#he really just be putting you in situations

[headspace-hotel]

This year has, so far, been for me a series of rapid realizations of what I have been unlearning.

I went to the library. This was a couple weeks ago. I knew I needed to read a book, fiction. I hadn't done so in over a year and it was the longest period of time I had ever gone without doing so. I made a rule: I would only pick books I had never heard of, by authors I had never heard of, and I would not do any preliminary research or even bother to look at what the book was about. I would make my decision on whether to read or not purely on my impression of the title, cover and opening lines.

The book was The Connoisseur by Evan S. Connell. It was kind of a random selection. I sat down with it in a corner of the library and straight up devoured it. I tore through the book within a few hours, without taking a single break. I was captivated. I couldn't put it down.

It is a book about a guy who buys a Mayan figurine in a knickknack shop while he's on a business trip. and becomes obsessed with pre-Columbian sculptural art. There isn't really much of a plot apart from this. He goes to sketchy antique shows, has conversations with museum curators, wealthy art dealers and forgers, and seeks to learn how to distinguish a genuine pre-Columbian piece from a fake one. It was written in the 1970's, so the views on Native Americans are antiquated and sometimes offensive, and there is the troubling thread of the very concept of looting another culture's treasures and treating them as collectibles, though the book is not without commentary on this.

All the same, it was a completely intoxicating read. The vicarious experience of becoming fascinated with a topic and having it unfold a whole world for you was ferociously gripping, and so was the intrigue of the art collecting world itself. The frauds, forgeries, smuggling, museums, academics, aristocrats, auctions and seedy flea markets. Will he ever be able to tell if a piece is "real?" Does it matter if it's "real?" Why does he want to own and possess a piece of art, and how does its "realness" affect that desire? The book leaves you not knowing what to think.

It is a book about curiosity, portrayed in the narrative as a totally unreasonable lightning bolt that strikes a man who has never been fascinated by anything and changes him forever. Why? Why does a Mayan figurine, in particular, speak to him? Why does any piece of art, or any fascinating thing in the world, speak to anyone? It is unknowable.

I went to the library again. I picked a new book using the same rules. This book was Fragile Beasts by Tawni O'Dell. Just like the last time, I was totally captivated. I couldn't put it down.

Did I have a couple major problems with the portrayal of some important aspects of the story? Yes. (It would make the post much longer to discuss.) Was I completely captured by and invested in the story for the time I was reading it? Also yes. The book braids together several very different strands-- the story of a legendary Spanish bullfighter and a wealthy American woman that he loved, two brothers stuck in an ugly family situation after their father's death in a car accident, and a rich old heir to a Pennsylvania coal mining fortune and to the sinister underbelly of her family's business.

There was a lot about baseball, which I know nothing about, and bullfighting, which I know nothing about, and I certainly don't know anything about being a teenaged boy who resents and mistrusts his estranged mother, or an aristocratic old lady who lives in a mansion and eats fancy Spanish food. It was fun to experience so much unfamiliar stuff and to care about things I wouldn't normally care about. Once again I couldn't stop reading until I had finished it.

I don't know that either book was "good," though I thought they were both well written; I just know that reading them was like being hooked up to an IV of something essential and life-giving and feeling it reanimating my body.

It had been a year since I had read any fiction, but it had been much, much longer since I had loved to read. As I became an adult I had become picky and critical about books, and developed a highly sophisticated sense of my taste and the books I considered good- which were very rare. My taste in books became so sophisticated, eventually, that I didn't like books at all anymore.

I had almost withered away from deficiency of that essential nutrient known as STORY. I'd almost crumbled myself into dust from pretentiousness! I may have been terribly wrong about the kinds of things I liked to read, on top of it. And I certainly hadn't realized that story was such an essential nutrient.

"Just entertainment" the pretentious sorts of people might say of a book they think is useless-- but what is entertainment but to absorb your mind in something, and what is absorbing your mind in a book but to experience things you would never have experienced? It expands you and makes you more complicated. It is the study of human existence itself.

Now all I have been able to think about today is finishing my work and going to the library again...

[godmadeaterribleerror]

It's Been Calling Me

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, light angst, shameless smut (oral f receiving, p in v sex), fluff, soulmates, dreams, told over many years, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You've had these… dreams. Strange, realistic, detailed dreams of the same man, almost your whole life. But they're just dreams. You've been so sure, for so long, that they're just dreams.

So sure, until you're not.

Author's Note: I love this one. I love using fake Marvel science logic. I love putting sad men in situations where they can't escape love. I love semi-linear storytelling. Enjoy!

Word Count: 10.9k

“I get… dreams.” You mumble, staring at an odd point over Dr. Raynor’s head. It’s always better than looking her in the eyes. “They’re weird.”

“The very nature of dreams is to be strange.” You can see the shrug of Raynor’s shoulders, hear the neural expression that must be on her face. “Although if you feel they’re worthy of note-“

“They are.” 

Raynor hums. She’s probably raising her brows. You still won’t look.

“You sound quite certain of that.”

“I am.” You tuck your knees up to your chest, frowning at the air. “It’s- They’re not new.”

“Ah.” Raynor pauses, then says your name. In the gentle but firm therapist way that you really hate. It makes you feel like a child. “This conversation may be easier if you would look at me.”

“No thanks, I’m-“

She says your name again. A little harsher. “We’ve discussed this. You’re here of your own volition-“

“That’s not true.” You mutter. “Court-ordered isn’t volition.”

“Well you could’ve chosen the inpatient ward.” Raynor’s shrugging again. “Look at me.”

You let out a long breath, and meet her gaze. You’d been right. She was raising her brows.

“Good work.” She gives you a tight-lipped smile and small nod of approval. “Tell me about these dreams.”

It takes a minute to find the words. Not because you don’t have them, but because you’d never expected to use them. You’ve rehearsed them in the mirror a million times, but they always sounded insane, and you didn’t need another reason to be called crazy.

“I’ve had them my whole life.” It’s easiest to start there. “But it’s- they’ve changed. Over time.”

“Changed how?”

“It’s hard to explain-“

“Try.”

You scowl. “I am trying, Christina, but there’s kind of a lot to say-“

Raynor sighs, giving you the patented look of disapproval that you might hate more than how she says your name. “How about telling me when they started. Is that do-able?”

It takes a long, deep breath, but you nod. “I was- I think I was ten. I fell asleep, and it was the first dream I’d ever had. The first one that I remembered when I woke up. It was…” You swallow, and there’s a sting in your nails as you rip more skin away. “Really vivid.”

——

This isn’t your body. It’s too big, too tall, and you’re not nearly strong enough to rip a door off its hinges. This body is sprinting across ice without ever breaking pace or falling flat with a crunch. You can’t even walk up stairs without tripping over thin air.

But this doesn’t really feel like a body at all. It feels like a shell, or tool. Hollow and pressed down, moving so mechanically you’d think it was a machine if you couldn’t hear its heartbeat in your ears. There’s a lot of pain in it. Strangely numb pain, as if the owner of this body doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, shuttering it off to the side as he moves.

You’re pretty sure it's a he. There’s hair in your eyes, but men can have long hair, and when the body’s arms swing into view they’re big and muscular. You’re also pretty sure there’s something between your legs that wasn’t there when you went to sleep.

And you can feel him. Very, very deep in your head, he’s bellowing and scraping at his own scalp. He feels like a caged animal, but this is his body. He’s roaring things that are more like feral sounds than actual words, and every time he gets loud enough for you to make out a real voice something clamps down on your skull—his skull—and it all goes quiet.

You can see another man in your line of vision. He’s on his knees, trembling and begging, but the noise is muffled and static. As if there’s a filter pushing anything coherent out of your head.

A gloved fist that’s attached to your body—but not yours to control—reaches out and grabs the man by his throat. It squeezes. 

He’s desperate. Locked down and furious, the ‘he’ who you’re possessing is almost pleading with himself to stop. 

But he doesn’t. 

And there’s a sickening snap that will echo in your ears for a long time after you wake up.

——

Raynor’s looking at you like you’re insane. You don’t love it.

“Did you…” She pauses, scanning over you with a small frown. “Did you see the hand?”

You blink at her. “Yeah, I just said-“

“Without the glove.” She clarifies. “The one that snapped the man’s neck. Did you ever see it without the glove.”

It’s an oddly specific question. And she seems to be looking for a certain answer, because in all your time of working with Raynor she’s never looked so obviously invested in a story. 

“Not for a while.” You keep your words slow, watching her wearily. “He always wore the gloves. And when he didn’t, he wouldn’t look at his hands-“

Raynor frowns. “So how did you know he wasn’t wearing the gloves?” 

“Because he knew.” You shrug. “I lived in his brain like, every night.”

“Every-“

“Night, yeah. That’s what I fucking said.”

Raynor hums, and you think she’s going to grab the notebook to write something along the lines of patient has lost her goddamn mind, but she just keeps staring at you. “You said you didn’t see the hand for a while. When did you see it?”

“When I was sixteen. The first time the dreams changed.”

“Changed from-“

“Being in his head.” You pull your lip between your teeth, weighing how much you want to reveal. Too much feels like a violation of his privacy, even if they’re your dreams. He’s a private guy, it took you years to get him to tell you anything, and if you’ve realized turns out to be the truth, you don’t want to ruin anything. “It’s- it was about six years of seeing everything through his eyes-“

“Everything?”

You wish Raynor would stop saying the word every like that. Like it’s a lie.

“All the murders.” You mutter. “There were a lot of murders.”

Raynor nods for you to continue, and you have to take a long, steadying breath.

“One night I went to sleep and he was… attacking some blond guy. We couldn’t really see his face. Then I fell asleep the next night, and it was different.”

——

You can see him. You’ve never seen him before. 

He’d never looked in a mirror, or described himself in his head for you like he’s a Wattpad character. He’s only ever been a body that moves out of your will, and a pained voice deep in your brain that didn’t seemed thrilled with what was happening either. 

But you’re not in his head, or his body. You’re standing in a bathroom—in your own body, wearing the same clothing you’d been wearing when you’d crawled into bed—and looking at him. 

He’s a lot more attractive than you’d anticipated. And you’d anticipated attractive. You’d built an image in your head of your imaginary dream assassin, basing it purely on a level of hotness that would justify all the murders he’d been up to. It had been a little fucked up, but you’d also been so goddamn sure he wasn’t real. That this was just a really odd and worrying coping mechanism for all the messed up shit in your real life. 

But he seems pretty fucking real right now. And almost impossibly handsome. Strong features that look like they’d been carved from marble, an almost hulking frame that’s somehow bigger when you’re looking at it from outside, and tangled, greasy hair that’s really working with the whole tortured expression on his face.

Because he does not look okay.

He’s gripping the sink and glowering at himself, scanning over his own face like he recognizes it less than you do. He’s bent like there’s a weight on his shoulders he doesn’t know how to shake off, and that’s impressive, because you’ve seen him pick up a car. 

The porcelain of the sink cracks, and he flinches back, looking between his hands and the rubble with wide eyes.

His eyes are blue. A really pretty blue. You’d always thought blue eyes were overrated—big whoop, you’re more sensitive to light—but there’s something silver in this man’s eyes that you really love. It feels like a deep storm you’d like to chase.

He’s really pretty. 

He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would like being called pretty, but he is. In a natural and powerful way. Like something heavenly that’s burned through the atmosphere in a dreadful fall.

Pretty face, pretty eyes, pretty hands-

Metal hand. 

One metal hand.

——

Raynor looks worried now. You wish she’d go back to thinking you’re just batshit crazy. 

“Do you-” she clears her throat, sitting a little taller in her chair. “His name. Did you ever learn his name?”

It’s your turn to raise your brows. “Does that matter?”

“Yes.”

It’s a flat, tense answer. It makes something coil in your throat. 

“I-“ You rub your own calves, soothing yourself in the careful way you’ve always practiced. “I didn’t, for a while-“

Raynor says your name, her tone short and clipped. “Stop telling me something didn’t happen for a while. If I ask a question, it’s because I need to know the answer. Not the buildup.”

You frown. “Need to know?”

“It’s…” Raynor sighs. “It is very important that you give me a name.”

“Why?”

“Therapist reasons.”

You give her a flat look. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Yes, it is. Name.”

“If you need the name,” you say, raising your chin slightly. “You have to sit through my for a while.”

Raynor gives you a look of disbelief, shaking her head and muttering something that sounds like God, I can’t take two of them, before raising her voice. “Fine. What was for a while.”

“I couldn’t talk to him.” You explain. “For like, two years after I got out of his brain, he still couldn’t see me. When I tried to talk to him it was like I was in a- sort of a one-way mirror? And it’s not like he was just walking around telling the air I’m Bucky-“

“Bucky?” Raynor looks downright distressed. “His name was-“

“It’s Bucky.” 

He still is. He’s not a was, Bucky is.

That’s part of the problem.

“And how-“ Raynor swallows. “How did you learn this?”

“He told me.”

——

This is new. You’re not on a street or in a half-empty apartment—the two places you’ve grown most accustomed to seeing in your sleep—but in a field. A very big field with huts and brush and goats.

There are a truly staggering amount of goats.

And there he is. His hair isn’t greasy and unkempt anymore, but looks almost soft, pulled back in a half-up half-down situation that makes him look clean. His metal arm is gone, but he doesn’t seem that bothered by it. He’s standing taller than before, like the weight you’ve grown used to seeing finally has begun to lift.

His outfit is new too. It looks like something traditional and well-made, rather than the off-brand baseball hats—you too are a big fan of the American baseball team, the ‘Doggers’—and shitty polyester t-shirts.

You’re taking him and scenery in, trying to place where your brain could’ve possibly taken you this time, when he does something you’d never expected.

He turns and looks at you.

Not through you. Not around you. Not in your general direction.

At you.

He can fucking see you.

“Hello?”

You’ve heard him speak before, a few times. His voice has always been low and gruff and heavy.

It’s smooth and richer now. You don’t know if that’s because it’s directed at you—setting off small sparks over your ribs—or in relation to that vanished weight, but you like it. It suits him better.

“Hi.” You whisper, your body frozen in place as he moves forward.

He’s right in front of you. Staring at you. 

He’s always gotten prettier every time you’ve seen him. This is different.

This is knocking the air out of your lungs with just the sight of him, because there’s a light in his eyes you’ve never seen before, and it makes something deep inside of you glow.

“I’m, uh, I’m Bucky.” 

He holds out his hand, and you tilt your head at him.

“That’s a weird name.”

He blinks at you, his hand still frozen in the air. “I guess, yeah. Never thought about it. It’s just a nickname.”

“Oh.” That makes more sense. “Sorry. That’s- I just never thought you as- never mind.” 

Bucky frowns at you, opening his mouth—likely ask you what you mean by that—but you say your name and shake his hand because he gets the chance.

He has a nice hand. It warm, and calloused, and fits really well in yours. 

“Why can you see me?” You blurt, and there goes any pretense of containing the truth. 

Bucky frowns at you. “Should I… Not be able to see you?”

“You’ve never seen me before.”

“Before? What do you mean-“

“It’s- It’s weird. And complicated.”

He just stares at you, waiting for you to continue. 

You’re holding his gaze. You’ve never held anyone’s gaze before. 

It’s kind of electrifying.

“I’ve dreamt about you before.” You mumble. “And you’ve never seen me.”

“About me?”

He doesn’t sound like he believes you. You get that. It’s not really a reasonable or believable statement.

“Yeah. But you had two arms. And there weren’t goats.”

Bucky nods slowly, and seems to reach a conclusion in his brain that you don’t get to be privy to. 

It’s enough for him though. Because he gives you a small, almost nervous and apologetic smile. 

“Do you wanna, uh, do you wanna meet the goats?”

You blink at him. You’d expected more questions, or some doubt. But he’s just looking at you, something in his pretty blue eyes almost hopeful.

“Are they...” You trail off, glancing at the goats over his shoulder. “Your goats?”

“They’re community goats.” He shrugs. “But Shuri says connection with life will help my recovery, and I don’t really want to connect with people.” His voice lowers, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “They don’t really like connecting with me.”

You don’t know who the fuck Shuri is, but you nod anyway. “So goats?”

He gives you another odd look, like he’d expected you to say something else. 

“Yeah. Goats.” 

“Did you name them?”

He frowns. “They’re goats. They don’t need names.”

You click your tongue, shaking your head. “Wrong. Everything needs a name. I named my car, and my phone.”

“You named your phone?”

“Yep.” You grin at him, and it’s a wide, teasing grin you haven’t given anyone in years. “Bertha.”

“That’s…” Bucky’s still staring at you–he seems to do that a lot—but there’s something like amusement in his eyes. “Bertha is not a good name.”

“Better than Bucky.”

He chuckles at that, and it’s a beautiful sound. Deep and heavy, like a bass drum in your chest.

It’s the sort of thing that could be addicting, if you’re not careful. Worse, it’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t mind being addicted to.

“You’re kinda mean, doll.”

“Yep.” You shrug, ignoring how ‘doll’ makes you feel fuzzy in your gut. “And I’ll be meaner if you don’t let me name your goats.”

He hums, scanning you over with an intensity in his eyes that reminds you of that storm you’d see all those years ago in the bathroom. This time, you’d like to do a little more than chase it.

You think it could be really easy to get wrecked by it. 

“Will you come back if I let you name them?”

He keeps saying things you don’t expect. Of course you’ll come back. You don’t have a choice.

But you nod, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Only if you promise to actually use the names.”

He nods, giving you another smile. “Deal.”

———

“Did you ever learn his last name?”

You shake your head. “I never asked. He mentioned his real name was James at one point, but then I asked why he was called ‘Bucky’ and we got off topic.”

“One… point?” Raynor’s words are slow, and you’ve really never seen her looked lost like this before. You’d be proud of yourself if it wasn’t a bad sign. “Exactly how frequently did these dreams occur?”

———

“You’re back!”

Bucky looks genuinely happy to see you. He does every night. The same surprised joy in his voice, shock always written over his face like it’s truly odd and lovely to see you here.

Like you’re not here every night, for three to four hours, standing in his little hut and wandering the fields.

You’ve worked out that you’ve put him in Africa. Wakanda specifically, likely because you’d seen it all over the news and it seemed pretty interesting. Shuri was the princess, and the guy T’challa Bucky had mentioned a few times was the King. You’d almost certainly heard their names during all those UN conferences—the ones you put on in the background just to hear some noise that wasn’t ringing in your ears—and your brain had just decided to run with it.

At least, you think it’s just your brain. You’ve always assumed this was all in your brain, because this feels like the exact kind of fucked up shit your brain would pull. And Bucky never aged. He’d never really changed, for six years. He’d had just been another way to cope for the longest time, but now—as you actually get to know him—he seems dangerously like a real person.

He looks like he broods less than when you see him hunched over a toilet or glowering at his reflection in a window. His appearance has started to shift in a way it never really had.

The metal arm has permanently departed. He seems fond of keeping his hair out of eyes, and his wardrobe finally has diversity. He talks to you, and he has a personality. An adorable, grumpy, endearing personality that would play into your idea of ‘made up in your brain’ if he couldn’t be so annoying.

He stares. He grunts a lot. He doesn’t get any of your references. If you made up an imaginary dream man to feel more loved, he would like all the things you like and hate all the things you hate.

But he doesn’t.

And it always draws you in further, because he truly does seem like just a perfectly insufferable asshole. 

That’s cruel. He’d been right. You could be mean. 

He never seemed to mind.

And he’s more like a dog anyway. One that escaped the pound and follows you around, not even bothering to beg for scraps because you offer them with a grin.

You like his company. You like his voice. You like that he’s annoying and you like more that it’s your exact type of annoying.

You like that he’s really fucking hot, and get hotter every time you visit. 

You mostly just like him.

“Of course I’m back.” You shrug, kicking a rock with the tip of your foot, watching it bounce through the dirt. “I’m always back.”

“Yeah. So far.” You see Bucky shrug in your periphery, and when you look up, he’s staring again. “Could change.”

“Won’t change.” You counter, giving him a pointed look. “Sorry, Buck. You’re stuck here until I die.”

That’s the first time you’ve called him Buck. He tenses for a moment, seems to shake something physically off his body, and nods slowly.

“Should I be worried about you dying?”

“Not right now, no.” You hum. Another rock gets kicked. “Death doesn’t agree with me.”

He chuckles. “Don’t think it agrees with anyone, doll-“

“Shut up.” Third rock. This one hits a goat, and you cringe slightly. “Shit. Sorry, Bubble McBubbleface-“

“Bubs will be.” Bucky rolls his eyes, moving to your side. He’s standing really close. You can almost feel a phantom heat from his body. “And I still can’t believe you talked me into that name. I had to tell the king of the damn country that his goat was named Bubble McBubbleface.”

You giggle, and Bucky shoots you a glare.

“You think that’s funny? I had to like pretend it was my idea,” he grumbles your name, and you always like how he says it. Like it’s some sort of answer. “I had to look the council of elders in the eyes and tell them that Bubble McBubbleface got Lady Gaga pregnant-“

Your eyes widen. “You let the goats get pregnant?”

“Course I let them get pregnant, doll.”

“But-“

He gives you a dry, amused look. “Would you rather I interfere? You want me to cockblock Bubs?”

You blink at him. “You know what cockblock means?”

Your brain had given him the personality of an eighty-year-old man. You don’t know why, but you stopped asking questions like “why” and “what” a long time ago. You just know that he shouldn’t know what cockblock means, for consistency.  

“Of course I know what it means. You taught it to me.” He winks at you, and you’re pretty sure you’re flushing.

This is meant to be a dream. You shouldn’t be able to flush, or feel a little flutter and hum in your heart, or something molten in your gut when he leans a little further forward to grin down at you.

This seems less like a dream every night.

You’d be worried about that if you had the energy, or foresight, or care.

“Are goats births gross?” You ask, and he chuckles again. The sound has started to inflict a sort of high on your brain, and every color in this dreamworld seems brighter. 

“They’re fucking disgusting.” He leans a little further down. You have to stare at his nose to pretend the proximity isn’t going to make your fall over. “But if you let me show you one in here, I’ll let you name the babies out there.”

You nod kind of stupidly, the whole world shifts into a barn—goat births are disgusting, but Bucky gets a look of intense focus you’d like to see re-aimed in your direction—and four months later Bucky tells you little Oz The Great and Powerful, Donald Duck, and Pants McPantsface have been welcomed into the world.

———

“So you’d see him in… Wakanda.” Raynor takes another long breath. If you didn’t think it would make everything worse, you’d tell her to try some deep breathing exercises. “Did the location ever change? Did you witness any more of those murders from before?”

You feel something spark in your chest like an electric wire, and you sit a little taller. You haven’t seen Bucky kill anyone since you’d been trapped in his brain. He’s a good man. And, as far as Raynor knows, a figment of your imagination. She has no right to fucking imply-

“It’s important that I know,” she says slowly, and you think your oddly blinding and righteous anger had been painted all over your face. “So I better understand what’s been happening to you. Please,” she says your name, leaning somehow further forward in her seat. “Answer my questions.”

You nod, letting out a slow exhale. “No murders. But he did start coming into my brain.”

Raynor frowns at you. “Was he not always-“

“Not like this.”

———

“This is new.”

You whip around, taking a stumbling step back that would’ve landed you on the floor, had Bucky not looped his one arm around your waist.

“Hey, doll. Pleasure seeing you-“ He frowns, glancing around your apartment. “Where the hell am I?”

You don’t answer, only reaching up to touch his face. His beard is soft. His hair is softer. When you trace the line of his nose it does feel like a nose, and when you poke his cheek it seems pretty cheek-like- 

“What, uh,” Bucky say your name, scanning over your face with concern. “What’s happening here.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” You whisper, poking his cheek again. Just to be sure. “You’ve never been here before.”

“Yeah, figured that one out myself-“

“No.” You shake your head, placing one hand on his chest. It fits well there, slotting right over muscle and warm skin. Every part of him seems to fit perfectly against you, and you’ve never been this close before, but you don’t have any urge to move away. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You’ve never been here. It’s been ten years, and you’ve never been here.”

“I know, doll. Doesn’t seem like there’s much to-“ He pauses, giving you an odd look. “Ten years?”

“Yeah.” You mumble. There’s not much else to say.

He just stares at you, and shakes his head slightly. “Huh. You gonna tell me where I am?”

“My apartment.”

“Your-“ He starts slightly, but you never shake in his arms. “You live in this place?”

You nod, and he pulls you to your feet, scanning over your home. 

The silence wraps around your heart and lungs, and the room is spinning slightly. You’re asleep. You’re pretty fucking sure you’re asleep. You locked the door, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed, so you’re asleep. Bucky’s never been here before, but he’s not really here because this is a dream and he’s not real.

You think. 

You wouldn’t bet on that anymore, though.

And nothing has ever been as important as Bucky liking your room, because the longer he just scans over the space around you the more your skin heats, the more your eyes blur, the more your throat constricts and your heart aches and pounds-

“It’s very… you.” He finally says, and every bit of nerve vanishes into the air.

He’s right. You’ve been very deliberate in making sure your home is yours.

And you’re not sure why you bothered worrying at all. He fits here, just as well as he fits in every other part of you.

“Can I get the grand tour?” He raises his brows, and you nod, leading him through your space, making jokes and feeling your heart do a little flip and spin whenever he chuckles.

And things always do change. Frequently out in the real world, and carefully and easily in here.

And at least with Bucky, the change seems adaptive. You grow, he grows with you, until you’re twined and rooted into each other, and every color in this dreamscape is so vivid it’s the only thing that still tells you:

None of this is real.

———

“It was split after that.” You say. ”Half the dreams in Wakanda, half in New York.” 

You’re watching Raynor carefully. Still on the edge of her seat, legs braced like she’s ready for a fight, a tight expression on her face that Bucky calls the moose in headlights expression.

———

“You got that moose expression again, doll.”

You frown at him. “Stop calling it that, it’s just my face-“

“No. Your normal face has a dimple here, and your brows rest like that.”

He’s touching you as he explains, moving your features to match his words. You’d smack his hand away if his touch wasn’t soothing and flaring all at once. If you didn’t really love the idea of him looking at you long enough to know exactly how to adjust your face, and how to be right about it.

“But it’s not like that now.” He finishes, giving you a pointed look. “You got moose-face.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Moose-face is worse, Bucky. And it’s still not a real thing-“

“Yeah it is. Most people got a moose face.” He shrugs. He’s staring again. It’s taking a lot of effort not to melt forward into him. “Tight expression. Like a deer in headlights, but they think they’re too good to be in the headlights. They’re gonna go down fighting.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head, giving him a sickly-sweet smile. “Can I see your moose face?”

“I don’t have a moose face-“

“Liar.” You poke his ribs, narrowing your eyes. “You said everyone has one-“

“I said ‘most people.’” Bucky shrugs. “Moose face means you’re gonna get hit, you just don’t believe it yet. I know how to not get hit.”

“Sounds like something someone with a moose-face would say.”

He chuckles. You’re sitting down, and you’re going to fall over. “No luck, doll. I got other faces, but no moose face.” He frowns at the air. “Never could afford to have one.”

There’s suddenly something heavier in his eyes, and it makes your whole body feel wired and heavy. It’s suffocating and crushing and rotten, and it’s just an expression but everything feels worse when you see it—when his shoulders hunch and his face becomes set like stone, just like all those years ago in the bathroom—so it needs to stop right now. 

“What about a wolf face?”

Bucky blinks at you. “What.”

“You said no moose face.” You cross your arms, raising your chin slightly. “Do you have a wolf face?”

“I don’t know what that is-“

“So suddenly you’re the only one who’s allowed to make up expressions?”

You hold is gaze for a long second—you’ve gotten really good at doing that, but only when you’re dreaming of Bucky—until his lips twitch slightly.

And everything feels alright again.

———

“How much of New York appeared in your… dreams? Was is like Wakanda, where you wandered?”

You frown at the air. Raynor’s indulging in this, but not like you’d hoped. Not shutting you down or telling you that you’re crazy. You’d really hoped to hear some validation that you were just plain crazy.

“Not really. I mean, there was one night where we were at my job, a few at the coffee shop I usually go to, and maybe like, five at the park, but we were mostly my apartment when I was showing him stuff.”

“And what did you-“ Raynor’s whole body tenses, and the last part of her question is pushed through her teeth. “What did you show Bucky?”

You flush, your gaze dropping down to your hands. “Stuff. In my apartment.”

———

You don’t know exactly what gives. What straw completely desolates every single bone in your body, and ends with you here.

Maybe it was that you’d finally mentioned all the murders, and you’d never seem him look horrified before, but the sight has dislodged something along your ribs that hadn’t mended until he let you move his head to your lap. Stroking his hair as he stared at you, telling him about your day.

Maybe it’s that you always tell him about your day. That this—whatever this is—has shifted from trading teasing comments and trying to learn about each other, into pure and comfortable understanding, and now that’s how most nights are spent.

Bucky’s reports are short. The goats are being goats—that’s all they know how to do—he doesn’t like a song someone tried to make him listen to because it’s too loud, and Shuri brought him some food that made his face feel like it was going to fall off, but in a good way. You pretty sure he only gives them because you insist upon it, but he always puffs out his chest a little at the end, when you smile at him and start to tell him everything you can remember about your own day.

Maybe it’s how he always hangs onto your every word. Like it’s gospel or scripture, and to do anything but listen and watch would be a higher sin than any blood you’ve imagined on his hands.

And maybe that’s it. 

Maybe it’s how you really don’t believe it anymore, when you remind yourself that he’s not real. That he’s just a figment of your mind, manifested to evolve as you do and always be exactly what you need. 

You still tell yourself the lie, night after night.

But you’re certain it’s a lie. That Bucky is just like that. Meant to be here, with you, the exact same way you’re supposed to be wherever he is.

And now you’re here.

You’d started it. You’d slammed your mouth to his, and he hadn’t moved. There had been a brief moment where you’d been worried you’d made a mistake, but the second you’d tried to push back on his chest and apologize, he’d kicked into gear. 

And wet dreams are supposed to be hazy. Cast in a misting light and more of a halo that brings your body high than an actual, nameable feeling.

But you can really feel this. 

And it’s heaven.

You’d expected Bucky to kiss slowly. Deliberately. It’s how you’d always seen him move and speak, and you hadn’t been against the idea of being kissed in a methodical and careful way.

You’ve never been happier to be wrong.

Bucky kisses you like you’re air and water and every good thing in the world. All passion and spit and burning desire, where you can feel every bit of want in his movements. His mouth is demanding as he traces his tongue over your teeth and groans your name down your throat, his arm snaking around your waist to hold you steady against his chest. When his knee presses between your thighs you have to wrap your arms around his neck for balance, and it’s all you can do to return ever bit of want he throws at you as he walks to backwards to your mattress.

It takes effort to pry your mouth from Bucky’s. He doesn’t want you to go, even a few inches, and when you start to palm him through his pants—smiling against his lips and squeezing his bulge in a silent request—he hisses against your lips.

“You-“ He groans, nipping at your lower lip as you smile, repeating the movement. “You don’t- Shit, doll, you don’t know what you’re doing to me-“

You hum, bumping your nose with his and swaying in his hold. “Maybe. I’d like to do more.”

Bucky chuckles, and the sound rolls right into your core. “Think you could take more, sweetheart? Cause I’ve been a gentleman, but if more is on the table-“

It’s easy to cut him off with a heavy, deep kiss that has him half growling down your throat and his hips jerking against your movements.

“Want more.” You whisper, combing your free hand through his hair and trying to pull yourself impossibly closer. “Want you.”

Bucky tenses against you, and when you lean back to meet his eyes he’s staring again. Looking at you like you’re glowing, kneading your skin under his hand like he’s checking that you’re not going to vanish. 

“You want me.” He mutters, scanning over your flushed face. “You sure about-“

“Yes.” You nod, giving him a small, soft smile. “Only if you do, obviou-“

Bucky cuts you off with another bruising kiss, and before you know what’s happening he’s lowering you onto the mattress, kneeling between your legs, and shoving your thighs apart with a wolf-like grin.

You don’t know when you ended up naked. You can’t really care though, because Bucky shoves his face right into your pussy, and your mind empties of all thoughts that aren’t his name. 

It’s another point in favor of this being a dream. Bucky’s mouth against your cunt feels so amazingly real—licking and biting and eating you out like he’s been starved for a hundred years—but this has to be a dream, because no real man has ever made you feel this good. He knows every single way the plunge his tongue in and out of your pussy until you’re squeezing your thighs around his head and tugging at his hair, and his beard scrapes and tickles at your thighs in a way that’s driving you out of your mind, and fuck, he keeps moving his attention to nip at your clit, sucking it between his lips and letting his teeth graze against you, and-

“Bucky-“ You moan, grinding shameless into his face, trying hopelessly to remain upright with one hand, your fingers fisted into the sheets below you. “Please- I’m gonna- Fuck, I’m so close-“

He growls against you, flatting his tongue against your clit and squeezing his hand on your thigh, and that does it. You cum with a scream of his name, warmth washing over your body as your knees clamp around him and your eyes roll back in your head.

He’s ruined you. All Bucky did was eat you out in a dream, and you’re panting and flushed and drunk on him. You don’t know how you’ll manage to move on from this in real life.

You don’t really care. Not as Bucky runs his hand over your dripping, fluttering cunt with a look of open awe on his face, presses a kiss right over your clit that makes your hips jerk, and moves to his feet.

He’s naked now too. 

And he’s perfect. 

His cock is big and thick, standing at proud attention and jerking slightly as you run a hand up his thighs, your fingers trailing over his balls and a little drool falling out of your lips as you lean to take him in your mouth-

Bucky’s hand tangles in your hair, pulling you back to meet his eyes.

He looks just as wrecked as you feel. Chest heaving and eyes blown with lust. You’re going to lose your mind.

“Bucky-“

“Not now.” He mutters, pulling you a little further back. “Need to be inside of you, doll. Please.”

You’d have to be insane to say no.

You crawl back on the mattress, spreading your legs in silence invitation, and something hot and powerful flashes in his eyes as he takes you in. 

“You-“

“I’m sure.” You squirm in the sheets, running your hand between your legs and starting to rub your clit in slow, strong circles. “God, I’m so fucking sure, please-“

He’s shockingly fast for such a large man. It might be the whole dream thing, but you barely register him moving to kneel over you, swatting your hand away with a darkened gaze a set jaw.

“I do that,” he grunts, running two fingers up and down your cunt, smirking at you high whine. “Legs open, doll, want to see how wet I’m making you.”

You nod, falling flat on your back, and pour all your focus into his order. “Fuck, Bucky-“ He shoves the fingers into your pussy, and your back arches off the bed. “Shit- I- Please-“

“You want my cock?” He drawls your name, and you can only nod dumbly at the ceiling. “Come on, tell me you want it-“

“Want it,” you gasp, hugging your body as he starts to pump his finger, crooking them at the exact right spot deep inside of you. “Fuck, Bucky, you said- You said you’d fuck me-“

He clicks his tongue. “I said I’d be inside of you-“

“But- But I want you to fuck me.” You start to roll your hips as his pace picks up. “Please, Bucky-“

You whine as his fingers vanish, leaving you clenching around only the air, but it’s a short-lived pain.

Bucky slams into you with one thrust, and you’d been wrong again.

He hadn’t ruined you. He’s destroyed you.

You’ve never been so full in your life. You’ve never been fucked like this in your life. With a fervor that should be painful, but just makes you feel wanted. Cared for. Bucky’s every thrust is brutal and rough, and his mouth on yours is that same feral kiss from before, but he’s pressed his body over yours like he’s trying to shield you from the world, and he’s groaning your name down your throat like it’s a hymn.

You’d say his name too, if you could remember how to speak. But Bucky’s hitting every right spot deep in your pussy, and you’re so high the world is just color and light and Bucky, and when he starts to suck and kiss a line down your throat, along your collarbone, and over your tits, you’re sure you’re going to fly out of your skin.

Then he takes your nipple into his mouth, and the sound you make is almost inhuman. Your release crashes over you like a wave, Bucky groans against your breast as you squeeze around his cock, and a burning warmth coats your thighs and cunt as he cums with a roar.

You make a small noise of content as Bucky pulls out, kissing a soft line back up your jaw before dropping his brow to yours and letting out a long, slow breath.

“That was…” He trails off, moving his hand to hold your hips, drawing firm patterns with his thumb that might drive you out of your mind.

“Yeah.” You whisper. “It was.”

He nods, and neither of you move for a really long time. Usually you’ve woken up by now, but no part of you is eager to go, eager to leave where there’s still a little buzz in your heart from the pleasure, where you can feel a perfect ache between your legs and you’re so happily trapped under the warmth of Bucky’s body-

Happy. 

You’re happy. 

This isn’t real, but under Bucky’s body you’re safe and warm and happy. And you don’t want to go. 

Almost as if he can read your mind, Bucky clears his throat.

“Thank you.” He mutters, his breath hot and soft over your ear. “Needed this.” There a long pause, and his hand squeezes on your hips. “Needed you. And I know it’s dumb to thank you, because-“

“It’s not.” You cut him off with a kiss to his neck, rubbing your hand up and down his back. “And I needed you too.”

He lets out a dry laugh that you don’t understand, but doesn’t push on it. Just kisses your brow and rolls onto his back, taking you with him and clinging to you like you’re a tether to something a little more important than just a dream.

And you really don’t know why he’d laughed. 

You do need him. You’re growing more and more certain every night that you need Bucky more than you need anything in real life. That he’s more than anyone else, and that he maybe, possibly, could be real.

He feels real, beneath you with a calloused hand squeezing at your skin and your finger tracing over the scars near his arm. 

He sounds real, when you finally ask why he only has one arm, and he takes a very long breath but mutters that he fell off a train. When he tells you that bad people found him, and he wasn’t really the best guy either, for a really long time. 

He tastes real when you kiss him for comfort, and smells real when you bury your face in his neck as he continues. 

You know he’s not telling you everything, but you also know he’s not lying. 

And you really do know that, in some strange and impossible way, this might be real.

———

“I see.” Raynor swallows, and she won’t stop staring at you. “Did those, ah, occurrences happen again?”

You nod, staring at your hands. “Pretty much every time after.” A smile tugs at your lips. “One time we used the barn.”

“I-“ Raynor sighs. “Understood. How long, exactly, did this continue?”

“They never stopped, not until-“ Your nails dig into your skin, and a heavy stone lodges itself in your throat. “The, uh, the blip.”

———

These have been the worst five years of your life. And they haven’t been amazing for anyone, but no one else has to feel this like you do.

And that’s selfish. A little narcissistic. Incredibly crude.

But it doesn’t make it any less true.

Because everyone lost people. Everyone watched loved ones vanish right in front of them, witnessed the world fall and crumble around them as half of humanity vanished, and got left in the rubble to pick up the pieces. 

But no one else seems to feel this. Nobody else seems to be falling apart at the seams from nothing at all like you are. Because Bucky was probably never real. But he’s gone. 

And you don’t know how to move on.

It’s odd to grieve a dream. It makes living impossible. You go to all the support groups and listen to everyone share their own pain, and it makes your heart ache for them but nothing in you ever seems to heal. It’s as if a piece of you had been ripped out and ground to ash, and mending over it would be blasphemous. You don’t want to fix it. You need to, because this is no way to exist, but it feels wrong every time you try. As if even your body can’t just admit he’s gone, and you need to keep going. But everything feels artificial. Every breath is mechanical, and every beat of your heart feels shallow and deliberate, like it’s only doing just enough to keep you alive.

What’s worse is that you can’t tell anyone why you’ve become a sunken, hollow shell. You’d sound insane. You’re already not winning any points in the sound of mind department, and you do have a record, so if you went to one of the countless therapists who have been making their living off of everyone’s loss and said ‘see, doctor, the person I loved only existed in my dreams, but he vanished with the snap and now it feels like I’ve been cleaved in half’, you’d be locked up in an asylum.

You hate that you’re only realizing it now. That the overwhelming sense of warmth and peace you felt in your dreams with Bucky was love. That you’d fallen in love with a piece of your own mind. You’d basically fallen in love with your reflection. Your annoying, handsome, grumpy reflection that you’d rip your spine out of your body to reshape it back into his form, to bring him back to your side.

And the dreams still happen. He’s just not there, and it’s the worst thing in the fucking universe. You keep coming back to a forest, and there’s a little ash that’s always drifting around in the air, that feels really important.

It all always feels like more than just Bucky being gone. It feels like you’ve missed a train, or taken a wrong turn, and lost a key that double as a compass, and now you’re stranded at the bottom of the ocean. 

Alone. 

You’ve spent your whole life with only yourself to rely on, but you’ve never felt more alone.

———

“And after the blip?”

“He came back.” You’re going to cry. You really hate crying in front of Raynor—she always tells you it’s going to be okay, and you fucking know that—but you can’t stop it. Because Bucky really did come back, and it’s still the best thing that ever happened to you.

———

During the past five years, your sleep has gotten fucked. You get about four hours a night, because that’s just long enough to keep you functional but too short to allow you to appear in the forest.

So it took a while to pass out. You’d curled up in your bed, drank tea, done yoga, followed every ‘how to fall asleep fast’ internet guide until your eyes drooped, and you were gone.

When the dream takes shape around you, you’re not in the forest, but in a sleek, hospital-like room that you don’t recognize. 

And he’s there. 

Bucky’s right fucking there.

You make a small, choked sound, and his eyes shoot to yours in an instant. 

He’s moving in a second. Half launching across the room to grab you before your knees give out, holding you to his chest as you cling to his shirt and press your face into his neck. 

“Hey,” he mutters your name, and you can hear the low horror in it. He’s putting together why you’re crying. Why you’re scratching at his neck and trying to half climb up his body. “You’re alright. It’s all good, doll, everything’s good now-“

You cut him off with a long, heavy kiss, and his hand moves to cup your head. 

He has two hands again. You don’t really care why.

Because Bucky’s rubbing circles on the skin of your waist, and letting you cry without making a big fucking deal about it, and nothing mended. Nothing’s ever mended. You’ve been a little fucking broken for a long time, with or without Bucky. But it had been a kind of broken that had folded and shaped with him, and when he’d been gone it was like half your organs had been frozen and crumbled in your body.

But he’s back. And you feel real again.

———

There’s a long silence in the air, and you know what’s coming. The question. You’ve known she’s going to ask it the whole time—you’d honestly expected it a lot sooner—and you’ve been prepared. You have a very long speech about how Bucky had changed again—short hair, kept the new arm, appearing in his own, mostly empty apartment and trading the Wakandan clothing for jeans and jackets—and that he’d told you how much he hated some guy named John. 

He’d said he despised the asshole. That he was everything Steve had hated—you’d had a pretty good idea who Steve was, based on context and a theory but you hadn’t be quite ready to it yet—and nothing sounded better than punching his lights out. 

And you’re ready to explain that you’d had the news on in the background, a few words had broken from static background noise, and your whole world had shifted. John Walker had been announced as the new Captain America, they’d run a stupid little fluff piece on the life of Steve Rogers, and there was Bucky. Captain America’s best friend and ally, the assumed cause of that whole the Avengers are breaking up thing, and the former Winter Solider. 

You’d mostly stared at the screen for a really long time as everything feel into place—you’d looked him up after, and it was a little embarrassing it had taken you this long given that he has a Wikipedia page—before calling Raynor, and preparing for the question.

But when she asks it, your mind goes blank, and all you can’t think to say is the truth.

“May I ask,” Raynor says carefully. ”Why are you only discussing this now?”

“Because he’s real.”

———

Bucky has dreams. Not nightmares.

Dreams.

He dreams about Her. She’s the only constant in his life, the only solace and purely good thing he knows, and She’s not even damn real.

Bucky’s pretty sure She’s not real. It wouldn’t make any sense for Her to be real. He’d spent most of the years assuming that She was simply a result of him being able to dream again, a trick of his mind that was both a comfort and a torture, because he needed those dreams—needed Her, in a strange way that lived in his chest and was soft on his skin—more than he’d ever needed anything, but they also reminded him of what he’d never have.

A life in a simple apartment, filled with his own presence in a way that was easy. He always loved that about Her apartment. How everywhere he looked, She was there. The colors and furniture and posters and trinkets on the shelves all screamed Her, and no one could ever replicate that if they tried. 

He didn’t know how to do that anywhere. How to just be him in a way that didn’t feel like something was strangling him. His apartment was barren. Every time he spoke it felt like he should be apologize immediately after, because barely anyone seemed to like him, let alone want to hear him.

Bucky understood that. He wasn’t exactly his own biggest fan, and the only time there was no part of him trying to escape his own body was when he was asleep, and She was at his side. 

He liked being himself with Her. It was simple, and natural, and never a labor. She never flinched away from him—She seemed to like being close to him—and Bucky never really wanted to wake up. Part of him always hoped that this time, when he fell asleep and She appeared once more, he’d wake up in Her apartment, and it would all be real.

A very small part of him needed this—needed Her—to be real. It would be really amazing if She was real. It wasn’t something he deserved to ask for, to plead with the universe about, but he did. He kept trying to come up with reasons She could be real.

She felt real, in his dreams. She spoke and acted like a person, and not a doll or shell his brain may have created to get him through his de-programming. She was always saying things and making references he didn’t get until she explained them, things he was certain he hadn’t heard in passing. She was way prettier than anyone Bucky had ever seen, which would contribute to Her being only a dream if he wasn’t so certain that he simply wasn’t that creative.

He could imagine a pretty girl.

He couldn’t imagine Her.

Smart and funny and gorgeous, fitting against him like She’d been molded to, teasing him in ways he’d never thought of and kind to him ways he couldn’t be kind to himself. 

She was never disgusted by the arm, and Bucky was sure that—if She was only a part of his mind given shape—she would know about the whole Winter Soldier thing. But he’d had to explain all he could to Her, and when he’d left certain, darker parts out She hadn’t said but that’s not the truth, is it, James.

She seemed to like Bucky. That was the most concrete proof he had that She had to somehow be real. Nobody liked him. Not in to raw, unrelenting way She did.

So She had to be real.

Bucky really hoped, against all odds, that she was real. 

It would fix a lot of problems if She was real. Sam kept trying to get him to date, and he didn’t want to. He always felt like he was betraying Her. It wasn’t sustainable or logical, but logic didn’t really matter here, because Bucky’s gut would wither and his hands would curl into fists every time he had to try and flirt with another woman. They didn’t fit against him as well as She did. Their teasing would either bite too hard or not bite at all, and the night would end with Bucky falling back into Her arms. 

He asked Shuri—very vaguely, he didn’t want his brain to be poked and prodded again—what reoccurring dreams could mean.

“Reoccurring?” She’d frowned at him over the video call. “You’ll have to clarify, reoccurring can mean many things.”

“Uh,” Bucky had swallowed, glancing at his mattress across the room. “A dream you have every night. And it could change, but it’s always the same person in it?”

Shuri had given him an odd look. “Have you been having a dream like that?”

“No.” His answer had been too fast. He needed to keep it together if he was going to sell this. “Sam has. He mentioned that he kept seeing some lady in his dreams, and she felt real but he’d never met her before. Thought I’d do him a favor and ask about it.”

It wasn’t the best lie he’d ever told, if Shuri look of doubt had been any indication. But she bit, and kept moving.

“Well, it looks as if Sam,” she’d given him a pointed look, and Bucky had forced his face to remain completely neutral. “Has found his soulmate.”

Bucky had stared at her for a really long time. His vision had blurred, there had been a ringing in his ears, and time had seemed to still as Shuri’s words sank in.

Soulmate.

“I thought, uh,” Bucky had cleared his throat, his voice a little hoarse. “Soulmates aren’t real-“

“Of course they’re real.” Shuri had shrugged. “Soulmate is an archaic term for two brains that emit the exact same neuroelectricity, their nerve paths aligning completely. Often they will have differing personalities and lives, but the tie of the biology will link them in sleep, and they will experience incredibly vivid lucid dreams. Like this video conference, but if our minds and bodies were built to fall in love with each other. It is rare, but not impossible.”

Bucky had frowned. “But I- uh, Sam said he’s only had these dreams about four years-“

“Sam’s brain underwent severe rewiring and torment.” Shuri’s voice had been dry, her expression flat. “He would do well to remember that his connection may have been slightly mauled, and only after a certain genius princess fixed him would he have been able to reciprocate the bond fully.”

Oh.

The first time Bucky had appeared in Her apartment, She had said ten years. When She’d appeared to him for the very first time, She’d said she’d dreamt of him before.

Bucky had assumed that had been another way his brain was comforting him. Telling him he could be the type of person a pretty girl like Her dreamed about.

But when he thought about it—clenched his jaw and drew up the heavier, blood-stained memories of the Soldier—there had sometimes been someone in his body with him. Not the Soldier, but the third presence that wasn’t hostile. Wasn’t really foreign. Just was. 

“Could the-“ Bucky had swallowed, watching Shuri carefully as he spoke. “Sam said he could sometimes feel the gal while he was awake. Is that a thing that could happen?”

“If Sam was not himself, and the soulmate was not of full maturity, yes.”

Bucky had felt himself pale. “What do you mean, full maturity-“

“You are a hundred years old, Mr. Barnes.” Shuri had raised her brows, and all pretense of Sam had dropped. “There would have naturally been a point where your soulmate was a child, as that is how most people begin their lives. It is likely that you were still under the control of Hydra in your soulmate’s youth, and she would have only been a growing presence in your mind until she was a full person, and you were no longer only the shell of a man I met after my father’s death.”

“So she- Would she have seen what I did? As the Solider?”

He knew She had. She’d told him She had.

Bucky still didn’t want it to be true.

Shuri had given him a sympathetic look. “Unfortunately, yes. She would have. But if she is what you say, she is a perfect match to you in every way. She will not care what you were before, under the control of Hydra.”

“But-“

“It is not something worth protesting, Bucky.” Shuri had sighed, leaning a little closer to the camera. “This is not something that can be severed or changed, so please do not bother to ask. And remember that she is real. Her own person, with her own pain. I would recommend you attempt to find her, but that is something you will have to decide for yourself.”

And now he was here. Staring at the dark screen where Shuri’s face had been moments before, his head still spinning around the word. 

Soulmate.

She’d made is sound scientific. Possible. Bucky could have a soulmate. 

He didn’t deserve a soulmate. Not one he’d likely trapped in his mind, forced to witness the brutal atrocities he’d committed as the Winter Solider.

And he wanted to find Her. Bucky wanted to touch Her and kiss her and keep her longer than just the night. To wake up and see Her next to him, tangible and all his. 

He’d liked the idea of something being his in a way that wasn’t a curse. In a way he could throw his all right back to Her, and she’d catch it. 

But there was still the sour, molding feeling over his heart that—since She was real, and probably had Her own issues to deal with—She wouldn’t want him in her life. Not Her real life, where everything was more complicate than just them in a literal dream.

He shouldn’t find Her. She’d be better off without him. Bucky would do nothing but make Her life more complicated, and he could get through this know that She was real and safe, far away from him but still haunting his dreams in the best way possible.

He was so lost in his head he misses the first phone call. And the second one.

It was the third one that got his attention—buzzing and ringing on the table next to his computer, Dr. Raynor flashing across the screen—and the fourth one he actually managed to pick up.

Bucky didn’t bother to hide the tension in his voice when he spoke. He really didn’t have the time or energy for this, not right now. “Doc, I’m not due back for another four days-“

“I’m aware, James, I keep a calendar.” Raynor sighed through the speaker, and Bucky had never heard her sound so tense. It was a little concerning. “However, I am going to have to request you come in today. It’s an emergency.”

He scowled. “What emergency, I haven’t done anything emergency worthy-“

“It’s not only about you.” Raynor snapped. “And I’m changing it from a request to an order. Office in twenty minutes.” There was a long pause, and then a whispered, “Please.”

That wasn’t good.

“Did I get in trouble?” Bucky asked, his grip on the phone tightening. “Cause I’ve been following all the stupid rules, and if Sam says I did something he’s just being a dramatic dick-“

Raynor sighed, and Bucky could picture the thin look of exhaustion on her face. “You are not in trouble, James. It’s not- I can’t explain over the phone. It may be better for you to see.”

“See what?”

“Just come to the fucking office.”

Bucky blinked, and the line went dead.

Raynor couldn’t make him go. But he also had never heard her swear like that. Or order him to come in before an appointment.

He was a little curious. And it wasn’t like he had anything else to do today but drown in the knowledge of what Shuri had told him, trying to work out how he’d face Her tonight.

So he went to the office. Chances are it was nothing. Bucky couldn’t imagine it would be something. He spent the whole ride trying to think of an idea, came up blank, and decided that Sam had mentioned something to Raynor about how Bucky had been brooding more than usual, and he was just going to have to explain the whole I’m not brooding, I’m just sick of Sam’s blind date bullshit and also maybe have a soulmate thing. Then he’s kick Sam’s ass, and everything would be fine.

Bucky entered to office with a whole speech ready. His chin raised high and his arms crossed, because he was already having a very weird and complex day, and he didn’t need this. 

All the words were knocked out of him the moment he opened the door, glanced around the room, and saw who was on the couch.

Her.

In person. 

Very, very real, and in Raynor’s office, and here.

Raynor said Her name. The name Bucky knew Her by, and her last name. 

It was a nice last name. Barnes would suit Her better, but the idea that she was real enough to have a last name was already bringing Bucky to his knees, so he’d have to save that thought for later.

“Meet James Barnes.” Raynor was probably looking between them. Bucky couldn’t be sure though, because he couldn’t stop staring at Her.

She was moving to Her feet, and seeing Her in person was somehow even better. She was sharper around the edges, and more colorful in small, bright ways, and nothing about Her felt like it could ever slip between Bucky’s fingers.

She wasn’t mist. She wasn’t an illusion, or a coping mechanism.

She was real.

Walking towards him with wide eyes and an open mouth, reaching a hand up to poke at his face. Tracing his nose and running fingers over his cheekbones, Her eyes never leaving his.

Bucky caught Her hand right as it brushed over his lips, and She made the prettiest gasp he’d ever heard.

“You’re real.” He said, because it was all he could think of. Nothing about this was a dream. Bucky would not have a dream where Raynor was watching him restrain himself from kissing Her until she collapsed in his arms.

“I’m real.” She whispered, and Her voice was better in real life too. “You’re here.”

He nodded. “I’m here.” He paused, scanning over Her open features. “Don’t think I’m going anywhere, doll.”

Her face split into a wide smile, all teeth and light and joy. For Bucky. 

There was adoration on Her face, and it was all for Bucky.

“Good.” Her smile grew, Her fingers tangling with his metal ones. “Because I’m not either.”

End Note: Save me Bucky Barnes raising goats. Bucky Barnes raising goats, save me.

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Taglist

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@woaheasytig3r @winchester-whiskey @jsudsgf @deans-yn @jofinka

[a-shrieking-cloud-of-bats]

okay so let me start off by saying that when I said "influential" I meant "most influential" because, like, pretty much everything that's put out in front of people is influential, my bad on that one, and I was focusing pretty heavily on mechanical stuff (because I like mechanical stuff in games)!

with that said I still don't think it was hugely influential because most of what it did didn't spread outside of it; this isn't a value judgement on what it did, it's just me saying that it didn't influence a lot of other games heavily.

the dialogue, while good, has a very distinct style and it's largely not left undertale/deltarune, probably because it's difficult to do well without feeling like you're imitating it, story is in a similar position, but there is a bit of influence there, for sure; everhood did it as I mentioned in tags, but by and large I don't see A Lot of it. Again, probably because kill/spare is very derivative of the game itself and you've gotta put in some work to make it, well, work. Deltarune is having a similar "sort've influential" situation with the narrative in there, and I'd put it about where kill/spare landed, but it is definitely more prolific, probably because it's easier to work with (in my opinion, anyway).

Cultural impact.... yeah you got me, it definitely swamped internet culture and continues to! I can't argue that at all.

Undertale inspiring other indie games is almost certainly true, but it's sort've hard to quantify, YMMV, I guess, and yeah, it did probably result in a bump in indie game development, but there was a pretty solid flow before undertale hit, and honestly I don't think it went up That much.

and I don't really view any of these negatives as a bad thing really! Undertale is still a great game and it's one of a very small number of games I've played more then once. I'm really looking forward to future deltarune chapters, I personally think undertale and deltarune are some of the better games I've played, toby really did do a great job and I don't think it's an accident judging by how deltarune is turning out, even if he did get lucky in the marketing department for undertale.

Great games, but not wildly influential in terms of other games. I'm sure this could be argued further, but I've said my piece (and taken way too long doing it, too).

Still can't get over the fact that Toby Fox dreamed up a game ending, but he decided he wanted to make something a little less ambitious first, so instead he made the most influential indie game of all time

[wandixx]

Danny the Young Justice member

“Hey, like, hypothetically, do you think Justice League could pay me if I became hero full time?”

It shaped out to be pretty long and boring stake-out, with rest of Team scattered around but connected with Mindlink, so it seemed like best moment to ask. It wasn’t something Danny wanted to do, but it shaped out to be his only chance to get any future. He cried over it enough times already, so there was even a chance he won’t breakdown trying to discuss it out in the semi-public. He wanted to keep it as calm and rational as he could and hey, if something started to get too emotional, he could say he saw some suspicious movement and fly off to fight someone. Really, it was perfect situation.

“How hypothetical is this question?” Robin asked after a beat of silence. It was quiet and careful, like he was afraid to set him off if he said something wrong or he did it wrong way. It made skin on his back crawl. Danny knew he was a bit more volatile lately, but he really hoped special treatment would stop soon.

“Hypothetical”

“Okay, let’s say we don’t know it’s a lie”

“Unnecessary” Artemis coughed.

“C’mon it kinda was–”

“Can someone just answer my fucking question?”

“I don’t think so. Batman is the one doing most of the funding, and he is really stubborn about school and future. He wants us all to have chance at normal life outside of this hero villain business with regular job and stuff”

That didn’t bode well, but Danny hadn’t got this far by losing hope whenever first obstacle occurred.

“But I could be ready whenever disaster strikes or some villain attacks or really whenever it’s necessary and I wouldn’t need to escape any civilian stuff,” he may have gotten a bit desperate along this little rant, but he just pushed through “It always takes precious minutes and–”

“It doesn’t really seem to be hypothetical anymore,” Wally interrupted and he was lucky to be on different roof, because Danny, he sworn to ancients, would strangle him if redhead was any closer.

He was very adamant about not thinking about how his last ideas of surviving to adulthood started crumbling. He promised himself to not have breakdown in the open.

He wasn’t going to.

It was fine.

He would figure something out. He always did.

“Danny?”

“It’s fine Meg, don’t worry”

“Can we ask what brought this hypothetical on your mind? You’ve always were the most assured that you’ll stop being hero at some point and move on”

Bless Kaldur to always know when to ask best-worst question. Danny wasn’t going to cry, so he wasn’t going to answer.

“We can’t help you if we don’t what’s wrong,” M’gann said softly, like she was just trying to remind him.

Something small hit his lap. A tear. When did it get here?

“It’s fine. It’s just a stupid thought”

“Okay. Tell us when you’re ready”

“Something suspicious is going on, I think it’s what we’re looking for,” Everyone needed Conner on their squad to get conversation back on not emotional track.

As it turned out it was indeed what they were looking for, and soon Danny got to express all of his pent up aggression in only a bit misplaced way.

“That was harsh”

“Shut up, this one doesn’t have pain receptors”

“Phantom has a bad day, huh?”

“You’re about to have worse,” he growled and punched guy until he stopped grinning.

It was quick work after that.

“Danny?”

Only bad side of Mindlink was that he couldn’t act like he was losing connection. It would be useful right now.

“Danny?”

“Not now”

“In the Bioship then. Not a minute later, am I clear?”

“Crystal”

He started calculating a way to get out before. He used to do it all the time, at the beginning. It was easier when Team didn’t know about his human side and they were holding each other at the arms length, but still. He could–

Conner landed right behind him and put hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t restrain, it wasn’t assuring. It was just there.

Here came his plans of escape.

“So–” Artemis started as soon as the door of Ship had closed “– what the fuck is wrong with you lately?”

“We all know it’s not nothing”

“I’m being overdramatic”

“About what?”

Danny just slumped forward and his face in hands.

“Danny”

“I have to retake year. I’m not even half way through highschool and I’m already failing and I- I just can’t do better. It’s not like I don’t have time to study, and I do try sometimes, but just as often I’m just being dumb and messing around, and I knew I failed some other tests, but last one? Last one I was sure I’ve got it, I was trying, I was trying so hard and I still fucked it up and if I can’t make it even when- even when I’m trying my best, then what is the point?”

He took a moment to breathe, to rub tearing eyes. He still wasn’t going to cry.

“I’m already kinda good at this hero thing, so I could just keep it up. I don’t think I’ll make it to the end of high school, so no good job for me, but maybe I could. I could have something, you know. Something useful. Something good. Maybe I can have some life after all”

Someone rubbed his back but he didn’t raise his head to see who.

“I didn’t want to let accident destroy any more of my life than it did, but I don’t think I can”

“Well, impossible sounds right about the task for us. We’ve got you”

Well fuck. That’s about that in not crying department.

[hadesisqueer]

Honestly, do you think Sun will react well to Blake and Yang being a couple, since he likes Blake and all, or do you think they’re making it a love triangle situation?

I think people put Sun's crush on Blake on a higher level than it really is. They're not Renora or Arkos. It was a crush, kinda requited at first in the first couple of volumes but as soon as he saw that Blake wasn't into him like that in volume 4, Sun stopped any flirting at all and he simply became her friend and was there for her. He himself says to Neptune in vol 6, when Neptune says "It feels like you're just letting her go", that it was never about that. He didn't mind that Blake didn't like him like that and didn't expect any romance by the end, he was just happy to have a friend and have helped that friend. And this guy is a himbo but he's not dumb, he 100% knew or suspected how Blake felt about Yang. So, no, I don't think it's gonna be a big surprise for him, and given he's not a toxic asshole, I think he'll be happy for her and that's it. Lmao

[slut4thebroken]

mouth cockwarming hcs

Idk I had an idea lol but I couldn’t figure out which character to use so I just decided to do this instead

Bucky Barnes

Dick Grayson, Jason Todd

Spencer Reid

Cillian Murphy, Emmett, Jackson Rippner, Jonathan Crane, Lenny Miller, Neil Lewis, Raymond Leon, Robert Fischer, Tommy Shelby

(Warnings: daddy kink for a few of them (no incest), a little bit of age play ig?, ionno lol)

Bucky Barnes - He’s no virgin, obviously, but cockwarming in your mouth? That was definitely a new one. It’s not his favorite, but he likes seeing you so relaxed and calm. It reminds him that he’s capable of being gentle with someone so delicate. Plus it’s not too hard— he’s had decades to practice restraint, so he can handle sitting still under you while you nap with his cock in your mouth.

Dick Grayson - Honestly, he gets it— he has an oral fixation too lol, but he usually eats pussy instead. Dick prides himself on being a gentleman though so he’s had plenty of practice putting up with a boner for the sake of not ruining an innocent moment with a girl… Usually he just reads a book or watches a movie to try and not focus on the fact that his cock is literally in your mouth.

Jason Todd - He thinks it’s cute. You’re already so tiny compared to him, but when you use his dick as a pacifier? You just look so fucking adorable. If you’re ever in a situation where you can’t cockwarm him with your mouth, usually you’ll settle for suckling his fingers or his thumb— but you don’t like it as much because the calluses on his hands are too rough compared to his smooth, (sometimes) squishy cock.

Spencer Reid - He gets a little antsy to be honest, but if he has a book or some paperwork to go over, he can usually sit still long enough for you to get your fill. He knows exactly why people find comfort in this sort of thing, and he knows exactly why you specifically find comfort in it. So he doesn’t judge or think it’s weird. He likes being the one that you go to for this comfort.

Cillian Murphy - He finds it a little odd, but as long as you’re happy, he’s happy. Plus he likes how paternal and protective he feels when you’re laying on his stomach suckling on the head of his cock while he pets your hair. It’s usually enough to get you to fall asleep too. He thinks it’s cute hearing your soft snores as you droll a little bit around his cock.

Emmett - Makes his daddy kink go wild tbh. His little girl using his dick as a pacifier? Yeah. Half the time, he can control himself. But sometimes (usually after at least 20 minutes so you can have enough time to enjoy yourself) he’ll gently push on your head, urging you to start sucking more. You whine, but end up doing it anyway just to please him.

Jackson Rippner - Doesn’t like it at all. If you do it right after he fucks your face and shoots his load down your throat then he can usually put up with it for a little bit. But other than that, he doesn’t have the patience for it. Sometimes when you’re napping and he sees you sucking on your thumb instead, he feels a tiny bit of guilt very, very deep down... But not enough to get him to change his mind lol.

Jonathan Crane - He thinks it’s weird as fuck. Honestly he wants to delve deeper into whatever thing from your childhood gave you an oral fixation, but he resists (for now at least). He’s usually pretty good about not turning it sexual, unless he’s particularly frustrated or stressed from work or his… extracurricular activities.

Lenny Miller - He doesn’t really mind. Honestly, he finds it a little relaxing too. He likes coming home after a long, stressful day at work and just laying with his little girl, petting your hair while his dick rests in your mouth, feeling you suckle on the tip while you hug him tightly until you both fall asleep.

Neil Lewis - He’ll try it because you want it so badly, but after less than ten minutes of his cock resting in your mouth, he’s already hard and leaking. He ends up whining and squirming, trying to get you to suck his cock properly until you eventually just give in and blow him. If you do it right after an orgasm, he can usually last longer, but if not, you have ten minutes tops before he gets too needy.

Raymond Leon - He feels the same was about this as he does about most ‘relaxing’ things: it’s a waste of time. So he often tries to work while you’re falling asleep. You’ll lay between his legs with your head resting on his hip, his cock sitting in your mouth, and he only complains if he doesn’t have enough space to use his laptop/tablet.

Robert Fischer - He understands… When he’s feeling subby, he’ll sometimes do that on your nipple. So even when he’s getting hard, he’ll try to ignore it and let you enjoy this for as long as he can handle it. He just reminds himself over and over again that you always let him nurse on your tits for however long he wants, so you deserve to nurse on his cock every once in a while too.

Tommy Shelby - He’s a master of self control honestly so he doesn’t mind it. Sometimes you’ll both lay down for a nap and you’ll suck on the head of his cock until you fall asleep, sometimes he sits up in bed and reads or does some work. Either way, he doesn’t really mind it. Plus you always seem extra inclined to reward him for his patience when you wake up from a nap with it still in your mouth.

[gf2bellamy]

hiiii hun💗💗 i love your spencer fics so much i literally get giddy when i open tumblr and i see you’ve put up new ones 🥰🥰

can i request a spencer x neighbour!reader like maybe one of them knocks on their door to complain about noise or accidentally closes the elevator door on them and initially don’t like each other and then they run into each other again and get talking and invite them in for a drink or dinner?

idk if you’ve written something like this already if u have then nvm haha thanksss take careeeee

-🍓

neighbours — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: spencer sort of being dry / cold ( only in the beginning ) , mention of reader having a bad day a/n: thank you so much that makes me so happy :( <3333 - i hope you like this !! also i had to mention of mice and men i love that book so so much

You were having a terrible day. The kind of day where nothing seemed to go right. Your morning coffee had spilled all over your favorite sweater, your boss had dumped an unreasonable amount of work on your desk, and to top it all off, you’d gotten stuck in the rain on your way home. By the time you walked through your front door, you were soaked, frustrated, and in desperate need of some comfort. 

That’s why you had your music turned up loud, the bass thumping through your small apartment as you stood in the kitchen, staring at the oven.

The scent of chocolate chip cookies wafted through the air, but they weren’t baking fast enough for your liking. You crossed your arms and leaned against the counter, tapping your foot impatiently. If you stared hard enough, maybe they’d bake faster.

You were so lost in your thoughts that the knock on your door startled you. You straightened up, frowning. You weren’t expecting anyone, and your friends usually texted before showing up.

Wiping your hands on your apron, you walked to the door and peered through the peephole. Standing on the other side was your neighbor—the tall, lanky guy from across the hall. You were pretty sure his name was Spencer. You’d seen him around a few times, always carrying a stack of books or muttering to himself as he fumbled with his keys.

Your friends had heard you refer to him as “the cute neighbour” more than once, and you never felt the need to correct them.

You opened the door slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Hi?” you said, your voice tinged with confusion. 

He stood there, looking slightly awkward and not particularly happy. His hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his hands through it, and he was wearing a sweater that looked like it had seen better days.

“Hi,” he replied, his tone flat. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding direct eye contact. “Could you, um, lower your music? It’s… kind of loud.” 

You blinked, caught off guard. Of all the things you’d expected him to say, that wasn’t it. You crossed your arms over your chest, your frustration from the day bubbling to the surface. “It’s not that loud,” you said defensively, your voice sharper than you intended. “I’m just trying to unwind after a really crappy day.” 

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to meet yours for a brief moment before darting away again. He looked uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure how to handle the situation.

“I understand that,” he said slowly, his voice softer now, “but it’s… it’s really distracting. I’m trying to work, and I can’t focus with the bass vibrating through the walls.” 

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. Part of you wanted to argue, to tell him that you had every right to blast your music in your own apartment, but the look on his face stopped you.

He didn’t seem angry—just tired and a little stressed. Still, you weren’t ready to back down completely. “Fine,” you said, your tone clipped. “I’ll turn it down. But just so you know, it’s not like I do this every day.” 

He nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I appreciate it.” 

You didn’t respond, just closed the door a little harder than necessary and leaned against it, letting out a frustrated groan.

Great. Now you were the bad guy. You stomped back to the kitchen and turned the music down, the sudden silence making the apartment feel eerily empty.

The timer on the oven dinged, and you pulled out the cookies, setting them on the counter to cool. The smell was heavenly, but it did little to improve your mood. 

In the days that followed , things between you and Spencer were… awkward. Not hostile, but not exactly friendly either. You’d pass each other in the hallway, exchanging the briefest of glances before quickly looking away.

There were no greetings, no small talk—just a dry, unspoken tension that hung in the air.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. He was just your neighbor, after all. Sure, he was cute in a nerdy, endearing kind of way, but that didn’t mean you had to be friends.

Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed every time you saw him and he didn’t so much as smile in your direction. 

A week later, you found yourself in the cozy little bookstore across the street from your apartment. It was one of your favorite places to escape to.

You’d been searching for a specific book for ages—Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. You’d read it before, years ago, but something about the story had stuck with you, and you’d been itching to revisit it.

As you wandered through the fiction section, your eyes scanned the spines of the books until you finally spotted it. There it was, sitting on the shelf like it had been waiting for you.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you reached for it, but just as your fingers brushed the spine, another hand reached for it at the same time.

You froze, your eyes darting up to meet Spencer’s. He looked just as surprised as you were, his hand hovering awkwardly in the air. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

“Sorry,” you mumbled finally, dropping your hand and taking a step back. “You can have it.”

Spencer blinked, his expression softening. “No, no, it’s okay,” he said quickly, his voice quiet. “You were here first. I can find another copy.”

You shook your head, gesturing toward the book. “Really, it’s fine. I’ve read it before. I was just… in the mood to read it again.”

He hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of the book. “It’s a good one,” he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful. “The themes of friendship and sacrifice are really compelling. And the ending…” He trailed off, his gaze distant, as if he were reliving the story in his mind.

You couldn’t help but smile, surprised by how easily he’d opened up about it.

“Yeah,” you agreed, your voice softer now. “It’s heartbreaking, but in a way that makes you think. I remember finishing it and just sitting there for a while, trying to process everything.”

Spencer nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Exactly. It’s one of those books that stays with you long after you’ve read it.”

The tension between you seemed to melt away as you talked, the conversation flowing more naturally than you’d expected.

You found yourself leaning against the bookshelf, your arms crossed as you debated the symbolism of the rabbits and the dream of owning a farm. Spencer, for his part, seemed to relax too, his gestures becoming more animated as he spoke.

At one point, he paused, his expression turning slightly sheepish. “I, um, I wanted to apologize for the other day,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t mean to come off as rude when I asked you to turn the music down. I was just… stressed, and I didn’t handle it well.”

You shook your head, feeling a pang of guilt. “No, I’m the one who should apologize,” you said quickly. “I was having a bad day, and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair.”

The conversation lulled for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Spencer shifted his weight, his fingers tapping lightly against the book he was still holding. “So, um,” he began, his voice hesitant, “if you’re not in a rush, there’s a coffee shop next door. I was going to grab a cup, and… well, if you’d like to join me, we could keep talking about the book. Or, you know, whatever.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the invitation.. “Yeah,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’d like that.”

His smile widened, and you could’ve sworn you saw a faint blush creep across his cheeks. “Great,” he said, his voice a little brighter now. “Let me just, uh, pay for this first.”

He turned and walked toward the register, leaving you standing there, slightly stunned. You watched as he handed the cashier the book. When he turned back to you, he held the book out, his expression soft.

“Here,” he said, offering it to you. “You should have it. You were looking for it, after all.”

You stared at him, surprised. “But… you paid for it,” you said, your voice tinged with confusion. “I can’t just take it.”

He shrugged, his smile shy but persistent. “Consider it a peace offering.”

You hesitated for a moment before taking the book, your fingers brushing against his briefly. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your cheeks warming. “That’s… really sweet of you.”

He nodded, his hands slipping into his pockets as he rocked back on his heels. “So, coffee?” he asked, his tone hopeful.

“Coffee,” you agreed smiling, tucking the book under your arm.

[fairestwriting]

Hello 👋 could I please request headcanons for leona's fem s/o defending him everytime one of the other characters start making backhanded comments to his face (if you've seen some of the vignettes you'll know what I mean) she doesn't reveal things like he's depressed or anything (tho he is) she just tells them it's shitty of them calling him lazy/selfish constantly without even knowing him personally

[Everyone treats leona like crap and I take personal offense to it >:( ]

You know i make fun of him on a regular basis. but theres a line thats gotta be drawn when it comes to leona bullying. cause damn this guy needs a real Break he cant even have issues in peace

𐙚 Leona Kingscholar

Before you got closer to him, there’s a fair chance the comments didn’t even stand out to you at all. It always felt a little unfair, yes, but not in a way that was particularly shocking, they were all just rude comments like any other. Back when you weren’t quite friends yet, and maybe even at the start of your friendship, you might have interjected with a simple ”hey, he’s not that bad” or "you don’t need to be rude about it”. It was just a gesture of basic politeness then, something the people around you seemed to lack.

But obviously, your perception of those interactions, and the way you see Leona’s situation itself, soon went through a rather radical change. Possibly even before you two started dating, or even before he “told you too much” — His own words, mumbled dismissively but bitterly, the day he came back after spending a weekend with his family and then proceeded to complain for a little longer than usual — As he warmed up to you, you started to notice things about him more. You started to see the spark of actual passion he has in his eyes during his club activities, the level of detail he gets into when analyzing things, the precise way he moved his chess pieces when you two played...

Above all, though, you started to notice how he often looked actually tired when he took part in any of the “slacking” he’s so infamous for. Learning the littlest bit more about his family life just worked as the final piece of the puzzle you’d been putting together without even noticing — And then, other people’s “rudeness” started to sound like something much more cruel. It didn’t help that he never seemed to react to it whenever he overheard others gossiping, or whenever you told him about the things you heard. “Why doesn’t he care?” The thought would echo in your mind for ages, trying to understand him through the tiny slivers of vulnerability he didn’t mean to show.

Now, as his girlfriend, you feel you just can’t let people say whatever they want, and you feel it more strongly than you ever have. ”Why don’t you mind your own business instead of talking about someone you don’t really know?” You snap back on instinct when one of your classmates, who was in Savanaclaw, comments on how lazy their dorm leader is. Their mouth closes instantly, regardless if you’ve made your relationship public or not — You realize that, on top of all the negative treatment Leona got, it was also extremely rare for others to defend him in any way at all. Enough that even a response that simple elicits shock from others.

”You know, it’s crazy to see you hanging out with Leona like that. I never thought I'd see anyone get so excited to spend time with him.” You hear some other day, while spending time in Savanaclaw’s common area, sat right next to Leona, and it just makes your blood boil. He’s just half-glaring at your particularly cocky acquaintance, sighing like he’s heard it a million times before, which you know he probably has. ”Hey, make sure you don’t get too influenced, we don’t need another person who just sleeps all day—”

”Yeah, you’re right. This type of person can be such a pain. I’m so glad I don’t know anyone who’s, you know, actually like that.” You say through grit teeth, just barely holding back aggression, and in the corner of your vision, the subtle flash of surprise in Leona’s face only encourages you to continue. ”Imagine if like, the Magift team had this sort of player in it… the club would be done for.”

They stare at you with wide eyes, having very much picked up on the aggression. The entire room is silent, you refuse to break eye contact, arms firmly crossed. ”Well, I mean…” The student stammers, but then, Leona himself speaks up for once. ”Did you not get her message? You need me to tell you to shut up instead?” He snaps, and they frantically shake their head, eyes fixed on the ground. You feel pride swelling in your chest, almost unable to hold back your smile.

”You know, Herbivore, if I needed a bodyguard I’d already have one.” He tells you later, in that same day. His tone has that snarky edge that feels like his default, but it’s much less pronounced than usual. You can even see a sort of softness in his eyes while he tries to play it cool. But needing and deserving are two different things, you think. As interactions like these repeat, with you defending him every time, you hope your message fully gets through to him, one day.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[klonoadreams]

Now that everyone is awake and Malleus is jumpscaring Idia at the door, I just wanna yap about the fact that a lot of this really fucking adds up to why having severe abandonment issues spanning from WHILE IN THE EGG and then hatching is a serious issue and Lilia is not exempt from it either because he's been doing his god damn best, but there's still this distance he puts between him and Malleus WHEN YOU'RE HIS DAD TOO DAMMIT

Like the fucking dead dudes need to be exorcised, but Lilia, please, when you're teaching Malleus to cherish the transient lives of those around him with GaoGao, YOU HAVE TO ALSO EXPLAIN IT TO HIM.

Like it's a massive miscommunication that led to this situation because Malleus HATES being lonely. But also don't mind my AuDHD ass bringing up RSD cuz him reacting the way he did was that fucking feeling like someone was clawing your heart out at the idea that those closest to him were leaving him like that (abandoning him) WITHOUT HIM is peak rejection sensitive dysphoria doing its thing.

Legit, it's honestly sad, but this is very much the fucking Senate's fault overall, and I hope the consequences go entirely to them because Malleus is legit the equivalent of someone who just turned 18 and expected to be 100 percent mature, WHEN HE LITERALLY JUST TURNED 18 AND WILL BE LIKE THAT FOR A DAMN WHILE. It's like turning 18 in the states, but you're only legally an adult and can vote, but fuck if you can't drink nor do anything most other adults are capable of, like taxes, paying bills, and all that shit.

Throw in that elitist senate ripping a baby Malleus out of Lilia's arms, and then keeping the two away from each other, and you have the most horrifically stunted, traumatized person around who has yet to realize that there are better ways to cope.

Consequences be damned, I want Ace to talk some sense into Malleus and Lilia again like in endless halloween. GET THEIR ASS.

[ddlydevotion]

dating hamzah al-emad includes...

currently listening to: lust for life by lana del rey ft the weeknd ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Hamzah quite honestly doesn’t have too much experience when it comes to romantic relationships. He’s constantly worried that he’ll do or say something wrong, so please reassure him when the situation calls for it.

he lovelovelovess having you around him as much as possible. You honestly could never “bother” him, even if he’s editing/coming up with video ideas. One day you asked Hamzah if he’d like some alone time to get some editing done and he immediately said:

“no-what are you talking about? Here, come sit down.”

You’re one of the very few people that don’t easily overstimulate him lmao

This man has insane attachment issues when it comes to you and has no issue letting you know when he misses/wants to see you. You could be out of the apartment running errands and your phone will be filled with messages from him.

‘me and the cats miss u very much btw if u even care…’

‘when are you coming homeee ;(‘

Please don’t be shocked when he comes up to you asking for very specific things that he may need for a video involving Martin. For example, where do you think he got the skirt for his White Chicks costume? Exactly.

Even if someone is meeting him for the very first time, they’ll immediately be able to tell he has a girlfriend because he’s constantly wearing something symbolic of you. That bracelet you randomly made him one night? It’s practically glued to his wrist. Your claw clip practically has a home on his belt loop. So, these little things make it pretty easy for people to decipher the fact that he’s taken.

Recording with Martin takes up quite a bit of his time so he’s constantly putting in the effort to see you, hear your voice, and speak with you in general. You’re constantly receiving photos/videos/voice memos from Hamzah when he’s in the middle of filming.

He always makes sure to bring you something back when Martin and him visit a restaurant, or a location that’s stocked up on items he knows you enjoy.

Hamzah has been through a whole lot and has experienced his fair share of loneliness. He isn’t too good with his words/voicing just how much you and your presence mean to him but he tries soso hard. There’ll be a lot of sighs and stutters filling the pauses in his sentences but that doesn’t stop his adoration from shining through.

“I just- I love you so much, y/n. I hope I say it enough, y’know? I’m really serious about you and I know I might not be the most experienced guy when it comes to this, but I hope that doesn’t make you doubt how serious I am about you. Because I am- serious about you, I mean.”

These sorts of conversations tend to happen late at night when the warmth between your two bodies blossoms endlessly. He holds you tight as your cheek is pressed against his chest. He can’t help but hold you the same way he’d hold a knife.

In his eyes, the two of you are in this for the long run and he doesn’t hide his intentions of marrying you. He even slipped up and called you his wife in a video once.

‘Yesterday, me and my wife- well…make that my future wife.’ and then a cheesy lil smirk spreads across his face 😭

He even made the both of you in Sims and made it so that the two of you got married. Mandy and Martin couldn’t help but tease him about it.

He loves you with his entire fucking being and he wants nothing but to be good for you, good to you, be the one to make you smile, laugh, feel at ease. He adores being able to do domestic activities with you since it gives him a glimpse into how it’ll be like once the two of you eventually get married. As I said, he puts in soooo much effort into making you happy so he definitely attempts to get good at cooking so he can surprise you with breakfast in bed/homemade dinner. He stills puts in the effort to learn how to cook even if you already know how to. He wants to surprise you so bad so pls let him (╥‸╥) (even if the French toast he made is a lil burnt)

Follows you around like a lost puppy. His hand is constantly reaching for yours, his arms are instantly wrapped around you as soon as the two of you get into bed, he always makes room for you to sit in his lap.

a/n: I haven’t written in quite awhile but I had to come back since my obsession with this man has worsened this past week 😞. Feel free to send requests 💌🧸

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Where Do You End Pt. 2

Main Masterlist

Read on A03! - Pt. 1 - Pt. 3

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, angst, body swap, mentions of smut, humor, horniness, very weird

Summary/Warnings: You put the plan into motion, and Sam realizes you're not Dean a little too late.

Author's Note: Supernatural characters are incapable of the just making the emotionally smart choice on the first try, but they're doing their best.

Word Count: 4.5k

Dean had half shoved the phone into your hand. His hand. Your hand was the one who shoved it into Dean’s hand, and Dean’s hand was the one that was dialing Sam while your hand drummed on the table, and your own eyes watched you with a searing intensity that only Dean was capable of. 

You’re not sure what suddenly made him take this seriously, but you don’t really care. You just need this to be over. 

Because the last twelve hours have been the longest of your life.

It started with your eyes wandering where they shouldn’t. Dean would shift in his chair, your body would shift with him, and when your boobs would bounce it was suddenly impossible to stop staring at them. Dean would walk away from you—to the parking lot, or through a door, or over to the bar—and your hips would do a little swaying thing that made Dean’s body tense. 

Your body tense. Dean’s body that was right now your body—and only about twenty percent in your control—tense. 

And he’d bend over, and your ass would stick in the air, and it was like your eyes were magnetically drawn to it.

You have a nice ass. You’ve never really seen it before, but it’s a nice ass. And nice tits, and an overall face that was better than you’d ever really given yourself credit for. You’re pretty. You have good features, a nice voice, and a great body.

This experience would be an overall ego booster, if you haven’t spent the whole time trying not to lose your mind.

Because then Dean wiggled his ass—your ass—and your jeans felt tight. Almost painful. And there was a weird throbbing feeling between your legs that was deep in your core, but it was heavier than you were used to-

You’d glanced down at your lap with a frown, worried you’d done something to fuck up Dean’s body, and almost fallen out of your chair.

You never wanted to experience an erection again. They were uncomfortable and sudden and annoyingly obvious. They made it hard to focus when you were trying to talk to Dean about the situation, and distracting when you were trying to do research. 

It didn’t help how they were purely out of your control. How easily they appeared, and how impossibly they went. 

And Dean was not fucking helping. He’d squirm when you touched him, and you’d get a boner. He’d use your voice to whine or mumble or just say anything at all, and you’d get a boner. At one point he kicked you and you got a boner.

You don’t know how he functions like this. You’d been a little worried that he doesn’t. That you’re getting turned on by your own shockingly attractive body for some fucked up Freudian reason, and Dean’s got nothing to do with this.

Then you’d dragged him out of the diner, and it had killed that doubt with fire and smoke. You’d never drag your own body like that. You hated it when Dean did that to you—the close proximity and overall Dean-ness of the action always made you weak and soft, molding into him when you were supposed to be pounding on his chest and calling him an asshole—and you hadn’t even really been considering it as an option to stop him going to the bathroom, but Dean’s muscles had flexed against your will, his body had stood taller without your permission, and suddenly you’d been grabbing your own arm and manhandled Dean out of the diner.

He’d been sulking the whole ride back. It was the same way you usually sulked after he did that to you, with a pout and arms folded over your chest.

His boobs—your boobs—were pushed up. You could see cleavage when you glanced to the side, and your cock twitched in your jeans to shove between those pretty fucking tits-

What the fuck was wrong with you.

It was like your body—Dean’s body—had a mind of its own. Behaving as Dean would behave, had none of this shit ever happened. Opening doors and placing that broad hand on your lower back, towering over you closer than he had any right to be and pressing you into corners until he was only just not touching you.

You really wish you’d pushed harder to make him stop doing that. If only for the sake of you now, crowding your own space and getting hard whenever Dean would squirm away from you. But you hadn’t, because when it was you in your own body, you loved it.

It was a cruel, masochistic drug you’d hooked yourself on, where Dean didn’t want you like that but he was still giving you this. You were only his friend in his mind, but he still liked you as a body. He didn’t feel anything for you the same way you felt things for him, but there was still an animalistic attraction that made him hover and smirk and tease you.

It gave you something to hang onto. It gave you something to hate about him, because you really did love everything else. 

You really loved Dean. You really loved his dumb jokes, and his shit-eating grin, and how loud and annoying and adorable he could be. You loved how he loved his car, how he cared about Sam with everything he had, how he was maybe to biggest, hottest geek you’d ever met. 

You really simply loved Dean.

And he didn’t love you, and you’d forced yourself to live with that because you had to. He was still your best friend. You hate him, and you’re furious with him for telling you no and then acting like nothing had changed when he’d ripped your heart out of your chest, carved his name on it, and returned it without any desire to care for how he’d mauled you in a beautiful and irreversible way, but he’s your best friend. And you love him.

And this needed to be fixed now, because you can’t keep living in such firm and solid proof that Dean’s body wants you, but there’s something revolting enough to his brain that he never ever cross that line you’ve had to restrain yourself from all day.

The first step is to call Sam, and execute the secrets plan so you can have some help that isn’t just a grumpy Dean. The second step is to hiss at Dean that he needs to leave the room before Sam picks up, because the whole point is that this a you and Sam secret, and Dean isn’t allowed to hear it.

“You can’t just cut me out of this, sweetheart,” he hisses back, narrowing your eyes. It’s cute. You’re going to fucking die. “I’ll be damned if I let you and Sammy whisper about me while I just stand in the freakin’ hall-“

“Not everything is about you, Dean.” You sneer. “And if you want this to work, wait outside.”

“But-“

“Outside.” Your voice raises slightly as you point to the door, and there’s an authoritative, commanding tone to it that makes Dean’s eyes—your eyes—widen. “Now.”

Dean scowls and shuffles outside, his low grumble about this being bullshit muffled as the door closes behind him.

You glare after him—not loving how annoyed his body is that you just let Dean walk away without picking him up and kissing his hair—and Sam picks up seconds later.

“Listen, Dean, I know you’re freaking out, but you can’t keep calling me.” Sam sounds exasperated, and you frown into the air as he continues. “This is supposed to be my week off with Eileen, and it’s hard to relax when you keep fucking calling me.”

“I-“ You shake your head slightly, glancing back to the door. “What?”

“You’ve called me seven times, Dude. Listen, it’s not going to go bad, she doesn’t hate you, and all you need to do is talk about your feelings like an adult and everything will be fine.”

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, I know.” You can hear Sam’s eye roll through the phone. “There’s nothing to talk about, she doesn’t know what she’d be getting into, you’d rather be miserable and all that shit. Look, Dean, at this point all I can tell you is to get your head out of your ass, and stop calling me.”

“Sam.” Your voice is slow, cautious, and wired with things you don’t fully understand. “What are you talking about.”

He says your name like it’s obvious, and you think the world stops spinning. “I know you didn’t wanna solo hunt with her, but-“

“Why didn’t he- Why didn’t I want to solo hunt with her?” Your voice is more frantic than Dean’s usually is. You don’t really care. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing’s wrong with her, Dean, you’re just still in love with her, and kind of being a fucking dick about it.”

Sam keeps talking. Something about how Dean’s always worried about hunting with you, how he’s always worried he’s going to slip up and put you in danger, how he’s afraid you’ll catch on to his real feelings, how he believes it’s easier when Sam is there to run interference and prevent too much of Dean’s hand from being shown.

It’s all just noise, though. Because there’s no way Dean loves you. He’d said he didn’t. He’d said you were his friend and nothing more, he’d shot you down, he’d apologized and told you the feeling would fade, because it was just a crush, and it would pass.

You’d spent months forcing yourself to be okay with that. You couldn’t make him love you. It would kill you to contort and reshape yourself into someone he would want, and if you did go down that path there was a chance you’d come out the other side someone he hated. 

You’d lost sleep reminding yourself that Dean loving you was not something you were owed. That you were lucky he cared about you enough to be your friend, and to let you down gently. He could’ve been cruel, and listed every reason you were vile and repulsive and had no right to be his. He could’ve told you to pack your bags and leave the bunker. 

And you’d tried to move on, because you owed him that much. You’d failed, but you tried.

He’d always stopped you. At countless bars he’d stepped between you and whoever you were flirting with, telling you Sam was drunk and they had to go now, or you all had an early drive in the morning and had to go now, or you just had to go now.

Sam had never really looked that drunk. 

Dean had always guided you out of the bar with a possessive hand on your lower back.

He’d rejected you, and he’d never let you get over him. 

As if he-

“Sam.” Your tone is harsh and cold. You don’t care. “How long has- Have I been in love with m-“ You correct yourself again with your own name, your voice dropping another octave, and there’s a long pause over the speaker.

“Forever, dude. You told me that like, day one you were whipped. I mean- You know that. Are you-“

“I’m fine.” You snap. You’re barely breathing. “Sam, I need you to feed the cat.”

For a second, you think the call dropped and that the plan hadn’t worked. The plan needed to work. You needed to get back into your own body so you could fucking kill Dean-

“Dean, we don’t have a cat. You’re allergic-“

“Sparky. In storage room nine. He needs food.”

“Spar- I don’t- What- Did-“ Sam snaps your name, and your heart jumps into your throat. “Did she tell you something? Did you get her drunk again? Because you know she’ll kill you when she gets sober, she hates it when you do that-“

You know exactly what Sam’s trying to accuse you—accuse Dean—of. You get loose-lipped when you drink. You tell secrets and lose your filter, and you always feel horrible in the morning because they’re rarely your secrets and the lack of filter is really embarrassing.

Dean’s told you it’s adorable. That he likes drunk you, because she’s honest and takes somehow less shit than sober you. That she’s you in the rawest form, and its’s awesome.

You can’t believe you ever bought that he didn’t have any feelings for you at all.

“There’s wet food in the pantry, behind all the cabbage and carrots. Should be enough for Sparky until I get home.” You push on, narrowing your eyes at the air. “Scoop the litter box too. I think I forget.”

“You- You’ve never been in the pantry. That’s why we-“ Sam cuts himself off, and you can hear the gears spinning in his brain over the phone. 

Then he says your name, and there’s an element of horror in his voice that feels pretty appropriate. 

“Thank fuck.” You mutter, and take your chances to try and just say it. “Code Vermilion, Sam.”

“Code- That’s a zombie situation, are there-“

“Shit- sorry.” You chew on your tongue, trying to recall the emergency system you’d fucking designed. “Code Puce.”

“You fucking body swapped?!” There is it. Thank God. “Why didn’t you just, you know, say that-“

“I couldn’t!” You were shouting, but Sam was also shouting, so it was only fair. “I called you all day on my phone, and the moment I tried to, the call dropped! I tried to email or text you and it never sent, I tried to fucking snail mail you and the letter burst into flames! Dean short-circuited a fax machine-“

Sam groans. “Shit, you’re gonna kill me. I mean Dean, Dean’s gonna kill me. I was never supposed to tell,” Sam says your name, then cuts himself off with another groan. “Fuck, I mean you, I wasn’t supposed to tell you- God damn it-“

“Sam.” Your voice has become clipped. Short. You don’t need a reminder of the previous conversation, and this just really needs to be over. “If I email you all the details, can you start looking for fixes?”

“Yeah, sure, just-“ He pauses, his voice dropping sightly. “You think emails gonna work now?”

“We’re talking about it and the call’s not dropping.” You shrug, even though he can’t see it. “Text me any solutions you have. I’ll keep you updated on my end, and when Dean gets home, make him sleep on the floor of your room and don’t let him go to the bathroom alone. Okay?”

“Oh- Wait-“ Sam says your name, and you can hear the confusion in his voice. “What do you mean when Dean gets home-“

“I mean when Dean gets home. Bye, Sam.” 

You hang up, and spend a long minute just staring at the wall.

Dean’s in love with you. Sam says Dean’s in fucking love with you, and you believe him, and you-

You can’t stay here. 

This needs to be fixed, but you cannot stay here. 

You open the door to the hall. And there he is. There you are, and your body—Dean’s body, the one that’s allegedly in love with you—is leaning forward to be closer to you. To Dean.

Fuck.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Dean frowns at you, pulling your lips down into a pouty frown. It makes your dick—Dean’s dick—twitch in his pants. 

“Tell you what?”

You brace your whole body, standing a little taller. “That you love me.”

“That I-“ Dean’s eyes narrow, and you’ve never been on the receiving end on your own glare. It’s more violent than you’d imagined, and his dick is twitching again. “What the hell did Sammy say to you-“

“Don’t blame Sam.” You snap. “Answer me.”

“You didn’t ask a freakin’ question, sweetheart-“

“Yes. I did.” You lean down a little, holding Dean’s gaze. “Were you ever going to tell me you’re in love with me.”

Dean stares at you, and you think he’s going to deny it. That he’ll grunt that you’ve had this conversation before, and he doesn’t love you. That he doesn’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and whatever Sam said was a joke. Just a prank, and you need to focus on fixing this body swap instead of your feelings.

What he does is worse. 

He shakes his head, refuses to meet your eyes, and pushes his words through his teeth.

“You were never supposed to know.” He mutters. “It was for your own good-“

“Shut the fuck up, Dean!” Your voice is a roar, and you make yourself flinch, but Dean doesn’t.

He’s in your body. 

You never flinch when Dean shouts, because you know he’d never actually hurt you-

You’re going to start fucking crying. You probably already would have, if it didn’t feel like an effort in Dean’s body.

“You- You broke my heart.” You glare at him, your voice half between a hiss and a whisper. “You told me you’d never seen me that way, and you apologized. You said you didn’t want me. You told me the feeling would pass, and then you fucking stopped it-“ Your voice raises, and you stand a little taller. You can be shattered and furious. You can be a fucking storm of glass to break and carve into Dean the same way he did to you, because how could he do this to you. “You fucking stopped me from moving on! You cockblocked me, and you got angry whenever I’d go out without you, and you kept touching me and acting like everything was fine-“

Dean says your name slowly, and you can hear the regret in his voice, but you don’t care. This hurts, this hurts so much worse than before because you’d felt insane, you’d driven yourself mad with love for Dean and he’d just tightened the straitjacket and acted like you’d find a cure for this when he’d been actively keeping it from you-

“Why the fuck would you do this?! Do you hate me? Am I really that horrible that you can’t stand the idea of being in love with me-“

“It’s not you.” Dean snaps your name, shaking his head. “It’s- I was keeping you fucking safe-“

“Fuck off-“

“No!” His voice—your voice—is trying to mimic your own shout, and it’s not really working in his favor. “You- you don’t fucking get it, sweetheart, if I let us do that, let us be that, you’d have a target on your back, every son of a bitch in hell and heaven would use you and hurt you, just to get to me-“

“I’m not stupid! I know what the risks are just associating with Winchesters, and I don’t care.” You rub your face, and everything hurts. You feel like you’re choking on the air, and you can’t be here. “I didn’t care, Dean, I just wanted you.”

“You would’ve cared.” His voice—your voice—is bitter. Hollow. Resolved. “When you were being tortured and murdered, you would’ve cared. And I would’ve had to live with it. With the fact that I lost you-“

“You wouldn’t have lost me, Dean.” You fish the keys to the Impala out of your pocket, and toss them to him with his phone. “You never would’ve lost me, if you’d actually fucking tried.”

It would be kinder to let him get in a word, or a protest, or even a sort of apology. But everything hurts, and you really can’t fucking stay here or you’ll rip off your skin—Dean’s skin—and beat in your own skull with your hands. 

Your real skull—holding Dean’s mind—with how raw and furious this pain is, or Dean’s real skull with self-inflicted pain.

And that’s why you’re past kindness. You’ve been shot and choked and stabbed and sliced to pieces, but this is the worst pain you’ve ever know. He was never supposed to hurt you. You’d always trusted that this huge lunk of a body would never hurt you.

But you hadn’t counted on Dean, and how he’d been willing to risk your of peace of mind for his misguided, self-sacrificing martyr bullshit.

You’d always tried to tell him that you didn’t want him to sacrifice for you. That him staying with you meant more than him leaving you alive, but alone.

And he’d never listened.

So now you’re walking away.

Dean will be fine. He’ll get your body safely back to the bunker, tell Sam everything that happened, and figure out how to justify this to himself.

Sam will make sure nothing happens to your body until this gets fixed. And you’ll take care of Dean’s body by yourself, far away from Kansas, hiding in a shitty little harbor town until you work this out.

Alone.

Just like Dean had wanted.

For a long week, time drags to a crawl. You hole in a motel room with a laptop, coffee and vodka—you don’t really care which on you’re drinking when your go for a glass, just as long as it’s one of them—about half of a gas station’s junk food supply, and the local library’s entire collection of books of cult, myth, and lore.

The motel is dusty and warm, and the nights are horrible and cold, but this is what you needed. You stop running into doorways and hitting your head on things, and you figure out how to sleep comfortably in his body. You learn how to go to the bathroom and barely touch or think about what you’re doing, how to not get weirded out when the same face you see in your dreams is the same one that greets you in the mirror.

And you miss him. A lot.

But your fury is stronger than the ache for him to return to your side. And there’s a slightly fucked up comfort to being trapped in his body. You can watch the hands you’ve had graphic and detailed dreams about sort through papers, and you can bite your lips and understand what that sensation would do to Dean’s body.

You never cross that line. Dean’s cock will call itself to attention at random time, and you’ll just ignore it, no matter how demanding it feels. 

You’re getting really good at ignoring things.

Calls. Texts. Voicemail after voicemail from Sam and Dean. You listen to one or two, just to check—they’re fine, just angry you’ve vanished and demanding to know where you are—and delete all the rest. Sam gives up after a few days, when you respond to his email about Eurasian body swapping lore with a list of your own working theories. 

You think he’s just happy to know you’re alive.

This doesn’t seem to be the case for Dean. 

He doesn’t stop trying to get you to pick up the phone. His voicemails get longer and longer, and his texts come more and more frequently, and the only thing that save him from being blocked is that you still love him.

You’d meant what you said. Dean would never lose you, not really. You’re just certain that if you talk to him or see him he’ll try to explain himself, and you don’t want an explanation. You just fucking want him, and as long as he’s going to keep pretending that’s something he can’t give you, he doesn’t get to have you at all. 

So you keep the door locked, keep your phone on silent, and just fucking work until you fix this. 

And when you do, you don’t bother with a warning. You find the exact curse, work out the ritual for reversal, and do it. 

The world blur, your head spins and Dean’s body seizes like it’s been struck by lightning, and that’s it.

You’re in the bunker library, lying on the floor as Sam hovers over you, and it’s over.

“Dean, what the-“ Sam jostles you slightly, and a little vomit shoots up your throat. After effects. “Dean-“

“Not Dean.” You mumble your own name, shoving Sam’s hands away from your face and pushing yourself upright. “I fixed it.”

“You-“ Sam shakes his head, scanning over you with a frown. “You fixed it?”

“Obviously.” You rub your temple, your head pounding and everything far too bright. “Dean’ll be in Sekiu, Washington.”

“Why-“

“Because that’s where I was-“

“I know that.” Sam snaps, giving you a glare. “Why are you telling me. You’re the one going to get him.”

You roll your eyes. “No, I’m-“

“You are.” Sam’s making a stern bitch-face. He’s about to get punched. “Because either you act like an adult and go talk to Dean, or he stays in Washington until you grow up.”

“Until I-“ You give Sam a look of pure disbelief. “He’s the one who lied to me! Why do I have to grow up-“

“Because it’s Dean. You know he wasn’t trying to hurt you-“

“But he did.” You rub your arms for comfort, and God, it’s nice to be back in your own body. You know where to pinch your own skin to keep your head right, and you can cross your legs without any discomfort, shielding your face from Sam by bowing your head and letting your hair take care of the rest. “He was just going to let me think he didn’t love me, that he didn’t care-“

“You know he cared.” Sam says, his voice still firm, but a little more gentle. “He does care. He spent the whole week trying to figure out how to fix this, and when I told him to stop calling you he told me to shove it, because he needed to work this out. He’s just-“ Sam sighs. “He’s Dean.”

“I know.” You chew on your lips, frowning at the floor. “But it’s- It wasn’t fair, Sam. It was mean. It- I don’t feel loved. I just feel like he didn’t love me- didn’t want me enough to do something about it.”

“Okay.” Sam shrugs. “Tell him that. Or just kick his ass, because he deserves it, or make out with him. I don’t care, as long you go pick up Dean, and I get my week off.”

You give him a flat look. “You just want your secret spa time-“

“Yeah, I do. Get out.”

“But-“

“You get to drive the Impala again. The keys are in your pocket.”

Your hand flies to your jeans, and they are. And Sam’s right, you do have to work this out somehow. If you leave the bunker, you’ll be abandoning the secret cat to Sam, and it’ll die within the week.

So you’re either kill Dean or-

You don’t let yourself think of the alternative. You’ve trained yourself not to. 

But it doesn’t stop the spark of hope in your chest when you start Baby’s engine, take a long breath, and head out to go get Dean.

End Note: Sam I hope you have a wonderful secret spa day, you've earned it my king.

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

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[gatorbites-imagines]

scott summers x male reader where Scott gets hit with someones love mutation ( basically like a love potion type of situation ) and Scott " falls in love" with male reader, but scoot acts the same as he always does, because he is already in love with male reader.

Scott Summers x mutant male reader

Headcanons

Readers mildly based on Atom Smasher, at least power-wise. Still tired from working all week, but it is what it is. I eat up Scott being awkward, I hc him as autistic if anyone cares. Cuz I love Scott, and Scott is me.

You were on X-men, with a mutation that let you change your size. Like ant-man, but cooler, if anyone asked you. You didn’t need a suit to change your size, so in your mind you were the original.

How long you had been an x-men doesn’t matter much, just enough time for Scott to fall in love with you, but not long enough that you could read between all his actions.

Which isn’t very obvious to anyone but the teams telepaths, who can hear his thoughts because of different mind bonds they share. Or the ones who have been on the team long enough to notice he’s giving you favorable treatment.

To you it isn’t obvious, as Scott doesn’t let it show too much. favorable treatment from Scott is things like him pulling you into the danger room to spar more, or him secretly stocking up on your favorite snacks.

Scott would stick closer to you than most, but again, to you it just comes across as the leader sticking closer to the new guy. At least, in the beginning when you are the new guy. After that, you two have kind of a strategy when it comes to fighting from all the training, which makes you believe its that.

Scott was always a bit tense or flighty, in your opinion. But everything moved so slow or fast when you changed size, so maybe it was just that. being the leader of the x-men also meant he had to have a lot of weight on his shoulders, right?

It definitely wasn’t because your suit would rip and tear a lot back when you first joined the team, before Hank and you found the right formula for a suit that would shrink and grow with you.

At least you never flashed anybody, as much as Scott would silently in his mind wish you did. Which just ended up with him getting a lot of ribbing from Jean and whoever else could hear his thoughts.

When Scott was hit with the enemy mutants’ powers, no one really realized for a while.

You had been as big as a skyscraper at that point, fighting against a sentinel of all things. Why mutants would side with them, you never understood. But that’s life. This also just meant you didn’t see Scott get hit.

It was only after you guys got back to the mansion, or krakoa, depending on where and when this takes place, and other members of the team were getting treated. Hank was mostly shocked you hadn’t gotten hit, since you were so damn big and easy to hit.

The only difference in Scott was that he was hovering more than usual, hell, he even let his fingers brush against the back of your hand for like a split second but that was it.

Other than that, he’s the exact same, giving out orders and helping where he’s needed. Though, he does keep an eye on you more than usual, which isn’t that obvious with his visor and everything anyways.

Maybe Jean is out of commission for a while, so it’s Charles that realizes Scott was hit, so it takes a while.

And its only realized when Scotts thoughts spiral more than usual when it comes to you, sounding borderline obsessed and possessive. It’s when flickers of thoughts about using his optic blast on Remy when he’s doing his usual flirting that it starts setting off alarm bells.

Scott would deny anything being wrong with him, since he doesn’t feel different. Which, in the end, just outs him and his feelings to you which leaves you stunned for a while.

You end up having to sit with him and hold his hand to make him stop resisting treatment, since he’s way too focused and flustered about holding your hand.

Maybe your powers act up a bit from having these feelings put on display, because yeah, your team leader is such a damn smokeshow and he’s charming in his own way. But you never thought hed actually like you of all people.

It’s pretty awkward in the medical wing for a couple of moments, with Scott wanting to jump into the ocean at how embarrassed he feels. It doesn’t help when you grow a couple of sizes when you realize all the times you two have been grinding on each other during spars, and the table breaks right under you.

Being thrown to the floor at least makes Scott laugh. Enough for him to roll over and pull your mask off, because it’s not fair only you get to see how flustered he is, right? (it’s also because he wants to see if you are disgusted by him, but sssshhh, don’t tell anybody)

When he sees how flustered you are about it, how you keep worrying your lip and looking away it makes his heart flutter.

Scott has always been good at reading people, it comes with the job. But realizing other people like him has never been his strong suit, so he’s never really thought about it.

In the end you two kiss, even if it’s pretty clumsy and a bit weird with you being at least 8 feet tall, but you make it work. Good thing Scott doesn’t mind the size difference.

It takes a moment for you to shrink back to normal size, and you two just spend some time sitting on the floor feeling flustered and talking about it. Scott likes order in his things, so of course hed want to get this right too.

You two are not surviving leaving the medical wing for long though, especially when the rest of the team sees the smashed table. Everyone knows the real reason, but there’s so much teasing about “what were yall doing in there, huh?”

But you guys survive, even if Scott does get huffy and blushy about it. you get back at the teasing by putting the items of the teammates in places they cant reach.

[littlemissmelodie]

⭑Under the Stars⭑

!Onyx Storm spoilers!

Pairing: Ridoc Gamlyn x fem!Reader

Summary: Tagging along with Quest Squad to the Isle kingdom Y/n is nervous to confront her feelings for Ridoc. Realizing that she has forgotten her sleeping bag she is left with few options. Sharing with her squadmate proves to be the only available one. An outcome neither of them ends up having too much complaint about. Only problem, they are surrounded by the rest of their pers.

Warnings: ‼️(MDNI) 18+ explicit content‼️, smut, p in v, smut with feelings, swearing, fem!reader, unprotected sex, public sex, fingerring, edging, (very) light exhibitionism and voyeurism, dry humping, praise kink.

Note: This is my first ever smut published and English is not my first language. So please be kind. Other than that, enjoy.

Word count: 3k

After bidding good night to the rest of Quest Squad, as Ridoc insists on calling it, I make my way to my luggage. At the edge of the clearing Èisdeachd is standing, along with the limited amount of items I brought with me. Finding my sleeping bag in the tiny pine of luggage should be no match.

Annoyance takes over when I can't seem to find it. I search through my memory from when I was packing. Quickly I come to realize that I must have forgotten to bring it with me. Fuck.

I weigh my options as I continue to search just in case. 1. I accept defeat and curl up close to Èisde, hoping her warmth will be enough.

2. I ask Ridoc if we can share, taking the opportunity to finally make a move after seven months of denying my attraction.

3. I ask Aaric, who I have slept with before, and will probably be fine with sharing a sleeping bag.

Yep, three it is. No way I make a move on Ridoc this early in our travels. “Coward.” Èisde says amused, making me huff in annoyance.

“Thanks for the input. But I would prefer for the next two weeks to not be awkward.” The thought of having to spend the rest of our island visits in strained silence makes me mentally gag.

“I'd advice you look behind you.” Spinning around at her statement I expect to see caos causing me to be confused at first. Then I spot Aaric beside Molvic already fast asleep. Damn it. Option one it is.

“No rider of mine cowers from confrontation.” Èisde growls, then takes off into the sky.

“You find way too much amusement in this!” I yell through our mindlink, but her shields are already up. Stupid dragon.

“I heard that!”

Despite the many months spent with flirty banter and suggestive comments none of us had ever acted on it. I was therefore terrified of the thought that he might not think of it as anything more than just that.

With a deep breath I turn towards Ridoc who's only a few meters away. “Uhh Ridoc, it seems like I have forgotten my sleeping bag. Would you mind sharing?” I force my voice to be confident. It would be horrible if he knew how nervous this interaction makes me.

With a big cocky grin Ridoc locks his eyes with mine. “Of course not, princess. I'd share a bed with you any day.” Not only is his tone flirty, but he ends his statement with a wink.

The audacity of this man. Suppressing my blush I playfully roll my eyes at him. “Ladies first.” He points to the small sleeping bag. This is gonna be a tight squeeze.

“I'm not sure this is made to fit two people.” I mutter as I crawl halfway into it, leaving everything but my boots on. Slowly Ridoc begins to climb in behind me, using my shoulder to keep his balance. My breath hitches when I feel his warm breath fanning against my neck.

“Then we better move as one.” His voice is low and suggestive when he responds to my complaint. The hand that has now moved to rest at my waist not helping the growing feeling of need.

I shuffle downwards to put myself in a lying position, but freeze as I hear a sharp intake of air from Ridoc, followed by a tightened grip close to my boob. The thought of him being equally as affected by the situation as myself makes my confidence grow. “Sorry.” I whisper, not really meaning it.

He clears his throat before answering. “No worries.” Then he slides down beside me, placing one arm around my midsection. How am I gonna sleep with his mouth this close to my neck?

The sleeping back is tight, leaving almost no place for movement. Its thin fabric provides barely any cushioning from the ground, making me wiggle in place to find a more comfortable position.

A groan is heard from behind me. “I would suggest you stop moving before I do something we both might regret.” His husky voice makes me shiver in anticipation. The suggestion in his warning makes me scream inside. I'm not sure I can control my own arousal for much longer.

I turn my head, causing my jawline to brush against his lips. The bulge I feel against my ass urges me on in my new found conquest. Wiggling a bit more I answer him in an innocent tone. “Don't you want me to be comfortable?”

“I mean it, princess. Don't start the game if you're not ready to finish it.” He almost moans, his lips and teeth gracing my skin. His hand that previously rested around me has now moved lower, fumbling with the edge of my shirt. Butterflies swarm in my stomach. Man does he know what he is doing.

“Ridoc…” I whine, growing more and more desperate for his touch. I angle my head in hope that he gets the hint. One of my hands reaching behind me to trace over his hip.

“Fuck it.” He mutters, immediately attacking my neck with his mouth. A stifled moan leaves me in response, spurring him on even more. A trail of marks would surely be visible tomorrow if he continues at this rate.

Meanwhile his hand has taken his way fully under my shirt, brushing the underside of my boob. “Is this okay?” I nod eagerly, not trusting my voice to speak for me.

“Use your words, love.” He halts everything he was doing while waiting for my answer.

“It's okay.” The sudden feeling of his hand kneading my boob in combination with his lips on my neck has sounds of pleasure leaving me. No man has business making me this wet with just some light touches and kisses.

“Shh, princess. As much as I love hearing how I’m affecting you, I'm also selfish and want to keep them to myself.” I stiffen when I remember the presence of the rest of Quest Squad. But the thought is quickly forgotten when Ridoc finds a sweet spot behind my ear. “Good girl.” he praises when I bite back the moan that threatens to escape me.

The more he abuses by breasts and neck in all kinds of ways, the more impatient I become for his fingers to grace my heat. Deciding to take things into my own hands, I begin to grind against his large erection.

“Y/n-” he growls into my ear. With surprising ease, despite the tight sack around us, he turns me around to face him. Before I can react his lips smash against mine, moving in a passionate and needy kiss.

With one hand in my hair he holds my head steady as he takes my breath away with greedy kisses. The other hand moves down to my core, leaving small, teasing touches through the fabric.

I'm practically panting against his lips, bringing up my own arms to tug at his curls. The gesture earns me a small moan, making me grin in response. Oh, how I love the sounds he makes for me.

My eyes are heavy with pleasure, but it doesn't stop me from observing Ridoc's. Pupils dilated and a few shades darker than normal. The hunger with which he’s watching me seems like something taken out of a wet dream. Never in my 22 years of living have I witnessed such arousal in somebody's eyes.

“Please Ridoc-” Desperation for release crawls up on me. The coil in my core pulled tight. At this stage I’m not really sure how I keep my whimpers and moans to myself, or if I do it at all.

“Please what, princess?” The teasing tone he holds only fuels my fire, his fingers working even more efficiently than before.

“So close Ridoc… please.” A change in speed makes me almost come on the spot. This causes a loud moan to leave me, but the thoughts of potential onlookers are long gone.

“That doesn't answer my question, love. Tell me what you want.” Gone is the light hearted, flirty gentleman I’m used to. But God do I love this new side of him. Frustration of being denied my orgasm gnaws on me, but I can't deny that I find it very sexy.

“I want to come, Ridoc. I beg you… Please.” My words come out straind and mostly in whines. The sensation of his finger rubbing me through my trousers making me see stars.

“So pretty when you beg for me. All needy and desperate for my touch.” he whispers in my ear. “Now come for me, my love.” His praise and command leaves no room for argument as I come on the spot. The heavenly sensation of orgasm taking over all my senses.

Ridoc kisses me through it to muffle the moans that escape my swollen lips. His hand is however quick to continue its adventure. Lowering my pants enough to get his hand inside with ease. As I slowly come back to earth from my ecstasy induced state I realize what he is doing.

“So beautiful when you come for me, princess.” He praises in an arousal-laced voice, watching me with hungry eyes. “Not so good at keeping quiet though. What should we do about that, huh?” Though the question seems rhetorical at first, his challenging gaze tells me otherwise.

“I don’t kn-” I'm cut off by the sharp sensation of over stimulation as Ridoc rubs my clit, now without fabric in between. A series of gasps leaving me to prove its effect. He holds me tight as I wiggle to get away from it. Not that I'm really able to anyway, seeing as the sleeping bag seems even smaller than before.

“Too bad…” His other hand trails delicate touches over my body. “I guess I will have to decide myself then.” He slows the pace on my clit, inserting one finger inside me. The new placement does nothing but keep me needy. My whine is returned by a grin of satisfaction, proving that he got the desired outcome.

Releasing one of my hands from the tangle that is his hair, I move it down to his dick. In hope that the teasing I do to him provides me more pleasure, I begin to trace it through his pants. The gesture earns me a quickened breath, but he keeps the torturous pace with his hand. I then move on to unzipping his pants, pawing his erection through his boxers instead.

He growls, grabbing hold of my hand and holds it behind my back. “Only I do the touching tonight, love.” I whine and move to use the hand still in his hair to take over my conquest, but he is quick to grab it, giving me a warning glare.

Withdrawing his hand from my core he releases his cock from his pants, pushing down my own just enough to get better access. “Now be a good girl and keep quiet.”

With that he slams into me, giving me no time to adjust. I bite back the loud moan that threatens to escape me, not wanting to test the waters further. Every thrust takes my breath away, leaving me panting in no time. “Oh God-” The moan slips out of me involuntarily

“I'm honored… Mmm fuuuck, princess. You feel so good, squeezing my cock with your pussy…” Interrupted by my own devlish attempt at distraction by contracting my pelvic floor he starts over. “...I’m honored that you think of me that highly. But Ridoc works just fine, love.” Though my eyes are closed I can hear the amusement in his voice. It's strained and much deeper than normal, making the butterfly in my stomach flutter.

Forcering my eyes open to look at Ridoc I see that he himself is struggling to keep quiet. His eyes meet mine, the heat in them mirroring my own. I gasp as his thumb finds my clit, making me strain against his hold on my wrists. A glare is directed at me, and he tightens the hold. Maybe enough to leave a mark.

He seems to realize this too. His brown eyes flare with possessiveness and a oh so sexy smirk spreads across his face. My reaction does nothing but boost his cockiness. Our staring contest is interrupted by a loud hiss from the both of us. The length of his cock stretching me further than ever before.

“Fuck… I could spend forever watching you take my cock like this.” His breath is hot against my ear. I hum in response letting a small moan leave me when he increases the pace. Every thrust hits the right spot deep within me. I want to scream out in pleasure, but hold it back. My lips now swollen and aching from all the times I've taken them between my teeth to stop a moan.

“Mine” Teeth sink in behind my ear. Oh God. “Who do you belong to, princess?” His voice is demanding, and I live for every second of it.

“You, Ridoc. I belong to you.” Though my breath is ragged, my statement comes out with certainty. His lips connect with mine, hard and desperate. Within the next moment he releases his semen inside of me, our kiss muffling the heavenly sound that leaves him.

The feeling of his cock pulsing inside me has me seeing stars, a reoccurring thing this night it seems. His forehead rests against mine as he comes down from his high. “I hope you didn't expect me to let you come after disobeying me, princess.” He taunts in a hoarse voice, making me whimper.

“Aww, did someone think there wouldn’t be consequences to their actions? Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He clicks his tongue in feigned pity.

“Here’s what's gonna happen. I will make you come alright. Bring you to the edge over and over again. And you are gonna tell me, every time, when you are close. I'm gonna make you beg for that release like your life depends on it. Only then will I allow you to give into it.” Fuck. I’m down bad. Who would have thought that sweet little Ridoc was such a freak.

He brings his hand down, beginning to run small circles around my bundle of nerves. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” I nod in response, dismissing his concern. He grabs my jaw, making me look him in the eye. “I'm serious Y/n. You have to tell me.” His tone is gentle, yet demanding.

“I promise I will tell you.” My statement is followed with an impossibly long while of edging. Ridoc has me making sounds I didn't know I was capable of, all while muffling them to not earn the attention of others.

I quickly lose count of the times Ridoc has me close to the edge. All I know is that as much as I hate the endless teasing, I love it just as much. The world around us has faded away since long, all that matters is Ridoc’s filthy words and fingers.

“I don't think you understand how beautiful you are right now. All hot and bothered, begging me to please you.” The praise is never ending with this man, something that has made me realize that I do in fact have a praise kink.

“Ridoc, plea-” I’m cut off by the familiar sensation of nearing the edge once again. He chuckles and temporarily removes his touch before starting over at a painfully slow pace.

“You're doing so well, love. Just a few more times, can you do that for me?” He leaves a trail of hot kisses down my neck as he brings me to the edge three more times. Always stopping when I beg to be given my release.

“Please, Ridoc- So fucking close Ridoc, please… I promise I've learnt my lesson… Let me come for you Ridoc… I promise I will be a good girl in the future, please.” The dance around the edge has me squirming, begging on a whole new level. Never in my life have I been so desperate for something, let alone someone.

“As you wish, princess.” He quickens the pace, having me strain against him out of over stimulation. It doesn't take long before I crash, screaming his name into his palm. The orgasm is unlike anything I've ever experienced, causing me to temporarily lose all senses but touch. My body spasm in Ridoc's hold as I continue to let out moans and whimpers that might cause people to wake up.

It takes time for my ecstasy mind to come back to reality. Breath heavy as I open my eyes to meet with Ridoc's. Lust and adoration is what watches me. Accompanied by a smile that screams self satisfaction, the man in front of me is all I could ever dream of. “Thank you.” My voice is small, worn out from the song of pleasure. I lean into his embrace, feeling myself already doze off from exhaustion.

“No need to thank me, love. Now go to sleep, you deserve it.” He leaves a kiss on my forehead, making me smile and nustle closer into his chest, breathing in his scent.

Before any of us have the chance to fall asleep, a grunt comes from beside us. I quickly turn my head, only to be met by Aaric who is now much closer than before. Standing only a few meters away he meets my eye. “Fucking finally.” He mutters, not breaking eye contact. His eyes are dark and lustfull, telling me he’s most likely very affected by mine and Ridoc's ever lasting endeavours. A quick look down and the bulge in his pants confirm my suspicion.

Nor me or Ridoc has the time to utter a word before Aaric turns around and walks away. I turn to Ridoc who meets my gaze. We both stifle a laugh, amused by the whole ordeal. The thought of him watching for God knows how long bothers me surprisingly little. Instead I feel a new found sort of excitement.

“Good night, Ridoc.” I turn around, pressing my back against him and close my eyes.

“Good night, princess.”

[melodyreads]

Our Little Secret

You and Hamzah are in a secret relationship. While you guys kept each other a secret to protect one another, was it really what you both wanted?

Contains: fem reader, angst, confused reader, lack of communication, arguing, happy ending <3

a/n: I appreciate all the love I've received for my most recent works. Hope you guys enjoy this one, it's definitely my best yet.

---

From an outside perspective, there was nothing out of the ordinary about this situation. Just two couples out on a double date. Me, Mandy, Martin, and Hamzah grabbing dinner at our usual pizza spot. Nothing suspicious. Nothing complicated. Just friends catching up.

Mandy waved kindly as she saw me approach their group. Martin stood next to her seemingly making a joke to Hamzah as he stood there with his hands in his pockets wearing a neutral expression on his face. That was, until he saw me arrive.

A familiar feeling of excitement filled my stomach at the look on Hamzah’s face. I wanted to run up to him and throw my arms around him while greeting him with a kiss. He would smile down at me as his left hand placed itself in my back jean pocket.

Except, of course, Martin and Mandy were the only couple actually together. 

I guess you could say me and Hamzah were together too. We basically lived at each other's apartments, always leaving clothes in each other's space. I would wake up to Hamzah’s messy curls aghast on the pillow next to mine. I would plant his face with kisses as he grabbed my waist and pulled me on top of him.  

We were together, but in a, “we don’t want to put a label on it” kind of way. No commitments, no pressure—just what we wanted.

I wasn’t so sure about that anymore.

For me, it was about not wanting anything serious right now. I wanted to protect my relationship with Hamzah, what we had was different than anything I had experienced with boyfriends in the past.

For Hamzah, it had more to do with his online image— he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable with their fans' inevitable perceptions of you if you two were to date. I joked that he was just playing up the “I’m available” act for his followers. He would always roll his eyes but I’m sure this was part of it.

If people found out we were together, it’d ruin the whole thing. Which is why I had to be extra careful. Even around our best friends.

So imagine my horror when, halfway through dinner, Martin suddenly narrows his eyes at me.

“Hey… isn’t that Hamzah’s sweater?”

The table goes silent and my stomach drops.

I freeze with my pizza halfway to my mouth, my brain scrambling for a response. The oversized grey hoodie I’m wearing is definitely Hamzah’s— the words “nap queen” in black letters I envisioned on my chest made me want to laugh and bury my head in my hands at the same time. I didn’t even think about it when I threw it on before leaving.

It even smelled like him.

I set my pizza down trying to brush it off, “Am I not allowed to wear your guys merch anymore? Y’all should be grateful.” I say acting offended.

Mandy’s eyes flick between me and Hamzah, who—thank god—keeps his expression cool, shoveling food into his mouth as he nodded his head at my response..

Martin, however, is still staring. “I swear that one is yours though, isn’t it Hamzah? It has the exact same material as the one you wear. ”

I let out a short laugh, trying to play it off. “I’m not sure why because this one is mine.” My voice started to shake

Pull it together.

“It looks exactly like Hamzah’s,” Martin insists. He turns to Mandy. “Doesn’t it?”

Mandy shrugs, sipping her drink. “A lot of those hoodies look the same.”

Hamzah finally speaks, his voice casual but just a little too fast. “Yeah, man, it’s just a hoodie. All those hoodies look the same, part of the reason we sold so many.”

Martin still looks unconvinced, but he lets it go, turning his attention back to his food. My entire body is tense, and across the table, I can feel Hamzah suppressing a smirk.

Under the table, his finger interlocks with mine, a slow, deliberate touch that sends a jolt up my spine. I flick my eyes toward him, and there’s something smug in his gaze—something knowing.

I roll my eyes at him, trying to ignore the way my face feels hot.

That was too close.

But the truth is, I kind of love the risk. I love the way we sneak glances at each other when no one’s looking, the way my body reacts when he’s just close enough to touch but doesn’t. I love the late nights, the whispered conversations, the fact that we’re both holding onto something we’re pretending we don’t want to name.

God I wanted him bad.

---

The party was loud—too loud. Music pulsed through the walls, and the mix of voices, laughter, and the occasional clatter of a drink being set down filled the air. Mandy and Martin were off in their own little world, and I had lost track of most people in the crowd.

Hamzah settled next to me "How're you doing?" he asked, leaning down to meet my ears while looking out into the sea of people.

I sighed in response, "Alright, I guess..." I snapped my head to meet Hamzah's dark eyes, "...Can we go home soon?" I asked sticking out my bottom lip. He chuckled before leaning down once more.

"Come with me," he murmured, his voice just low enough for only me to hear.

I barely had time to react before his fingers brushed against my wrist—just a ghost of a touch, but enough to send a jolt through me. Before I knew it, I was being pulled down the hall, away from the noise, away from prying eyes.

He didn’t stop until we were inside an empty room, the door clicking shut behind us. The sudden quiet made my pulse hammer in my ears.

"Wait, what if someone sees?" I whispered, even though I was far too gone to start moving away from him.

Hamzah exhaled, leaning back against the door with a sly look covering his face. His eyes were dark, and the dim lighting cast sharp shadows on his face. "I don't care," he said.

That was a lie. He did care. We both did. That was the whole reason we were keeping this secret.

And yet… here we were.

The tension thickened in the air between us, something unspoken crackling like a wire about to snap. Hamzah's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave in, stepping closer.

I barely had time to breathe before his hands cupped my face, his touch gentle despite the desperation in his eyes. This was the last look I could register before his lips were on mine.

A slow, deep kiss started, stealing the air from my lungs, and making my heart stutter.

I wanted this. God, I wanted this.

But before I could get too carried away, I thought of where we could have been. Kissing in the middle of a crowd, unwavering concerns about what others around us thought. His hand in mine not hidden beneath a table, but revealed proudly.

The weight of it—the secret, the hiding, the way we only allowed ourselves these moments in the dark—it was all too much.

A sharp pang in my chest pulled me back to reality. Before I could stop myself, I tore away, my breath ragged.

“Hamzah, I—” My voice broke, my hands shaking as I stepped back. “I can’t keep doing this.”

His brows furrowed, his hands hovering in the empty space between us like he wanted to pull me back but knew he shouldn’t. “What do you mean... what's wrong?”

I forced a swallow, blinking hard. “Being with you in secret... it just hurts too much.” My voice was barely above a whisper, but the way Hamzah flinched made it clear he heard every word.

His lips parted, like he was about to say something, but I couldn’t stand there and let him try to fix it with more whispered reassurances, more stolen touches that would only leave me aching for something real.

Before he could even get a word out, I was already out the door.

I pushed past the crowd, the music and chatter barely registering. My chest was tight, my pulse racing. I needed air.

I needed to get out of here.

The cold night air hit me as I stepped outside, but it didn't stop me. As I started to come to terms with what just happened, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill. I sucked in a sharp breath, hugging my arms around myself, trying to shake the feeling of Hamzah’s hands still lingering on my skin.

Then, I heard determined footsteps tracking behind me.

“Wait.”

Hamzah’s voice.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to turn around. But then his hand caught mine, stopping me in my tracks.

I exhaled shakily as he moved in front of me, his brows furrowed, his expression torn between frustration and desperation. Whatever it was caused your whole body to shudder.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” he said, his voice rough, his grip tightening just slightly, “Not if it means losing you.”

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering. “What about your whole ‘single guy’ thing? What about—”

“Screw all that,” he cut me off, shaking his head. “None of it matters if it means I can’t be with you. I don’t care who knows.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest, knocking the air out of me.

I searched his face, looking for hesitation, for doubt. But there was none. Just him—bare, vulnerable, real.

A shaky laugh left my lips, part disbelief, part relief. “Are you sure about this?”

Hamzah let out a soft chuckle, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from my face before resting gently against my cheek. “Yeah, I mean it.” His thumb traced my skin, slow and reverent. “I want you. For real.”

I didn’t need any more convincing.

This time, when I reached out and kissed him, I wasn’t thinking about the consequences. About who was watching or who would care. What came next and what the future held.

From now on, we came first.

---

a/n: Hope you'll enjoyed this!!!!! It's so hard to end stories, but I think I'm getting better at it lol. Lmk if you guys want a part two????????

[expectiations]

The Doctor does NOT and has NEVER loved River Song (And If You Think Otherwise, You Must Be Watching a Different Show)

Listen, folks. It’s time to face the facts. The Doctor has NEVER loved River Song. Not even a little bit. And I have 17 rock-solid, completely canonical, absolutely not contradictory reasons to prove it:

He only took her to Calderon Beta to show her the starriest night in the universe on her first night in space jail, which was also their honeymoon night. A night that is literally impossible to replicate with anyone else ever again. But no, not romantic. At. All. Just two people who happen to be married, spending a totally meaningless night under the stars.

He only stuck around for the mystery of her and once it was solved, he… checks notes …continued planning elaborate dates, risked his life for her, wrote her poetry, spent centuries in her company, and doing domestics with her. But yeah. Definitely just a phase.

He kept an entire diary to track their time together. But that’s normal, right? Just an intergalactic, timey-wimey version of a Google Calendar for the woman he definitely does not feel any sort of romance for.

He was willing to let all of time and space collapse just so they could have a linear married life. You know, because that’s what you do for a woman you have no strong romantic feelings for whatsoever.

He planned intricate dates just for her, dressed up for the occasion despite usually looking like a sentient pile of laundry, and bought her custom-tailored outfits so they could match. You know, just friendly little outings. Buddies. Chums. Mates.

Whenever she calls, he comes. No matter the situation, no matter how much danger he’s in, he drops everything and rushes to her side. He’s probably just really into checking his voicemail.

He wrote her love poetry. But, like, strictly in a platonic way. Just some totally neutral iambic pentameter for the fun of it.

Despite being universally known for his terrible time management, he is always perfectly on time for her. Which, of course, doesn’t mean anything. He just suddenly became a scheduling genius when she was around.

He keeps asking her to travel with him. Like, repeatedly. Like, he can’t take the hint that she has a life outside of running around in space. Almost like he wants her there. But that would be ridiculous.

The entire universe knows that the easiest way to lure the Doctor into a trap is to put River in danger. Because he will always come for her. But that’s not love. That’s just… reflexes.

He “only” took her to Darillium because he was lonely. And then, in an act of sheer, meaningless, absolutely not-love-driven desperation, he spent 24 years (and more) being domestic with her. Just hanging out. Not a big deal.

He built a whole planet just so they could have a little more time together. You know, because nothing says "total indifference" like terraforming an entire celestial body.

An entire archipelago, famously known as "The Lovers Dreaming Island", exists where the islands literally form the shape of their intertwined bodies. That’s just standard planet-building, really. All geography is accidental.

He physically defied the laws of the universe to hold onto her data ghost. The whole "ghosts can’t be touched" thing? He literally said, "Mmm, no thanks" then proceeded to french kiss her goodbye. But that’s really just the kind of farewell you give to someone you were forced to be with.

He keeps a spare TARDIS key inside a book called The Time Traveler’s Wife. No significance whatsoever. Probably just the only book lying around.

Her words gave him hope when nothing else could. Her voice became his mantra. But no, not love. Just, you know, some lady saying things.

But yeah, sure, he never loved her. The universe must be wrong. The Doctor must be wrong. The literal geography of an archipelago must be wrong. The foundations of time itself must be wrong. Or… maybe the Doctor is just the most emotionally repressed idiot in the cosmos, and we’ve all spent years watching a romantic tragedy disguised as sci-fi nonsense.

Final Conclusion: The Doctor absolutely, 100%, definitively does not love River Song. And if you believe that, I have a prime piece of real estate in the Medusa Cascade to sell you.

[sweatersexual]

I just saw somebody claim that Lirin couldn't feed his family due to his ideals so I'm bringing this post back

Also, running a "pay what you can" medical service isn't some pie-in-the-sky utopian fantasy. That's how a lot of community-based resources function. I think it's really easy to forget this in our modern society where a lot of us are so alienated from our neighbors, but in a small town like Hearthstone where everybody knows everybody, there's more accountability when it comes to community resources. People who try to freeload face social consequences much more easily than they would as an anonymized population in a city. Nobody wants to be the guy who ruined the good thing for everyone when everyone knows you and where you live

So you're going to do your part to make sure your town's only doctor can continue to treat people for free. Even if you have to start doing it under the table. Which is exactly what the people of Hearthstone did, and even then, Lirin and his family's standard of living didn't drop by too much. It was stressful but still tenable

That's also why Lirin knew revealing the faces of the men who came to rob him would work. He de-anonymized them and reinforced their sense of accountability. Those principles are what kept his family fed and his clinic operational for years on end. It was not such a huge gamble for Lirin to de-escalate a violent situation that way too

I think it's wild that people seem to think of Lirin as living in some ethics professor's ivory tower when his idealogy is very much grounded in the world of the brutal society he lives in. A lot of people have pointed out that Lirin was learning/practicing medicine during the reunification of Alethkar. He knew he was living under a tyrant. Gavilar was at the height of his power and knew how to maintain control. Violent rebellions get brutally put down under those conditions - we know what happened to Rathalas. Lirin has deeply held convictions about nonviolence, but his pacifism is also pragmatic. Lirin's resistance is rooted in empowering his community, that's why he refuses to leave them behind

Real life resistance doesn't look like Katniss Everdeen taking down bad guys with her bow and arrow (there's a reason Suzanne Collins goes out of her way to emphasize that Katniss is a symbol, not an organizer). Real life resistance starts with meeting people's needs and reducing their dependence on the corrupt system. That's what Lirin does. He doesn't rely on magic powers to save the day because for almost his entire life the remnants of his world's magic system were controlled by his oppressors. His ideals were not formed in a classroom, they were formed while he was doing real, unglamorous resistance work in the middle of a war

Tl;dr Lirin is an organizer who knows how to not only meet his own family's needs but his community's as well. He is a pacifist because he is deeply in touch with his lived reality. It's not his fault he doesn't know he's a side character in an epic fantasy

If you give lirin shit for staying in hearthstone you're wrong. It is made VERY clear in the text that while his family was under financial strain under Roshone, they were NOT starving. They weren't eating GREAT food but they were eating. They didn't go without any major necessities. And they could afford medical supplies on top of it. Also it's wild that people assume they could afford to move if they couldn't afford to eat. And Lirin says they could afford to move

Not going to downplay that financial stress is bad for a kid's home life but at the same time, you can tell that Lirin and Hesina were shielding Kaladin and Tien from most of it, which is what good parents do when they've fallen on hard times

And yeah, it would be a dick move to deprive an entire town of their ONLY medical professionals just because of a grudge. Do the lirin haters know what community building is and that you're not going to always get along with the people you're in community with. At the end of the day they were practicing mutual aid and I hope the lirin haters remember that the next time they call him a liberal centrist or whatever