knows Dean's not the type to hold onto things unless they matter. He doesn't do sentimental—at least, not in the traditional sense. But this? This is his version of it.
And, of course, there's another reason he wears it.
It's late. you're in his lap, straddling him like it’s second nature. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, slipping under your shirt to trace the soft skin beneath.
Your fingers tangle in his hair as your mouths crash together, hot and desperate. He kisses like he fights, all passion and raw intensity, like he needs you more than his next breath. You shift in his lap, feeling him groan against your lips, and it’s almost too much, "You're gonna kill me," he mutters against your lips.
He pulls you back in for another kiss—messy and full of heat, the kind that steals your breath and sends your heart racing. You feel the scratch of his stubble against your skin, the way his lips curve into a smile even as they're locked on yours.
Then, suddenly, you're slipping down onto your knees between his legs. Dean's jaw clenches, his eyes following your every move, and you feel his hands before you even look up. "C'mere," One of them cups your cheek, rough and warm, while the other brushes through your hair, gathering it up with slow, practiced ease.
"Hold still for me, sweetheart," You glance up at him, your breath catching in your chest. He's looking down at you, and it's almost too much—the tenderness in his expression, the hunger in his eyes. His fingers find the tie on his wrist, slipping it off in one smooth motion.
He works quickly, threading the elastic through your hair and securing it with an almost reverent touch. It's ridiculous, how careful he's being, as if tying your hair back is the most important thing he's done all day. His hands linger, rough and warm, the slightest tug making your breath hitch.
"There," he says, his thumb brushing along your jaw. Dean leans back again, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he takes you in. He's quiet for a beat, just watching you, and when he finally speaks, his voice is soft but filled with something raw. "You're just so damn pretty like this, baby."
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thebibliosphere · 2 years ago
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Speaking of therapy, I say, as though we're old friends, and you're not a stranger trapped in this metaphorical elevator with me and you can hear the suspension wires starting to fray.
I've been doing a lot of work recently that's focused on imposter syndrome and the feeling that no matter how well or how much I do, I'm not good enough. That I'm somehow tricking everyone into thinking my work is actually good.
Some days it's a minor niggle in my head that I can gentle and soothe with logic and affirmations. Or smother, depending on the mood. Other times it's loud and all-consuming and the mental anguish it causes me is so real I can feel it twitching in my muscles. This desperate fight-or-flight instinct with nowhere to go and nothing to fight but myself.
Anyway, because I'm several types of Mentally Unwell™, I was switching between workshop sheets ahead of next week. Filling in different forms. (Trying to get a good grade in therapy) And I got my "recognize your harmful ADHD coping mechanisms" worksheet mixed in with the "you're not actually lying to people, you just feel like you are because your brain is full of weasels" worksheet, and seeing them side by side made something go topsy turvy in my head, and I just had to sit and breathe for a couple of minutes until the urge to scream passed. Because it clicked, it all suddenly clicked.
The reason the imposter syndrome workshops and therapy sessions aren't sticking was because I do routinely trick people into thinking I'm someone I'm not.
Because I'm masking my ADHD for their convenience.
I've always known there was something wrong with me. My neurotypical peers made it abundantly clear I didn't fit in or was failing in some way I couldn't see nor remedy, no matter how hard I tried.
So I compressed myself into a workaholic box of hyper-competence in the hopes they'd stop noticing the flaws and exploit like me instead. And then subsequently lived with the daily fear that if they looked too close, they'd realize I'm a monumental fuck up with enough personal baggage to block the Suez Canal.
If you ever need someone to burn themselves to ashes for your comfort and convenience, I'm your gal.
Or I used to. Until I had a bit of a breakdown, and the rubber band holding my brain together snapped and pinged off into the stratosphere, never to be seen again.
Unfortunately, the trauma of living like that didn't also fuck off and instead left a gaping maw where my personality ought to be, so now I get to deal with that aftermath.
And it's that aftermath that's affecting the imposter syndrome shit. Because yes, I am hyper-competent and good at what I do-- but it doesn't feel real because that is how I mask.
And the truly frustrating thing is I am good at what I do. I am not pretending. I worked hard to be good at this. It just feels like I'm dicking around because 90% of my personality turns out to be trauma masquerading as humor in a trenchcoat, and having people genuinely like something weird I'm doing is so foreign my brain has decided it's just another form of masking.
I'm pretending to be a good author so people will think I'm a good author, and my brain thinks we are in Danger of being found out. We are in Danger, and writing is Dangerous because then people will know I'm Weird and not whatever palatable version I've presented myself as for their NT sensibilities.
Like the neurotic vampire with a raging praise kink wasn't an obvious giveaway.
Anyway. I got nothing else. Thanks for listening.
I'm going to go be very normal in another room and not stare into the abyss of my own soul for a bit.
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