#hes vulnerable when he’s a charging station

[baconcolacan]

Can never forget that Tom is just a cryptid. A creetur.

Like wha you mean his visor connects DIRECTLY INTO his eye sockets??? And my brain came up with the worst explanation, being that there was a lot of confusion on how they were going to get it to work, going ‘what if we just…?’, placing the wires in, and hearing a click

And it works. I refuse to be the only one with this mental image

I LOVE THAT ACTUALLY HASHAHSH his eyes are weird, we also have to remember he can be used as charging station too, something in that noggin of his reacts well to tech

[tteotlma]

craving control

— neither of you could resist what was always meant to happen.

alpha!bucky x omega!reader (9.2kw)

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, dubcon a/b/o dynamics, possessive behavior, biting/marking, power dynamics, including praise kink, size kink, rough intimacy, physical restraint, sexual tension, emotional dependency, desperation, and themes "feral, uncontrollable need.", elements of mating/claiming, explores intense feelings of vulnerability and submission.

a/n: honestly,, i have no words -- weeks in the making and im not satisfied w how this turned out. like when you stare at something for too long. and it starts to look weird

———

On the day of Bucky’s arrival, it was safe to say the only one truly excited was Steve. The air in the compound felt charged, heavy with anticipation and unspoken tension.  

Tony walked up beside you and Nat by the massive window, the sharp scent of machine oil mingling with his expensive cologne as he wiped stubborn grease from his hands. Years of working together had made their commanding presence familiar and comfortable, like the steady hum of lab equipment around you.  

The window shook as debris kicked up from the descending helicopter, which was landing in the middle of the field. Tony inhaled deeply, his dark eyes meeting yours and Nat’s with a characteristic assessing look that instinctively made others straighten their spines. Nat smirked and raised an eyebrow, prompting a small smile from you, though you couldn't fully shake the flutter of nerves in your stomach.  

The helicopter door slid open in slow motion as Steve emerged, his broad shoulders and confident stride capturing every gaze in the vicinity. He turned and, stepping out behind him, a dark figure followed—a stark contrast, night to Steve's day. The moment Bucky appeared, the air seemed to shift—a raw, untamed energy that made your breath catch and your pulse quicken. Even from a distance, there was something different, something dangerous about him, that made your skin prickle with awareness, and your fingers curl tightly around the tablet in your hands.  

"Disperse, disperse," Tony muttered, his natural authority causing everyone to instinctively move as he turned away. The others followed suit, including an omega technician who stumbled in their haste to appear busy at their station.  

You turned back to your workstation, pressing your palms to the cool steel table to ground yourself. You could feel Steve and his companion approaching—Steve’s familiar warmth contrasting sharply with the newcomer’s intensity.  

The familiar scents of solder and circuitry should have been calming, but they couldn't quite mask the oncoming storm of Steve’s sunlit warmth mixed with something darker and wilder—like pine needles and leather and crisp winter air.  

When the main doors opened, the room was flooded with alpha energy, subtle yet impossible to ignore, like fog rolling in at dawn. "Guys, this is Buck," Steve said, the sound of his hand landing on leather echoing in the sudden quiet.  

"Bucky," came the correction—a voice like gravel over silk, sending a shiver down your spine as you gripped your soldering iron tighter, the metal warm against your suddenly trembling fingers. It wasn’t their presence that unsettled you; it was the way your instincts responded before you could think.  

Nat’s silent approach gave her the air of a predator as she circled closer. "Barnes," she acknowledged, her voice cold and steely. The space between them crackled with unspoken assessment, neither yielding nor challenging.  

"Good to see you again, Robocop," Tony called out, his voice cutting through the tension. His hologram's blue glow cast shadows over his face as he peered over his glasses. "Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable." His words, casual yet sharp as ozone before a storm, hung in the air.  

“The rest of you, back to work—we have a deadline,” Tony added with a wave of his pen, and like magic, the lab resumed its rhythm, though the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted.  

You bent over your work, hyper-focused on the tiny components scattered across your station, but every nerve seemed attuned to Bucky’s presence. The familiar lab scents—hot metal, coffee, and sharp electronics—were muted beneath this new awareness.  

"Y/n~" Steve’s warm, knowing voice rolled through the space, and your fingers stilled on the circuit board, your heart stuttering. The approaching footsteps seemed to echo with your pulse, each step tightening the coil in your shoulders. That scent—leather and pine now mixed with something metallic and sharp—grew stronger, drying your mouth.  

You managed a confident smile and turned, only for Steve to pull you into an embrace, lifting you slightly off your feet. His familiar scent—soap and sunshine—wrapped around you like a blanket, momentarily drowning everything else.  

"Missed ya, kiddo," he murmured, affection coloring his tone. Warmth bloomed in your chest, and you relaxed into his comforting presence.  

"Missed you too, Cap," you managed with a breathless laugh as he set you down. Movement caught your eye—Bucky shifting behind Steve—and that new awareness crashed back like a wave. You met his gaze for a split second before he looked away, but that brief connection felt electric. His storm-gray eyes held something untamed that made your knees weak.  

“Buck, this is Y/n,” Steve introduced. “Y/n, Buck.” The contrast between them was dizzying—Steve's golden warmth beside Bucky's winter-sharp presence. Suddenly, your workspace felt too small, the air heavy with unspoken things.  

"Bucky," he repeated, his voice rougher up close, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. He stepped closer, hands at his sides, yet his presence seemed to fill the entire space around you. The fluorescent lights reflected off the plates of his metal arm, casting shifting shadows. Your throat felt dry, and you resisted the urge to fidget with your tools.  

Steve’s voice cut through the thick tension, either unaware of it or ignoring it. "Listen, I tried the magnets again," he said, the sound of leather hitting steel making you jump slightly as he tossed his gloves onto your workstation. His worn leather scent mingled with Bucky’s, making focus difficult.  

You raised an eyebrow, grateful for the distraction. "And...?"  

"And I hate it." He rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the tension. "It's just not the same."  

You glanced between the gloves and Steve's sheepish expression, ignoring how Bucky’s gaze seemed to track your every movement. Even without looking directly at him, you felt his attention like static electricity, raising goosebumps along your arms.  

"Think you could just yank 'em out for me?" Steve asked with that irresistible smile, though your attention kept drifting to Bucky, who stood silent and watchful.  

You scoffed and shook your head, stepping around the counter to switch on the table light. Sitting on the stool across from Steve, you shot him a look.  

“Fine, fine,” you said, picking up the gloves. “Guess you still have a chance to dread the day I say no.”  

Steve grinned. “I don’t even wanna think about it.” He gestured subtly towards Bucky. “Figured you could handle this too. Bucky’s got some gear that might need adjustments.” It wasn’t a command, just Steve’s assumption that Bucky would be sticking close.  

“Sounds good. I’ll find some time this week to schedule you in, so we can see what I’m working with,” you said, motioning to his arm.  

“Okay,” Bucky replied, his voice low with a hint of warmth.  

---

That was two weeks ago. Since then, you’d been buried in projects with Tony and Banner, testing prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark’s tech.  

Missions came and went, but you mostly stayed at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and keeping Stark's experiments from exploding (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet lately, your normally steady hands trembled at unexpected moments, your concentration slipping at the sound of familiar footsteps in the corridor.  

There wasn’t much time for that one-on-one work with Bucky you’d promised, though you occasionally glimpsed him around the compound. Still finding his footing here, he was a shadow at Steve’s side, quiet and watchful. Tony would drag him into the lab occasionally to discuss modifications—if he wanted any.  

You tried not to notice how his eyes found you whenever he was in the lab, lingering until you accidentally met his gaze. At first, he’d look away, jaw tightening as he focused on whatever Tony was explaining. But minutes later, you’d feel it again—his attention like a compass pointing north.  

In brief hallway encounters, your greetings came out softer than intended, his response a quiet rumble that stayed with you long after he walked away. One time, both of you reached for the lab door handle simultaneously. His fingers brushed yours, sending electricity up your arm. He pulled back, muttering an apology before disappearing around the corner, abandoning whatever awaited him in the lab.  

It was ridiculous how such small moments left you distracted for hours.  

Then one morning, Tony burst into the lab, with Steve following closely behind, practically dragging a reluctant Bucky.  

“Hey, kid,” Tony called out, startling you. You lifted the magnifying goggles off your face, welcoming the cool air. Banner, hunched across the table with identical goggles, glanced up briefly.  

“Please tell me we have Barnes’ baseline readings from when he got here,” Tony said, his tone implying a slight scolding. You looked at Banner, embarrassed. When you shook your head, Tony groaned dramatically.  

“Seriously? Three weeks and—“ He took a deep breath, hands on his hips as he surveyed the cluttered lab, evidence of recent activity. “Okay, that’s on me. Fixed. Now.” He practically pushed Bucky onto the stool beside your workstation.  

“Do your thing. Science, data, all that—" Tony trailed off, looking at Banner, who took the cue and clumsily exited, engaging Tony in a transparently forced conversation about a new gadget. Steve left shortly after, flashing an encouraging smile that made your cheeks burn.

The moment they left, the lab felt impossibly smaller. Bucky shifted slightly behind you, and though he was quieter than quiet, his presence seemed to fill every inch of space around you. He kept a respectful distance, but it didn’t matter—you could feel him, each breath and subtle movement stirring the air, making your skin prickle with awareness.

Your hands trembled slightly as you pulled up the diagnostic programs. "I'll need to..." you began, voice softer than you intended, "run some basic tests first. It might take a while." Turning toward him, you found his storm-grey eyes already fixed on you, dark and intent.

“Okay,” he replied, his gaze heavy and unrelenting, as though he was trying to read the thoughts you couldn’t quite form. Your throat tightened under the weight of his stare, and your hands instinctively curled into fists to ground yourself.

“I’ll need you to…” You gestured vaguely, your voice catching. “You’re gonna have to take off your sh-shirt. Just... so I can get a better look.” Your voice faltered, and heat bloomed across your cheeks.

For a beat, Bucky didn’t move. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached behind his neck, tugging the navy henley over his head. The fabric slid away, revealing his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, veiled by the thin fabric of his white tank. The subtle shift of his muscles as he moved sent a quiet jolt through your system, making your breath catch.

He tossed the henley carelessly over his shoulder, and you tried—desperately—to stay focused.

“Extend your arm for me,” you murmured, the words coming out softer than intended. He complied with that same quiet grace, his frame stiffening as you gently adjusted his arm.

Without thinking, you stepped between his legs, close enough that your hips grazed his thighs. The heat of his body radiated toward you, and the scent of pine, winter air, and leather curled around you, heavy and dizzying.

Bucky shifted again—a slow, unconscious movement as he spread his legs a little wider, as if making room for you without realizing it. The gesture was likely nothing, but to you, it felt far too intimate, and it took all your willpower not to react to the heat pooling in your belly.

You focused on the smooth metal of his arm, running your fingers along the seams and joints, marveling at the precision of its construction. His hand found your waist. The touch was light at first, perhaps just to steady himself, but his palm lingered, broad and warm over your lab coat.

The weight of his hand sent a shiver up your spine, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin. His thumb brushed the hem of your coat where the white fabric met your wine-colored shirt, as if testing its texture. Your breath caught involuntarily.

Slowly, your gaze traveled from his fingertips up the seams of his arm to his face. When you looked up, his eyes were already on you—dark, intense, unreadable, but consuming. His gaze dropped briefly to the curve of your collarbones peeking through your shirt before flicking back to meet your eyes, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

The room shrank around you, the tension pulling taut—an invisible thread tugging you closer. Neither of you spoke; neither of you moved.

The air between you stretched, heavy and charged, the weight of his hand on your waist making it impossible to focus on anything but him. His thumb grazed the edge of your shirt again—soft, deliberate—and you swore the world slowed down, teetering on the edge of something inevitable.

The comm system beeped, loud and sudden, shattering the moment. Both of you jerked slightly, like surfacing from deep water.

"Y/N?" Tony’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Banner needs you in the main lab—now."

Bucky’s hand slipped from your waist, his jaw clenching as though grounding himself. You took a step back, heart pounding, the absence of his touch making the space between you feel colder and emptier than it should.

Clearing your throat, you looked anywhere but at him. “I–uh, I should go.”

He nodded once, slow and unreadable, as you turned quickly, your hand dragging hesitantly down his arm, slipping out of the room before the tension could pull you back in.

You slipped out of the room, heart still racing, Bucky’s presence clinging to you like static electricity. Even as you tossed and turned in bed later that night, the moment lingered—his hand on your waist, his scent in your lungs, and the weight of his gaze heavy on your mind.

That evening clung to you like a live wire beneath your skin, but the next few days brought subtle shifts in the compound's atmosphere. Where Bucky once moved like a shadow, now he inhabited spaces differently. During morning briefings, you noticed him leaning against workbenches instead of standing guard by the wall, his gaze still watchful but carrying something new—curiosity, maybe.

Since that evening in the lab, you buried yourself in projects with Tony and Banner, testing new prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark's tech. Small out-of-town missions came and went, but you remained rooted at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and preventing Stark's experiments from turning into full-blown disasters (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, focus had become a luxury you couldn't afford. Your usually steady hands betrayed you, trembling at the worst moments, especially whenever familiar footsteps echoed down the corridor.

If Bucky did come into the lab, there weren’t many opportunities for one-on-one work, though you’d catch fleeting glimpses of him. He still seemed to be finding his footing, a shadow at Steve’s side—quiet and observant, as if measuring every person and place before stepping too close. Occasionally, Tony would bring him into the lab to discuss possible modifications, though Bucky seemed reluctant, deflecting with grunts and unreadable glances.

But it was impossible to ignore how his eyes always sought you out. Whenever he entered the room, your senses sharpened, drawn to him without permission. His gaze lingered a second too long—enough to make your stomach flip, your pulse flutter beneath your skin. But whenever you met his eyes, he’d glance away, his jaw tightening as if wrestling with something unspoken. Yet, moments later, you’d feel the pull again—his attention returning like a compass that couldn’t help but point north.

This awareness began to happen outside the lab too, in brief, inconsequential encounters that left you unraveled. Once, passing each other in the hallway, your soft greeting was met by his low, rumbling reply, curling around your senses long after he’d disappeared. Another time, reaching for the same door handle, his fingers brushed yours, the shock of contact sending electricity racing up your arm. He pulled back as though burned, muttering an apology before vanishing without explanation. You stood there, stunned, wondering how such a fleeting touch could leave you restless for hours.

Each day made it harder to maintain composure. It was as if your body had developed a traitorous awareness of him—heart stuttering beneath your ribs, skin flushing at the slightest thought of him, senses sharpening to track his movements before your mind even registered he was near. No matter how hard you tried to lose yourself in work, even Tony’s endless stream of projects couldn’t silence the way your pulse leapt whenever Bucky’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.

These changes appeared in fragments—a barely-there smile when Tony's prototype backfired, sparks shooting across the lab; the way his shoulders lost their rigid set when Steve drew out his dry humor during mission prep. Each small victory revealed another layer beneath the soldier’s facade.

Your paths began crossing more often. Sometimes, he’d appear in the kitchen during your late-night tea runs, nursing coffee while reading news on a tablet. His silent nods evolved into a new half-smile that never failed to make your heart race. His scent—pine and leather—began to carry warmer notes, softening from sharp winter to something more approachable.

Then, when Sam suggested movie night, every instinct screamed at you to decline. The thought of being in an enclosed space with Bucky—away from the clinical safety of the lab, surrounded by comfortable, dim intimacy—made your stomach flutter with anxious energy. But before you could find an excuse, Nat flashed you a knowing smile, firmly pulling you from your workstation. You barely had time to protest.

Now, nestled between Nat and Sam on the couch, you tried to focus on the movie, but your attention kept drifting across the room to him. Bucky sat in an armchair like he owned the space, his relaxed body only making him look more dangerous. His legs were spread wide, one arm draped over the back, the other resting on his thigh—a casual pose that somehow felt deliberate.

You told yourself to stay present, to engage with Nat and Sam’s easy banter, but Bucky’s presence made it impossible. His scent—faint but unmistakable—hovered at the edge of your awareness, a mix of pine, leather, and something deeper that spoke to a part of you beyond reason.

Then it happened. During a lull in the movie, when everything fell quiet, you felt it—his gaze.

A pulse of heat spread through your chest, as if an invisible thread had tugged you toward him. You risked a glance, only to find him already watching you. Even in the dim light, his storm-gray eyes were locked on yours, intense and unwavering. His expression was unreadable, but there was a weight to his stare that made your pulse stutter and breath catch in your throat.

The flickering blue light of the TV softened the sharp lines of his face, but it did nothing to dull the tension humming between you. For a moment, it felt like the room had fallen away, leaving only the two of you in the dark—silent, secret, caught in a moment neither dared to acknowledge.

You tried convincing yourself he wasn’t really looking at you, that maybe he was watching Sam or had drifted off into thought. But the flip in your stomach, the way your pulse fluttered beneath your skin, told a different story.

Bucky didn’t look away. His stare held steady, as if something deep and instinctual was keeping him tethered to you—as though he was drawn to you in the same way you were to him. The connection between you wasn’t just a passing glance. It felt ancient, inevitable, as if some unseen force had been guiding you to this moment long before either of you realized it.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t quite define, and you were certain that even if you could name it, neither of you was ready. Your scent, warm and sweet, had changed in subtle ways—just enough for Bucky to notice, to make his chest tighten with a growing certainty. This wasn’t just attraction; it was recognition. Instinct. Raw instinct clawed through him, responding to the quiet, subtle shift in yours. You were close—too close—and every part of him, from the deepest part of his mind to the tension winding through his muscles, felt it.

The spell broke when Steve shifted on the couch beside him, dragging you both back to reality. You blinked, heart hammering as you tore your gaze away, heat blooming beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire, a faint sheen of sweat on your brow.

You swallowed hard, trying to refocus on the movie, but the moment lingered like a phantom touch. Even as you stared straight ahead, you could feel the weight of his gaze, its memory humming along your nerves, leaving you restless and aching in ways you didn’t understand.

When the movie ended, you escaped as quickly as you could, muttering a rushed “good night” and fleeing to your room, hoping the familiar comfort of your own space would ground you. But even surrounded by your belongings, wrapped in your own scent, you couldn't quiet the hum of awareness thrumming beneath your skin.

Bucky's scent clung to you, lodged in your senses like a memory you couldn’t shake. Pine, leather, and something darker—something wild that kept teetering you on the brink of losing control. There was something building inside you, a slow-burning awareness you weren’t ready to acknowledge, hoping no one else could sense the change taking hold of you.

Each encounter with him pulled at something deep within you, like a tide responding to the moon. His scent overshadowed everything, lingering in your senses long after he was gone.

And Bucky—you noticed everything now, every detail sharp and vivid, though you tried to convince yourself you were reading too much into it. The way his eyes lingered a second too long—but of course, people always stared at him. The slight flex of his fingers when you passed by—a habit, surely. The barely audible catch in his breath when you were near—probably just your imagination, heightened by whatever was happening to your body.

Maybe you were imagining the way his carefully controlled demeanor seemed to slip around you—those tiny cracks in his composure you couldn't stop noticing. After all, a man like him, always so disciplined, wouldn’t be affected by someone like you… would he? Yet, something raw beneath his surface called to you, making your heart race whenever he was close. The air felt electric between you, crackling with possibility—even as you tried to tell yourself it was just his effect on everyone, that you weren’t special, that it was just your body playing tricks.

After tonight, you couldn’t deny it any longer. During movie night, his stare had lingered like phantom touches, and your skin had felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents, you couldn’t escape the memory of pine and leather.

And as days passed, it only seemed to worsen. When Fury assigned you to oversee the team’s training equipment and Tony ensured you continued working with Steve, observing Bucky was already inevitable. Watching him felt different than those first weeks. You’d glimpsed the man beneath the careful control—caught fragments of dry humor in mission briefings, witnessed quiet camaraderie with Steve. The dangerous edge remained, but now it felt more… intentional. Like he was choosing to let people see beyond the soldier’s facade, revealing glimpses of the man underneath.

These glimpses made training observation even more daunting. Because now you knew what lay beneath his cool exterior—had witnessed the subtle humor in his eyes, the careful way he was learning to exist in spaces without defending them.

Your fingers trembled against the tablet's smooth surface at the thought of watching him work. Being that close to him during combat training, with his presence at its most intense… The thought alone made your mouth go dry.

Training sessions became their own kind of exquisite torture. Your role was simple—monitor the team’s gear, run diagnostics, and ensure everything functioned. But watching Bucky spar was anything but simple.

Between rounds, you brought him water—a straightforward task that became anything but as his eyes tracked your movement across the training room. Your fitted jacket clung to your curves, and you felt the weight of his stare as you approached. It was refreshing, seeing him like this. The quiet, brooding soldier was still there, but lately, there had been glimpses of something else—a playful charm that felt both dangerous and irresistible.

"Tryna’ keep me hydrated, doc?" His voice was rough from exertion, teasing in a way that sent heat pooling in your stomach. This was the Bucky emerging more and more lately—the one who’d somehow found his footing again, letting his guard down just enough to allow a trace of Brooklyn charm to slip through.

"Can’t have our best asset passing out from dehydration," you managed to reply, proud of how steady your voice remained. When you handed him the bottle, his fingers brushed yours, sending electricity skittering across your skin.

"Our best asset, huh?" He tipped his head back to drink, and you couldn’t help but watch his throat work, beads of sweat trailing down his neck. His eyes met yours over the bottle, darkening as they drifted to where your jacket dipped low. "Like what you see?"

This was dangerous territory—this newfound confidence of his, the way he was testing the waters between playful and flirtatious. "Just making sure you’re drinking enough water," you murmured, but the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you. You wondered if he could hear how your heart stumbled in your chest, if he sensed the hitch in your breath when he licked a stray drop from his lower lip.

He moved with a predator’s grace—smooth, controlled, and lethal. Each punch, each fluid shift of his body, sent a pulse of heat through you. Your throat felt dry as you watched the muscles in his back ripple beneath his fitted shirt, the metal of his arm gleaming under the lights. You told yourself this was normal, that anyone would be affected watching him move like this—but deep down, you knew this was different.

At one point, he had Steve pinned to the mat, his arm flexed, holding Steve in place with ease, chest heaving with exertion. His gaze flicked to you, locking eyes for a split second that sent butterflies surging in your stomach—and a darker, more primal flutter somewhere lower. That slow-burning awareness inside you flared hot and urgent.

Your fingers slipped, and your tablet clattered to the floor with a loud thunk. Everyone turned to look, including Steve, but all you could focus on was the faint grin curling at the edge of Bucky’s mouth. Your face burned with embarrassment, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes—a look that made you wonder if he could sense the changes in you, if he could feel how your body was betraying every attempt at control.

You couldn’t bear to face the team after that display—after dropping your tablet like some starry-eyed recruit. Your skin felt too tight, too warm, your body thrumming with an energy you couldn’t contain. You retreated to your room, but even buried in your own blankets, you couldn’t escape the memory of his knowing smirk, the way his eyes held yours like he knew exactly what was happening to you.

The next few days passed in a haze of mounting tension. Your skin felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents and belongings, you couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental was shifting inside you. Sleep became elusive, your body alternating between feverish and chilled, leaving you restless and aching for... something.

By the time you wandered to the kitchen at 3 AM, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, but sleep remained just out of reach. The compound was eerily quiet at this hour, the hum of electronics the only sound as your slippers whispered across the cool tile.

You sat at the kitchen island, elbows resting on the countertop as you flipped through your options—tea or coffee. Settling on tea, you rose to grab your favorite mug from the cabinet. The dim lighting softened everything, making the space feel smaller, more intimate, as if the night itself carried a promise of something unspoken.

You were so focused on your task that you didn’t hear him approach.

"Can't sleep?"

His voice, low and rough with sleep, startled you enough to make you gasp softly. You whirled around to find him emerging from the shadows, stepping into a sanctuary—one where, in this moment, it felt like only you and he existed. The dim light traced the sharp lines of his face, deepening the shadows beneath his cheekbones and along his jaw.

He wore soft sleep pants that rested low on his hips, and the black shirt clung to his frame, leaving little to the imagination. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier with something you couldn't name—something that thrummed between you, waiting to be acknowledged.

"I…" Your voice faltered, throat dry under his gaze. You cleared your throat and tried again. "Just wanted some tea."

Bucky stepped further into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, like a wolf closing in. For someone so large, he moved with unsettling grace—silent and fluid. "Having trouble sleeping?" he asked, though his question held a depth, as if he were offering more than conversation.

You turned back to the cabinet, reaching for your mug, but your fingers trembled. Before it could slip from your grasp, his hand wrapped around your wrist, steadying you.

"You okay?" His voice was closer now, concern threading through the rough edges.

"Yeah, I’m—" you began, but stopped as you felt his thumb pressing unconsciously against your pulse. The gentle pressure sent electricity dancing up your arm, and you couldn’t help but track how his throat worked as he swallowed.

"Hey," he murmured, voice low. His eyes darkened as they searched your face, and you watched something shift in his expression—recognition, maybe, or realization. His nostrils flared slightly. "You’ve seemed… off lately."

"I'm fine," you managed, but your voice came out breathy, unconvincing. "Just haven’t been sleeping well."

He held your gaze a moment longer, then stepped back slowly, as if it took effort to put distance between you. The absence of his touch left your skin tingling, aching for contact you couldn’t afford to want.

"Maybe some chamomile, then," he suggested, his voice rougher than before. You noticed his fingers curling into fists at his sides, his jaw clenched as he worked to maintain the distance.

You managed a small nod, turning back to the cabinet with unsteady hands. Though he’d released your wrist, he hadn’t moved back far—still standing between you and the island, leaving you caught between his body and the counter. His presence lingered, heavy and warm, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

The small space between you crackled with electricity, making it impossible to focus on the simple task of making tea. The kettle felt too loud in the silence, steam rising like a physical manifestation of the tension thickening the air.

When you finally turned back around, gripping your mug like an anchor, you found his eyes stormy, his jaw set as if he was fighting something within himself. He took a deliberate step back, creating distance that somehow made the air feel even heavier.

"I should…" he started, voice rough. "Let you get some rest." But he didn’t move immediately, as if reluctant to leave.

Something in you wanted to tell him to stay, but the words stuck in your throat. The space between you felt charged, like the air before a storm. His scent—pine and leather—wrapped around you, stronger now, making your head spin.

He moved first, turning toward the entryway with careful control, his movements almost rigid. But he paused at the threshold, his metal hand gripping the wall frame with enough force to make the material creak softly.

"Get some sleep, doll," he said without looking back, his voice carrying something dark and hungry that made your skin prickle with heat. Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the cooling tea and the phantom sensation of his touch still burning around your wrist.

After standing frozen in the kitchen for what felt like hours, you finally forced yourself back to your room. Your skin felt too tight, every nerve hypersensitive as you stumbled through the doorway. The trek down the hallway was torture—his lingering scent clung to your clothes, your skin, leaving you dizzy with desire.

You barely made it to your bed before your legs gave out. The sheets felt rough against your fevered skin, and you kicked them off with a frustrated whimper. Your wrist still burned where he touched you, the memory of his thumb against your pulse making your breath hitch.

Rolling onto your back, you pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But behind closed lids, all you could see was the way his eyes had darkened in the kitchen, the tension in his jaw barely contained. Your body thrummed with awareness, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as waves of heat washed over you.

You forced yourself to breathe deeply, counting each inhale like Banner had taught you during training. One breath, then another, even as your skin prickled with need. The steady hum of the air conditioning became your focus, not the memory of Bucky's voice, rough and low in the darkness.

Slowly, exhaustion won over the fever burning through your veins. Your muscles ached from fighting against the tension, and eventually, your body surrendered to the pull of sleep. The last thing you registered was the ghost of pine and leather clinging to your shirt before darkness claimed you.

Consciousness returned slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The first thing you registered was warmth on your face—sunlight streaming through your windows, casting everything in hues of honey and gold. Your room looked almost dreamlike, dust motes dancing in the amber rays.

As your vision focused, you noticed signs of Banner’s care—a bowl of soup on your nightstand, now cold; several water bottles arranged within reach; and a damp cloth on your forehead, long since losing its coolness. The quiet thoughtfulness of it made your chest tighten with gratitude.

You sat up gingerly, testing your body’s response. The fever hadn’t broken—if anything, it burned hotter now—but the rest had given you enough strength to make you restless, to make the walls of your room feel like they were closing in.

The water bottles mocked you, lukewarm and useless against the heat coursing through your veins. Ice. You needed ice. The thought became an obsession, driving you to your feet despite shaky legs. You pulled on a thin robe over your sleep clothes, ignoring how even the silky material felt too rough against your sensitized skin.

The hallway stretched before you, bathed in that same golden light that made everything feel surreal. Your slipper-clad feet made no sound on the cool floor as you made your way toward the kitchen. The compound felt different—eerily still, as if everyone had vanished. No voices from the labs, no footsteps down corridors. Just silence, with the strange amber glow making everything look softened, dreamlike.

You moved as if in a trance, your body feeling both heavy and weightless. The fever made everything hazy, like you were watching yourself from a distance. Each breath drew in air that felt too thick, too warm, despite the steady climate control.

Your feet carried you forward without conscious thought, your path wavering slightly as you trailed a hand along the wall for balance. The golden light streaming through the windows turned the hallway into something otherworldly, making the simple journey feel infinite.

Then it hit you—pine and leather, winter air and something darker. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, drawn to his scent like a moth to flame.

As you reach the living room, your destination becomes hazy, forgotten. The room opens before you, bathed in honeyed light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hardwood floor gleams like liquid amber, stretching toward where Bucky sits, his broad frame sunk deep into the plush sofa, seeming to melt into the cushions.

His eyes lock onto yours over the book he’d been reading, and even through your fevered haze, you see the way they darken, storm-gray deepening into something darker. Neither of you moves. The air between you feels charged, heavy with unspoken words.

"Y/N," he breathes, your name a warning. His whole body tenses as if to rise, but something keeps him frozen, fingers white-knuckled around the forgotten book. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard. "You shouldn’t—you need to go back to your room."

To him, you must look like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on his self-control. Your silk robe catches the light as you move, revealing glimpses of your tank top and shorts underneath. One sock has slipped down your ankle, and your hair falls messily around your face. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted in shallow breaths.

You take an unsteady step into the room, looking as if you’re floating across the hardwood, each faltering step a deliberate tease. When you reach the armchair, your robe slips further off one shoulder as you grip the chair for support. "I needed…" The words trail off. Did you need ice? Water? Everything feels secondary to the pull you feel toward him.

The room sways slightly beneath your feet. Bucky shifts, fighting the instinct to reach for you. You watch his chest rise with a sharp breath as your scent reaches him, sweet and heavy in the golden air. A bead of sweat trails down your neck, disappearing beneath your tank top.

"You're burning up," he says roughly, his voice holding a darker edge that makes a heat pool in your stomach. His pupils are blown wide as he tracks every small movement of your body.

You attempt to lower yourself into the armchair, but the world tilts. Your knee catches the edge of the coffee table as you stumble, a breathless giggle escaping your lips at your own clumsiness, and your robe slips down to reveal more of your shoulders.

"Shit," Bucky mutters, finally breaking his careful stillness. "You're gonna hurt yourself." He rises in one fluid motion, crossing the space between you in two strides. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. "Let’s get you situated."

"M’okay," you insist, though your legs feel like jelly, and you sway into him unconsciously as your robe slips off completely. His hands finally make contact with your bare arms, and the touch sends electricity racing across your fevered skin. "Just needed to sit..."

"Yeah, I can see that." His voice is strained, almost amused, but you hear the concern underneath. He tries to steady you, guiding you toward the chair, but your knees buckle in that moment.

"Alright—" He catches you against his chest, the sudden contact drawing a small huff from you. You feel more than hear his sharp intake of breath. “You alright?” he asks, peeling you off him, holding you at arm's length.

“Mm—” Your body aches at the loss of heat, eyebrows scrunching in annoyance. You sigh, dragging your gaze up Bucky’s large frame until you meet his darkened eyes. “Yeah, m’fine.” Huffing, you look away.

“Don’t lie.” He steps closer, pulling you in. Your breath hitches.

“I’m not…” Sweat beads on the back of your neck, and a lump forms in your throat. You try to take a deep breath, but with Bucky so close, it’s unbearable. Unknowingly, you grab at Bucky’s shirt, fisting the fabric in your hand.

“Tell the truth.” His gaze drops to where your hand grips his shirt, and something unreadable flickers across his face. He gently pries your fingers from the fabric, his own hands lingering on yours a moment too long. His voice is low, almost a growl. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll.”

The nickname makes your throat tighten, pulse jumping, skin prickling with awareness. You should step back, say something to break the magnetic pull between you, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you lean in closer, closing the small distance between you. God, you wanted him so badly, and it was excruciating.

He inhales sharply, his hands settling on your shoulders, as if to steady you—or maybe himself. “Doll…” The word escapes him again, rough and raw, like he’s barely holding back. “Say something—tell me to leave.” The command is more a plea, his voice thick with barely contained desperation, brows drawn tight in concern.

He watches you, his words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You feel their weight pressing down, his warning wrapped within the plea. Your mind races, considering every reason to step back, every way this could complicate things.

“I—” You rake your hands up his torso, fingers dragging lightly against the fabric of his shirt. Snaking your arms around his neck, you pull him impossibly close, sharing the air between you. Neither of you speaks, neither of you moves. You feel his chest heaving against yours.

“Y/N…” he whispers, almost painfully. His hand, still warm on your arm, travels up to cradle your neck, thumb on your jaw as he tilts your head. His hooded eyes linger on your lips, and you unconsciously lick them. He sucks in a sharp breath.

The golden light streaming through the windows catches in his dark hair, turning the loose strands framing his face into threads of amber. Your hands slide up, fingertips brushing the back of his neck, where his shoulder-length hair falls free, some pieces tucked carelessly behind his ear. You let your fingers tangle in the soft strands, feeling them slip like silk between your fingers. You hesitate for only a second before you whisper, “I need to know I’m not the only one.”

For a heartbeat, he’s utterly still, his eyes searching yours, and then his hand tightens just slightly on your waist, with a tenderness that steals your breath. “You’re not,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose against yours, his voice rough and honest. “Not even close.”

The moment his words register, your last thread of control snaps. You finally, finally meet his lips with all the desperation that’s been building for weeks. A rough sound escapes him, vibrating through your chest as his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss is devastating in its intensity—wild, demanding, and absolutely consuming, like you’re both trying to devour each other whole.

His lips press firmly against yours, the scrape of his stubble rough on your heated skin, and a pained whine escapes your mouth—whether from pain or need, neither of you can tell, but it spurs Bucky on. He deepens the kiss, his hands pressing you closer, tighter.

Your fingers, tangled in his hair, tug at the strands as you push yourself up on your toes, arching into him, your body ignited by his touch. A wave of need crashes through you, driven by every instinct you’ve been holding back, and you’re already pushing him back toward the sofa, your movements frenzied as his hands trace the curve of your waist, his fingers firm and possessive.

As you push him toward the sofa, a flicker of guilt pierces through the fog clouding your mind. It’s quick but sharp, cutting through the pull that’s been building for weeks. Everything’s moving too fast, crossing boundaries you haven’t even had time to define, and the uncertainty knots inside you. But your body refuses to listen, as though it recognizes him in a way your mind can’t fully grasp, holding you close.

You stumble back with him until his legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he sinks down, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his lap. His hands slide up to grip your hips, steadying you as you settle over him. The moment you feel his body beneath you, hard and solid, a fresh wave of heat surges through you, causing you to grind your hips against his slowly, testing the waters.

The guilt slips through the haze once more, cutting into your thoughts like a knife. You press your hands to his chest, fingers splaying over his muscles, and pull back enough to see concern flicker in his eyes.

“Buck,” you whisper, caught between confession and apology. “I wanted us to take our time…” Your hands drift lower, grazing just beneath his shirt’s hem, brushing over the coarse hair trailing downward. The warmth of his skin under your fingertips makes your breath hitch, and a shiver runs through you as you continue, voice softer, more vulnerable. “To let this mean something.”

Your fingers trace over the waistband of his pajama pants, then dip lightly between the open buttons, your touch featherlight, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. His body jolts beneath you, jaw clenching in response. His hands flex on your hips, holding you steady, his gaze dark and hungry, struggling for restraint.

“I can’t… I can’t stop myself,” you murmur, voice thick with need. Yet, your hands betray any hesitation, moving slowly, steadily, opening each button, exposing his skin inch by inch, the heat radiating from him only spurring you on. The admission escapes your lips, almost a whimper. “I feel like I’m losing control.”

Bucky’s breath comes out ragged, his fingers pressing into your skin as he fights to stay steady beneath your touch. “Then lose it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire, his thumb tracing slow circles over your hipbone, sending warmth through you. “Take control, baby.” His tone is a low, commanding murmur, yet open, a willing offering beneath you. “I’m here to give you exactly what you need… use me, all of me.”

“God, you’re unbelievable…” You laugh breathlessly, but with his words, all your anxieties dissolve, the tight knot inside loosening as he smirks and pulls you down for another heated kiss.

With his permission, something inside you snaps, all restraint dissolving as his hands guide your hips down onto his, pulling you in close. You both let out a guttural moan as you sink into his lap, the thin layers of fabric between you doing nothing to dull the intense pressure of his thick length pressing up against you. Heat radiates from him, his arousal straining beneath his pants, sending a dizzying surge of need through you, leaving you breathless.

With each roll of your hips, you’re consumed by him, the ache pulsing through your core, tethering you to the warmth of his body and the intoxicating pull of his scent. He presses against you, hard and unyielding, a promise of everything you crave, every inch of him driving you closer to surrender. A shiver runs down your spine, every nerve alive with anticipation; it’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

A low chuckle escapes him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as he watches you grind on him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. His hands wrap firmly around your hips, guiding your movements in a possessive grip that leaves no doubt he’s claiming you in every way. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich, gaze sweeping over every inch of you. “Such a needy little omega, strung out and desperate, aren’t you?” The words ripple through you, sparking heat that surges through your body, making your heart pound, filling you with a warmth that blurs your vision.

A soft whimper escapes your lips, each grind amplifying the tension clawing through your chest, and it’s overwhelming—almost too much. You’re losing yourself, each moan growing louder, desperate, until Bucky’s thumb presses over your lips, quieting you.

Bucky’s hand covers your mouth gently, a warning smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep it down, sweetheart,” he whispers, his tone edged with danger, but you can’t help the needy sound that slips past his hand, your body bucking in response. You pull back slightly, eyes wide, voice a breathless murmur as you ask, “Where is everyone?”

The gleam in his eyes darkens, and he grabs your jaw, pulling you close until his breath brushes your lips. “Forget them,” he growls, voice low and possessive, “Focus on me. Eyes on me, omega.” His grip tightens, his words sending a rush of warmth through you, making your hips grind harder, a needy whimper spilling out as he pulls you into a hungry, messy kiss. Teeth graze, tongues tangle, his control evident in the way his hand holds you in place, claiming every shiver, every gasp.

“Alpha… please…” you gasp, voice cracking as you press yourself harder against him, slick soaking through the fabric, feeling the thick, throbbing bulge of his knot beneath you. “Need you… need it so bad.” Your words spill out, desperation lacing every syllable, your body responding to his presence in a way that both thrills and terrifies you. The pressure, the heat, his intensity—it’s everything, almost too much, yet somehow not nearly enough.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he growls, voice dark with possession as his hands slide up to grip your waist, fingers pressing with a force that makes your skin burn. “You’re mine, all mine… dripping for me just from grinding on me.” His words spark something wild and primal, your body moving without thought, surrendering to the rhythm, feeling yourself unravel beneath his gaze.

But as the tension mounts, something inside you starts to break. It’s overwhelming, an aching need so intense that your chest tightens, a gasp escaping as tears begin to blur your vision. It’s too much—the pressure, the pleasure, the helplessness of being so completely in his hands, needing him but unable to take it all just yet. A single tear slips down your cheek, and then another, and soon you’re trembling in his hold, soft, helpless sounds falling from you as you press closer, uncertain if it’s pain or pleasure overtaking you.

Bucky’s eyes narrow as he notices, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his gaze softening for a moment. “Look at you, all worked up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, yet laced with something almost tender. “Can’t handle it, can you? My little omega, so sensitive.” His words make the ache worse, the tears coming faster as he leans in, pressing a possessive kiss against your lips, swallowing the soft, broken sounds you make.

“Shh… you’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich in your ear, a shiver coursing through you as his hand steadies you, grounding you in his hold. “Not yet, but soon. I’m going to give you everything,” he promises, his tone thick with possession as he presses you firmly to him. “Fill you, claim you, mark every inch of you until there’s nothing left but us, nothing left but me inside you.” His grip tightens, his words a dark promise, and your pulse quickens.

Slowly, Bucky shifts, guiding you back as he leans forward, tilting you until your neck is exposed. Your breath hitches, anticipation winding tight within you, thinking for a split second he’s going to mark you. But instead, he presses a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone, his lips grazing down your skin as his hand holds you steady. Each soft kiss along your collar sends a thrill through you, his mouth tracing up to the nape of your neck, where he lets his teeth graze lightly, nipping just enough to make you shiver.

Then, with a low growl, he pulls you closer, thrusting hard against you as his teeth sink into your skin, just shy of a mark. The sharp bite sends you over the edge, your body trembling, every nerve igniting as you come undone in his arms, shaking as he holds you steady, his possessive touch grounding you through each wave of pleasure.

Your body quakes in his hold, tremors rolling through you as you cling to him, breathless, every pulse of pleasure leaving you weightless, completely taken. Bucky’s arms stay wrapped around you, grounding you, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot he just bit, his tongue soothing the faint sting as you gasp softly against him.

“There we go… that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick and velvety as he strokes your back, one hand pressing into the small of your spine, holding you close as your breaths slow. His eyes are dark, filled with satisfaction as he watches you, savoring the sight of you so vulnerable, so utterly his.

Your body settles against him, the intense high fading into a soft, hazy warmth. Almost instinctively, you continue to move your hips in slow, gentle circles, soft whimpers escaping as you melt into his shoulder, eyelids growing heavy, drifting somewhere between bliss and sleep.

His hand strokes up your spine, grounding you with each possessive touch. “You feel that?” he whispers, his mouth brushing your ear, his words sending another shiver through you. “This is just the beginning, sweetheart. You’re mine, and I’m far from done with you.”

A small, needy sound slips from your lips as your hips press against him, despite the exhaustion pulling at you. He smirks, fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns along your waist. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied growl. His hand grazes your hip, drawing gentle circles. “But I want more. Think you can handle that?”

You manage a nod, a sleepy, eager response, melting further into him as your eyelids flutter shut. Just as you’re drifting toward sleep, he chuckles softly, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “First, let’s get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice a gentle command as he lifts you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest.

The golden hour light that once bathed the room has deepened into the cool, quiet blue of night, shadows settling around you as he carries you to the bed. The ache in your body has softened, replaced by a warmth, a certainty that relaxes you in his hold, knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

As he lowers you onto the sheets, your fingers instinctively curl into his shirt, needing to keep him close even in your drowsy haze. His hand brushes tenderly over your cheek, the glint in his gaze a promise that makes your heart race yet leaves you calm, knowing he’s yours, that you’re meant to be right here in his arms. The last thing you feel is the weight of his touch grounding you, a promise of what’s to come as sleep finally pulls you under.

---

a/n: all i feel is frustration

[wandering-winchesters]

First Moments: Kiss

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Summary: The first time Dean Winchester kisses you Word count: 861 A/N: I am debating on making this a series, covering different "Firsts" with Dean.. Any interest in that? Let me know!

The first time Dean Winchester kisses you, it happens in the least romantic place imaginable—an old gas station parking lot on the outskirts of nowhere. The sun is setting, casting an amber glow over the cracked asphalt and the Impala parked nearby, her paint gleaming like polished obsidian. The faint smell of gasoline mingles with the crisp scent of impending rain, a storm brewing in the distance.

It wasn’t planned. Nothing about Dean ever feels planned, really. He’s a mess of contradictions—cocky and self-assured one minute, guarded and vulnerable the next. You’ve been riding shotgun with him for weeks now, chasing down leads, salt-and-burning restless spirits, and fighting things most people wouldn’t dare to believe existed. Somewhere along the way, you became more than just hunting partners. You don’t know what to call it yet, but there’s a connection between you, an unspoken pull that you’ve both been too stubborn—or scared—to acknowledge.

Until now.

It starts with an argument. Of course it does. Dean has this way of pushing your buttons, and tonight he’s doing it with the precision of a master.

“You can’t just run in there without a plan!” you snap, your arms crossed over your chest.

“And what was your plan, huh?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “To stand around and wait until the ghost decides to play nice? That’s not how this works.”

“It’s called strategy, Dean. Maybe you should try it sometime instead of going full kamikaze every damn hunt!”

He scoffs, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. “You know what your problem is? You think too much. Sometimes you just gotta act.”

“And you think too little!” you retort, your eyes narrowing. “One of these days, your impulsiveness is going to get you killed.”

The words hang in the air, sharper than you intended, and for a moment, Dean just stares at you. His jaw tightens, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or regret—but it’s gone before you can be sure.

“Fine,” he says, his voice quieter now. “If you’ve got it all figured out, why the hell do you even need me?”

It’s not the first time you’ve fought, but there’s something different about this one. The air between you feels charged, like the storm rolling in above. You don’t answer right away, and Dean takes a step closer, his boots crunching against the gravel.

“Why, huh?” he presses, his tone softer but no less intense. “Why do you keep sticking around if I’m such a screw-up?”

Your heart pounds against your ribs, a wild, erratic rhythm that matches the storm clouds overhead. You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Because it’s not that simple. Because you don’t stick around in spite of his flaws—you stick around because of them. Because Dean Winchester, for all his faults, is the kind of person who will throw himself in harm’s way without a second thought to save someone else. Because he’s loyal to a fault, fiercely protective, and has a smile that could light up the darkest corners of the world, even when he doesn’t believe it himself.

“Dean…” you start, but his name barely makes it past your lips before he moves.

It’s not hesitant or tentative—it’s sudden, like he’s been holding himself back for too long and finally snapped. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused but somehow gentle, and then his lips are on yours.

The kiss is everything you didn’t know you needed. It’s not perfect—Dean’s lips are a little chapped, and the angle is slightly awkward at first—but it’s real. There’s an urgency to it, a raw, unfiltered emotion that leaves you breathless. His hands are warm against your skin, grounding you even as the world seems to tilt on its axis.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly your hands are fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer as if the space between you is unbearable. He responds in kind, deepening the kiss with a low, almost involuntary sound that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s like the dam you’ve both been holding back has finally burst, and there’s no going back now.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together. The storm is closer now, the first drops of rain starting to fall, but neither of you seems to notice.

“Wow,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dean chuckles, a low, self-deprecating sound. “Yeah, uh… sorry about that. I probably should’ve—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, your fingers still gripping his jacket. “Don’t apologize.”

His eyes meet yours, and for once, there’s no wall, no mask, no bravado. Just Dean.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admits, his voice soft and almost vulnerable.

You smile, your heart swelling in your chest. “Took you long enough.”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and the tension between you finally seems to ease. The rain starts to pick up, but neither of you moves. For once, the hunt can wait. For once, the only thing that matters is this moment—messy, imperfect, and absolutely perfect all at once.

Tag List: @roseblue373 @hobby27 @jc-winchester @whump-loverz @pizzagirlxnsfwx @king-of-milf-lovers @jollyhunter

[idle-soliloquy]

Prison AU (?)

TW: Attempted SA (not between Gale and John), violence.

About 4 hours ago, this idea hit me like a freight train. I think I might turn it into a full fic, but for now... here it comes.

After years of suffering abuse at the hands of his father, Gale finally snaps. He’s had enough, and for the first time, he decides to fight back. 

With little mercy—not that his father deserves any—he doles out the punches. His mother is there, watching, screaming at the top of her lungs and begging them both to cut it out, but it’s far too late. It’s vicious and heated, a rabid fight for survival. A fight to the death, as it turns out. 

The facts of the case are indisputable—after a push to the chest, James Cleven falls back and hits his head, cracking his skull on the tiled kitchen floor, dying instantly. 

Gale’s lawyer claims self-defence, leaning on the years of abuse as mitigating circumstances. The murder charge gets changed to voluntary manslaughter. Gale is sentenced to five years in prison, with the possibility of parole. 

Heading for the prison gates, Gale’s aware of his vulnerability. He’s young, has no prior history of violence, no connections inside the joint, or in the criminal world outside of it. He’s distinctly alone—there’s no one he can count on to stand by him when (not if) things get out of hand. Afraid, but ready to stand up for himself, he enters. 

He’s placed in a cell with a young man named Curt, who’s loud and brash, but ultimately friendly. It quickly becomes apparent that prison life has its own intricate set of rules. Observing the ebb and flow of inmates and their daily interactions, he notices a couple of prominent groups emerge from the more passive crowd, including a respected ‘gang’ of inmates that call themselves the 100th, with a man called Bucky at the helm. 

Gale’s wary of him.  According to his bunkmate, Bucky’s swell. But how can one be swell, if they murdered a man in cold blood in the middle of a train station? 

In the chow hall during breakfast, and out in the yard, Gale can feel Bucky’s eyes sliding across his back like a hot poker. It’s unnerving. Makes Gale’s teeth stand on edge. Bucky’s illicit presence is like a blazing cocoon of (un)wanted attention that settles around Gale’s shoulders, and stays there no matter his disgruntlement with its weight.  

As the days go by, Gale keeps his distance, but can’t deny that he’s horribly intrigued. Why won’t Bucky come to him, if he’s so bothered? Curt says it’s cause Bucky never forces anything. Gale should be the one to come to him. That’s just the way things are done around here. 

Gale’s too proud to bite the bullet and reach out. So, they keep circling each other, Bucky always somehow in Gale’s vicinity, and Gale standing on attention, his unreasonable heart hammering in his chest when he spots the other man out of the corner of his eye. 

A couple of weeks into his incarceration, the dreaded moment comes: Gale is set upon by one of the other prominent gangs in the prison hierarchy, one with a less pleasant reputation than Bucky’s lot. At first, he holds his own, but things are looking bleak. Roughed up and swaying, Gale’s strength is close to waning, when—

Three guards step out of the shadows, and break up the fight. Chaos ensues, but the attackers are quickly corralled, and the main offender is sent off kicking and screaming. 

A figure looms at the periphery. With one eye nearly swollen shut, Gale watches Bucky come closer, with Curt hot on his heels, and... lets himself be helped, lifted off the ground. He hates it, viscerally, but his body’s aching and there’s bile in the back of his throat. He’s acutely aware of what Bucky’s just saved him from. 

His jaw is so tense it’s clammed shut. He wants to thank him, but the only pathetic sound he’s able to force out is a wheezing cough. 

Bucky rubs his shoulder, helps him get the tremors under control. 

“You’re alright. It’s gonna be alright,” he says, tone soothing. His piercing gaze is gone, replaced with a swell of tenderness.  

After a trip to the infirmary, Gale gets back to his cell and crawls into his bunk. He can’t sleep, staring at the ceiling, mind in a perpetual whirl. 

He hears Curt roll out of his bed and tiptoe across the room. 

“You alright?” 

 The blooming bruise above Gale’s right eyelid pulses like a living thing. He looks at Curt, and nods with little conviction. 

“You know it was him, right?” Curt says. 

“What?” Gale swallows. “What do you mean, him?” 

Curt points to his battered face. “The guards. They came to save your ass cause Bucky called.” 

“You’re shitting me.” 

“Cross my heart, hope to die. It was him, alright. And when you were in the infirmary, one of the guys from the 100th was standing watch.” 

“Why?” asks Gale, breathless. 

“Cause Bucky’s told him to.” 

Gale shudders. Of course, Bucky’s got the guards at his beck and call. Gale’s done nothing so far but ignored the man, but he’s still dispatched them like it was nothing, like it didn’t cost him anything, which Gale knows cannot be true; here, every favour is a trade. In one way or another, Bucky’s paying for Gale’s protection. 

“You have to get yourself sorted out, man,” Curt whispers. “It’s gonna happen again, you know that. We can’t keep an eye on you 24 fucking 7, unless—” 

“What am I supposed to do?” 

“The only thing you can do. Get yourself under Bucky’s protection. It’s the safest place to be. No one in the 100th holds with rape, it’s pretty much the only rule we go by.”

“And what do I have to do in exchange for his protection?” Gale asks through gritted teeth, expecting the worst. 

Curt frowns. “I just told you we don’t hold with rape. Nothing. Be a part of the group, uphold the code. Protect others in turn.” 

It sounds too good to be true. 

Curt won’t stop talking, praise after praise pouring out of him. You’d think he is Bucky’s biggest fan, and maybe that’s exactly the case, and for a good reason too. Gale learns that Curt went through a similar ordeal, but since he’s been running with Bucky no one has dared to touch him. But the final straw turns ot to be the full story of how Bucky’s landed himself in prison: the man he’s murdered in cold blood raped and killed his teenage sister. Bucky chased him across the country, from Wisconsin to Wyoming, after the man was acquitted due to lack of evidence. 

“I’ll talk to Bucky first, let him know you’re coming,” Curt suggests, and Gale, swallowing down his pride, agrees. 

A strange thing happens the next day—Gale’s moved from his cell to a new one, with cleaner, sturdier walls, and a bed that doesn’t creak and wail with every shift of his body. He’s even got a proper pillow, all fluffed up, with a mint chocolate placed neatly in its centre. 

His new bunkmate is none other than Bucky himself. 

“Curt came in for a chat this morning. Said you wanted to see me,” Bucky says from the doorway. “I pulled a few strings and got you moved in here for now. Better keep an eye on you.”

Bridling, Gale turns away, but doesn’t mouth off. Doesn’t want to come off ungrateful.

“So—” Bucky says when Gale remains silent. “What do you wanna chat about? I am all yours.” With a wink, he sits on his bunk bed, arms crossed on his chest, head cocked to the side. 

The words barely crawl out of Gale’s mouth. “Let me join you. Protect me,” he says, “and I’ll stand by your side.” 

Bucky smiles, a wicked glint to his eyes. “What’s your name?” 

“You don't know it?” 

“A name is something willingly given.” 

Gale blinks, bewildered. “It’s Gale—” 

Bucky barks out a laugh, and shakes his head. “Gotta give you a new one, a proper prison name. A name like Gale’s gonna get your ass kicked even with my protection.” 

“How am I supposed to—” 

“Your name is Buck from now on.” 

“What?” Gale gapes at him, frozen to his spot by the tiny sink, nails biting into the heels of his palms. “You gave me your name?” 

“Gotta clean out these pretty ears of yours, Buck, or are you hard of hearing? It’s an entirely different word. I’m Bucky, you’re Buck. With a name like that, there’s gonna be no doubt who you belong to.” 

More to come (maybe) to ao3 near you… 

Thanks to @angelfruittree for being the best brainrotting partner, and @nicijones and @don-humes-tiny-shorts for their brilliant suggestions on what crimes Gale and John would be capable of. Kissing your brains!

[nayziiz]

Speed | CS55

Summary: In a chance encounter at a gas station, a mysterious woman on a Yamaha YZF R6 catches the attention of Carlos, a charming Ferrari driver. Little did they know the journey they would both go on.

Warning: Smut, fluff

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x OC (Lola)

Masterlist

Chapter 11

From the moment they shared their first intimate encounter, Lola found herself utterly addicted to Carlos's touch. It wasn't just the physical sensations that left her yearning for more; it was the way his fingers danced across her skin with an almost reverent tenderness. Each brush of his fingertips was a silent declaration of his desire and affection, leaving her breathless with anticipation for what was to come.

As he lifted her Ferrari t-shirt over her head, his touch ignited a fire within her, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through her veins. His hands moved with a practised, gentle precision, as if he was afraid to break the spell they were under. The cool air against her bare skin was a stark contrast to the heat of his body, heightening her senses.

Carlos’s eyes, dark and intense, traced every curve of her body, making her feel both exposed and cherished. His gaze was like a physical touch, creating a path of warmth and desire wherever it landed. The way he looked at her, with a mixture of hunger and adoration, made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

He leaned in, pressing soft kisses along her collarbone, his breath hot against her skin. Each kiss was a promise, a wordless assurance of his devotion. Lola arched into him, craving more of the connection that only his touch could provide. His hands continued their exploration, tracing the line of her spine, eliciting a gasp from her lips.

Their movements became a dance, a rhythm of give and take, of unspoken understanding. Lola felt her world narrow to just the two of them, the outside world fading away. It was in these moments that she realised the depth of her feelings for Carlos went beyond mere attraction; it was something deeper, more profound.

Carlos paused, his lips hovering just above hers, their breaths mingling. The anticipation was electric, a charged silence that spoke volumes. When he finally closed the distance, capturing her lips in a searing kiss, it was like coming home. His kiss was demanding yet tender, a perfect blend of passion and care.

And when his fingers curled perfectly over the waistband of her jeans, pulling them down along with her panties, Lola couldn't help but surrender to the exquisite pleasure that washed over her. In his hands, she felt both vulnerable and cherished, as if every touch was a promise of his unwavering devotion.

But perhaps what truly captivated her was the way Carlos looked at her – not as an object for his pleasure, but as a goddess to be worshipped. Even in the throes of desire, his gaze held a depth of admiration and respect that left her feeling cherished and adored.

As Lola straddled him, she felt a surge of desire coursing through her veins, igniting a fire that burned hotter with each passing moment. With Carlos sitting upright, his arms wrapped securely around her, she pressed her naked bust against his bare chest, revelling in the intimate connection they shared.

Their bodies moulded together seamlessly as they kissed each other with a fervent passion that seemed to consume them both. Lola's arms were draped around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as she surrendered to the intoxicating sensations that washed over her.

In that moment, there was no space for doubt or hesitation, only the undeniable pull of desire drawing them closer together. With each kiss, each touch, they reaffirmed the depth of their connection, lost in the ecstasy of their shared intimacy.

As Lola pulled away from their passionate kiss, a moment of tranquillity enveloped them, allowing her to catch her breath and gather her thoughts. Gazing at the flustered man pressed tightly against her, she couldn't help but feel a surge of affection and desire coursing through her veins.

Brushing his hair out of his eyes with a tender touch, she locked eyes with him for a fleeting moment, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between them. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to express, but in that moment, words failed her. Carlos had stolen all her words from her, leaving her speechless with the intensity of their connection.

With a gentle peck on his lips, Lola conveyed all that she couldn't put into words – her love, her desire, her longing for him. And as she pulled away once more, she felt him twitch inside her, a silent affirmation of the passion that burned between them.

“Where's your mind at?” Carlos whispered, his voice a soft caress against Lola's ear as he brushed her hair behind it and cupped her cheek with tender affection. A blush crept onto Lola's cheeks as she met his gaze, her heart fluttering at the intensity of his stare.

“Is it selfish of me to not want this to end?” She admitted, her voice barely above a whisper as she voiced the fear that had been lingering in the back of her mind. Carlos's expression softened with understanding, his thumb gently tracing circles on her cheek.

“Not selfish at all.” He assured her, his voice filled with sincerity. “It would be more selfish to want you with me all the time.”

Feeling emboldened by Carlos's reassurance, Lola's blush deepened as she leaned in to kiss him once more. This time, her kiss was filled with a newfound urgency, a raw desire that pulsed through her veins and ignited a fire within her.

As their lips met in a fervent embrace, she couldn't help but grind her hips down against him, feeling his response in the form of a low, guttural moan that escaped into her mouth. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure coursing through her body, intensifying the desire that burned between them.

Lost in the heat of the moment, their bodies moved together in a sensual rhythm, each movement eliciting a symphony of sensations that left them both breathless.

As Lola drifted into a peaceful slumber in Carlos's secure embrace following their passionate bout of lovemaking, he couldn't help but feel a surge of overwhelming love and gratitude wash over him. Gazing at her sleeping form, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window, he was overcome with a sense of awe at the depth of his feelings for her.

Leaning in close, Carlos whispered the words he had longed to express for so long.

“I hope you know you're all I've ever wanted.” He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke the truth of his heart.

In that moment, as he watched her sleep, Carlos knew with unwavering certainty that Lola was the one he had been searching for – his soulmate, his confidante, his everything. And as he held her close, he vowed to cherish her for as long as she would let him, and vowed to appreciate the profound joy she brought into his life.

The following morning, Carlos was up and moving about all over the hotel suite before Lola woke up. When her eyes fluttered open, she watched him move from the bedroom to the bathroom and from the bathroom to the bedroom several times in the span of a few seconds. His energy was palpable, a stark contrast to the peaceful slumber she had just woken from.

She stretched lazily, the sheet slipping down to her waist, revealing the gentle curves of her body before she pulled them back up to cover her breasts.

“Morning.” She replied, her voice still thick with sleep. “You seem...busy.”

“I, uh, we need to go.” He vaguely stated, leaving her even more confused.

“What are you talking about?” Lola wondered, a frown creasing her brow.

“I didn’t set my alarm, so we overslept and we’re going to be late and the whole day is going to be ruined.” Carlos rambled, his usual composed demeanour cracking under the pressure.

“Late for what?” She asked, and for the first time that morning, he truly paused and realised he hadn’t told her about their plans for the day. “Carlos?”

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to find his hair gel amidst the chaos.

“Dress comfortably, we’re going to be walking for a while.” He warned her, not meeting her eyes as he continued his search.

“Carlos, where are we going?” Lola asked again, rummaging through the mess to find a bra and a shirt.

“It’s a surprise, mon amor. Can’t tell you, otherwise it won’t be a surprise,” Carlos countered from the bathroom, a playful smirk on his face.

Carlos emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed and ready to go, while Lola stood in the middle of the chaos in just her shirt and a pair of panties.

“Could you at least help me look for a pair of jeans? It looks like a tornado came through here.” Lola moaned, exasperation clear in her voice as Carlos stood by, idly watching her.

He smiled, knowing that the surprise awaiting her would soon melt away all her frustrations about the mess he made in their hotel room.

“Of course, let me help you.” He said, joining her in the search. He rummaged through the scattered clothes and quickly found a pair of jeans for her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” She muttered, slipping them on. “You know, you could have been a bit more organised.”

“I know, I’m sorry. But trust me, this is going to be worth it.” Carlos replied, a sheepish grin on his face.

“When we come back, you’re cleaning this mess while I go to the spa.” Lola mumbled as she pulled on her jeans.

“Mon amor, when we get back, you won’t want to go to the spa.” Carlos teased, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Stop teasing, Carlos.” She whined again, brushing her hair and tying it up before grabbing a jacket off the floor. He chuckled softly, enjoying their playful banter.

“You’ll see.” He promised, holding out his hand to her. She took it, rolling her eyes but smiling despite herself.

As they walked out of the hotel, Carlos’s excitement was infectious, and Lola couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation building within her. They navigated the bustling streets, with Carlos occasionally glancing at her, a secretive smile on his face.

“Are you going to give me any hints?” Lola asked, squeezing his hand as they turned a corner.

“Not a chance.” He replied, his smile widening. “It’s a surprise, remember?”

“Fine, but it better be worth it.” She sighed dramatically but couldn’t suppress her own smile.

“Oh, it will be.” Carlos assured her.

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

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @notyouraveragemochii @heyheyheyggg @laneyspaulding19

[thisbuildinghasfeelings]

The Police Station Scene

Arguably the most important season 1 Tarlos scene (it won the poll, after all!), the police station scene in 1x03 is undoubtedly iconic. The sheer chemistry between these two becomes truly apparent, and the journey they take throughout the scene...I have no words. Or perhaps I have many words. Yes, I think it's that second one. Many words. Under the cut, my analysis of this excellent scene.

We start out with TK in a pretty miserable situation. On top of everything else he's going through, he just got arrested, and at this point, he's not sure if the guys he fought are going to be pressing charges. For all he knows, he could be ending up in a jail cell using his one phone call to get Owen to come bail him out, something that Owen will probably not be too happy about. Not only that, but he's bleeding and his face clearly hurts judging by the ice pack he's holding to it. He's having a very bad night.

Then, things suddenly get even worse. Because the police officer coming to deal with him is none other than the guy he hooked up with and then later stormed out on. The guy TK had started having such strong and unexpected feelings for that he had given in to the urge to flee. The guy who TK assumes probably already thinks terrible things about him because of the way things went down the last time they were together. So now not only is this an undesirable legal situation, but it's also an awkward and embarrassing social situation. And now this guy knows that "TK" stands for Tyler Kennedy. Ugh.

From Carlos' perspective, he met this guy who was smokin' hot who he felt an instant connection with...this guy who made him feel for the first time like maybe he wasn't actually broken and then gave him the best orgasm of his life. Said guy then stormed out on him for what appeared to Carlos to be no good reason. He couldn't even be bothered to sit and have a meal and a little conversation. And now? This guy is out getting in bar fights completely sober, putting himself in a dangerous situation where he could very well get himself killed. This guy who Carlos already cares about, and who has seemingly completely rejected him at the first sign of Carlos wanting to get to know him. Carlos is hurt but he's also angry. Most of all, Carlos is angry about the fact that TK is being so completely reckless with his own safety.

The guys from the bar fight don't want to press charges, so Carlos tells TK that he's free to go. But he can't stop from giving TK a little advice. He's not trying to be his boyfriend (lie) or even his friend if he's not into it (oh, Carlos) but he tells TK that he "should talk to someone about why you felt compelled to do something so suicidal." Carlos says this without knowing that TK was suicidal and acted on it not long ago.

TK appears to be affected by this but says nothing. It appears that maybe the fight has gone out of him...until Carlos lets him know that he has something on his face, giving him a box of tissues to take care of it. TK gets visibly frustrated when Carlos tells him he's trying to clean off the wrong side. But then Carlos does something that TK doesn't expect.

He says, "Stop, just...let me." And with a shaky hand, he uses a tissue to dab at the spot on TK's face.

This clearly isn't nothing to Carlos. The emotion in his eyes is undeniable. He cares. That simple act of caring is enough to break TK's walls down the tiniest bit. To allow him to show some vulnerability. TK wants to explain.

He apologizes for what happened between them and tells him that he just went through a really bad breakup, "like nuclear bad," and then he relapsed. Not, as Carlos assumes, with him, but with substances. TK is giving Carlos a piece of himself, trusting him in a way he has not trusted anyone else he's met in Texas, as much as he likes them and enjoys working with them.

Carlos recognizes the significance of this moment of vulnerability. But it's more than that. It gives him context for what happened. TK wasn't just being a jerk and storming out because he didn't care to get to know Carlos. He has serious things going on. And...the champagne! TK has issues with substances and Carlos had offered him champagne without even asking first!

Carlos, always quick to blame himself, apologizes, and in that moment, his walls come down a little too. He had been trying to play it stoic and tough and like he didn't care so, so much. (Of course he already gave himself away when he started gently wiping TK's face)

But TK doesn't stop there. He gives Carlos more of himself, explaining that, ever since he's gotten to Austin, it's just grey. And he feels numb all the time. To explain why he started the bar fight, TK says, "I guess I just--I wanted to feel something."

Carlos looks at him. The anger is gone. He has understanding in his eyes...and that look of caring is still there, too. He watches TK gather his things and stand up. Carlos could have said anything in this moment. He chooses to tease TK a little. TK said he started a fight because he just wanted to feel something, so Carlos tells him, "Judging by that lip, I'd say mission accomplished."

TK looks at him with annoyance. He kind of can't believe that THIS is Carlos' reaction to his vulnerability!

"You really busting my balls right now?"

But Carlos stands his ground as the corner of his mouth goes up slightly.

"Yeah, I suppose I am."

Carlos made the right choice here because TK smiles too.

They like each other so much.

I fully believe that everything that happens after wouldn't have happened without this scene. It's pivotal in their relationship. The journey they go through is incredible! From this:

To this:

Iconic and unmatched.

[xenodile]

okay, slept on it, had some time to think, more coherent thoughts on Alien Romulus, spoilers below

The last second swerve into whole plot referencing Aliens and Alien 4 were by far the weakest parts of the movie, because the movie was at its strongest when it was focusing on Andy and the influence of the corporate programming, and the threat that even a single xenomorph poses.

The facehuggers were the stars, seeing them thaw out of cold storage, skittering around like spiders, the corridor sequence, all of them were phenomenal, and the addition of a single adult xenomorph perfectly accented the threat of a few dozen facehuggers.

The xenomorph itself was excellent as a solitary threat, retaliating even when it was vulnerable, stalking the other characters, the elevator catch, waiting at the door, presenting the xenomorph as a single implacable monster with a goal is so much more compelling than a horde of them charging down a hallway, and lends credence to the set up of the movie in which the station was taken out of commission by essentially a single xenomorph getting loose.

Having the Xenomorph and the Facehuggers present together allows for a much more interesting and complex story as the xenomorph, which we already know is a vicious killing machine, now just tries to catch and keep the humans alive so they can be infested, and it's a bit disappointing that we didn't get more of that, watching the titular monster behave almost like an infatuated stalker as it tries to seize their right moment to strike so it can have more hosts for its brood.

Though on that note, I think it would've been stronger if the one xenomorph from the prologue had persisted instead of being found as a corpse, because then more could've been done with the one character that actually got infested and had the facehugger removed prematurely. It felt like a bit of a waste to have her get grabbed, have the facehugger removed within a few minutes, and yet she still gets infested as if it had been on the whole time. That aspect felt very rushed as if having a chestburster scene was mandatory just because it's an Alien movie. The cocoon scene could've stayed in as is and just had the xenomorph laying dormant in the absence of prey, rather than it being a newborn xenomorph molting within seconds of emerging.

Back to my other point, Andy. Andy was easily the best character, and David Jonsson's performance was incredible. That said, I wished the narrative had focused more on him and his bond with Rain. I think the story would have been much stronger if rather than completely overwriting his personality, the Weyland-Yutani programming merged and conflicted with his existing directive, and he was allowed more agency to be vindictive about his treatment as a damaged synthetic, which is a very clear allegory for being a disabled black man. Sort of letting the Corporate directive be this corrupting influence rather than full on mind control, where he's suddenly able and has greater control, and can actually stand up for himself instead of being coddled and protected by Rain.

Overall the movie is good, it's perfectly serviceable and there's nothing outlandishly bad, but there was a lot of potential in some of the concepts it presents that just weren't properly utilized to its detriment.

[autistic-ben-tennyson]

Tamaki and Suzume: an underrated parent-child relationship

Been thinking about my favorite movie again. Specifically an aspect of it that I think is a bit underrated. Many fell in love with Souta but I was more invested in Suzume’s relationship with her aunt and it makes me tear up a bit. It feels like a very realistic portrayal of a parent-child relationship and gives an important message about communication. I relate to both characters for different reasons which is why it hit so hard. It’s not idyllic or easy for Tamaki as she was forced into raising her niece after her sister died in the 2011 Earthquake. Soon her life became focused around raising her niece as her boyfriend drifted away and she was forced to start taking better care of herself. All very realistic for someone who has the role of parenthood thrust on them with zero warning which is relatable even for those who didn’t lose their siblings and have to be a surrogate parent to their kids.

Japanese viewers were given a booklet in theaters that revealed a bit more about Tamaki and her life before becoming a mother. She has a bit of an inferiority complex and wanted some time away from her sister who was much more sociable and loved by people. Now she has to raise her niece who is much like her mother. I can relate to that, being a lot more of a loner than my brother. Being depressed and a bit awkward while having to be around excitable and happy people can be grating and bring up feelings of jealousy and it can make you want to get away and start fresh.

Despite all that, Tamaki does her best to be a good mother, playing along with Suzume as a child when she clings to the chair her mother gave her and comforting her after having a meltdown at her birthday party. Suzume would end up comforting her aunt, both unprepared for things to end up like this, but by being emotionally vulnerable and letting their pent up emotions out, things got better. Life seemed normal with them having normal squabbles and bonding moments you’d expect for a family. This continues till the start of the movie when Tamaki is seen making a bento for her niece. Then the conflict starts when Suzume runs away with Souta.

Tamaki doesn’t know why Suzume has run off and is understandably furious over her niece running away with little consideration for her responsibilities. To her, she’s acting like a child again when chasing after that chair she was given. On Suzume’s end, she feels smothered by her aunt demanding she come home and still treating her like a child. Tamaki wants to protect her niece but Suzume wanted to save Souta which she worries her aunt won’t understand.

This is where Sadaijin and Daijin come in as they’re meant to be a parallel for Tamaki and Suzume. Tamaki and Sadaijin are not malicious but are just following what they have to do. Sadaijin has to make sure Daijin fulfills his duties even if that means smothering and reprimanding him. Tamaki has to work and maintain their house and isn’t happy with Suzume not caring about how hurt she was. Sadaijin uses Suzume’s argument with her aunt in the parking lot to lecture Daijin but he only amplifies Tamaki’s emotions that were already there. Both remind their charges that they have responsibilities they can’t ignore and that their actions are affecting others. Suzume ignored how hurt Tamaki was until she expressed it in a way that wasn’t like herself.

Just like the conversation when Suzume was a child, the argument at the gas station was a dark moment for them. But it also gave her and her aunt an opportunity to be emotionally vulnerable. Suzume suspected her aunt resented having to raise her and how it affected her life. Earlier, when talking to Chika, she admitted to feeling bad about Tamaki’s dating life and how she’s affected it despite her aunt being quite attractive. By admitting her negative feelings, Tamaki did hurt Suzume emotionally but was able to express what she had been bottling up. She is regretful of what she said which is why she breaks down to Serizawa, much to his ice cream’s misfortune.

During the bike ride to the gate to rescue Souta, the two have an another opportunity to talk now that some time has passed. Suzume apologizes to her aunt for the stress she put her through. Tamaki admits that what she said the night before was true but she still loves her daughter and is proud to have raised her, much to Suzume’s relief before teasing her a bit about her crush on Souta. The end montage shows a healthier relationship between the two with Suzume introducing her to the people she met along her journey. This dynamic was always my favorite part of the movie over the romance stuff. I still like it and I do like Souta but the relationship between Suzume and Tamaki was what hit close for me. It fits the movie’s message about how joy can come from grief. The argument at the rest stop caused a lot of grief for both characters but ultimately led to a healthier relationship. It reminds me a bit of Luz and Camila’s dynamic in The Owl House and how communication and being open about their emotions led to a better understanding. I relate to Suzume’s anger at being smothered and feeling like your parents secretly resent you. I don’t have a good relationship with them and I don’t know if I want to keep it but I still feel relief at seeing Suzume and Tamaki resolve their issues. Someone should really write a fanfic about Suzume’s childhood as well as what happened between returning home and reuniting with Souta.

Edit: their relationship is what Luz and Camila’s should have been. Suzume actually gets called out for running away and hurting Tamaki and learns responsibility unlike Luz.

[daquila]

This is me trying || Gojo Satoru x Reader

Satoru spending his time thinking about the love that he lost.

genre: hurt/no comfort, angst

Satoru stumbled inside the entrance; his body was completely exhausted from work. It was like all of his life, soul, and mind got sucked out from how many exorcisms he had to do.

The sorcerer was greeted with the hanging photo frames that decorated your living room as he rolls over to the sofa. It had many pictures of him smiling without a mask, making him look more human than usual.

Satoru, really, is just a simple man— nothing more or less than that. Sure, he could be the strongest alive— but that would never erase the fact that he was still vulnerable.

The silence grew louder, which oddly drew the ghosts of his past near him. All he could envision were the memories that you spent together in that very same living room: the sound of laughter echoing as you watched your favourite show together, the smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns during a very cold December, and the taste of your lips after you poured your heart into him.

All he could wish for was for you to come home— but he knew that you would never return in his arms. It was his own stubbornness that drove you away.

He didn’t want to deny that you were his weakness. It was already written all over his face. The way he’d look at you, talk to you—- or even hold you were dead giveaways! Practically the entirety of the jujutsu knew about how precious you were to him.

That, of course, made his ego inflate. Everyone knew that you were his, and everyone knew that he was yours; however, it would be the same reason why you were torn apart from him.

He uses this moment to think about the depth of this situation. You were so exposed to jujutsu, and it was ripping him into shreds. After you got promoted to grade 1, the higher ups started sending you to even more dangerous exorcisms— almost as if they wanted to get rid of you. These old geezers wanted to see him break and possibly push him beyond the limits of jujutsu.

It went from spending a night without him to getting used to not seeing him for two whole months. Satoru was getting busier and busier as time passed by. No one would have thought that this was all planned out.

The rain was pouring heavily as he exercised his final curse in the outskirts of Osaka until he received a call from Ijichi. Like the idiot that he is, he forgot to charge his phone prior to going out. Satoru’s phone instantly blacked out.

“ Must be important, “ he thought, making his way to the train station to get back to Tokyo. Maybe he should just go Shoko’s office and ask her about Ijichi’s sudden call. The driver only called him whenever there was a mishap in the morgue.

While walking down the hallway, he sensed a familiar energy: it was yours. Though suspiciously faint, he thought that you must have been hurt— but his six eyes were telling him a whole different story.

The first thing he saw when opening the door was a body covered in a white sheet. No other patients were present. Shoko just gives him a pitiful glance before signalling to Ijichi for the both of them to leave the room.

Satoru already knew what was happening, but his heart was fighting for a different truth. He wanted to make an excuse for what was happening, because his subconsciousness was already starting to point fingers. Him being too busy to not be there for you wasn’t a good excuse. You were literally dying; he could’ve been there for you.

What pained him the most was that he hadn’t replied to any of your calls or texts for the past few weeks. He wasn’t able to hear you, talk to you, or even hold you. If he was truly your everything, then why did he treated you like you were nothing?

The last time he’s ever been with you was two months ago. It was raining heavily in the school, so the both of you decided to indulge in some movies. It was nothing special, and it pained him. Satoru wished that he took you out somewhere better—- after all, you deserved more than what the moon could offer.

Satoru kept on telling himself that going on constant missions were to protect you. But at what cost? Losing his time and being “too busy” to come and rescue his dying wife? It all wasn’t worth it— not even worth the time, effort, and all of that stress he went through. Your cold, lifeless body will forever haunt him. It would become a reminder of how stupid he was for doing that to you.

A/N: all I could write is angst LOL #fluffslander

[sl-newsie]

American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 6: Accomplice

All confidence and security I’ve accumulated is depleted. The Shelbys have helped keep me safe from the unpredictable world outside, and as the cop pushes me through the ash-filled streets I’m reminded of just how vulnerable I really am. Yet I still keep my head held high and mask my fear with stern eyes. I’m led to what must be the police station and down the hall to a small waiting room with a single desk. The cop shuts the door, closing off what little light there is. 

“I demand to know what’s going on!” I shout at the door. “I will not be imprisoned without official charges! If there is no official complaint then I shall inform the authorities in America!”

“No need for that, Ms. Steenstra,” a familiar voice speaks from the shadows. Campbell steps forward smoking a pipe and I see he’s holding a file.

I tighten my jaw and refrain from yelling again. My state of mind is much more fierce compared to our last encounter. “Hello again, Inspector Campbell.”

He slides the file onto the desk and sits down. “Last time I saw you, you were trying to get home. Scared of Small Heath and all its glory.” He points a finger at me. “I told you to stay away from the Peaky Blinders. Now I’m told you’re working for them.”

Keep calm, Steenstra. Remember what Polly told you.

“I’m a tutor, nothing more,” I say firmly. “I know nothing about their real business so if that’s why you brought me here then you’re wasting your time.” I turn away and face the door.

“If you’re interested, we could set you up for an inside job,” Campbell offers.

Did I hear that right? “You mean… spy? On the Shelbys?” I ask.

“Yes. And if there is any odd behavior then you can report it to me.”

Thomas was right. This man is out to get the entire Shelby family. I can’t be an asset to his cause. Not only because of my feelings for the Shelbys, but also for the loyalty of my employment.

I turn around and stare the inspector straight in the eye. “Maybe it’s done differently in England, but in America we are loyal to our employers. The answer is no, Inspector.”

The man takes a puff on his pipe. “What if certain arrangements were made? You still wish to return to your country, yes?”

The thought of going home is a spark of hope in my chest. But I can’t cave into this.

“Correct.”

Campbell shrugs. “Well, if you decide to join our cause we could arrange for a plane ticket, as well as better lodgings here for you.”

Just as I thought. “If you’re trying to bribe me, it won’t work. I’m sorry Inspector, but I cannot be bought.”

I grab the door knob and find it’s unlocked, no doubt because they don’t see me as a threat. Yet. Just as I start walking back to the front door I hear Campbell call out:

“Be careful, miss. Never know when the wolf will step out of its sheep's clothing.”

But in this scenario, who’s the wolf? I have no desire to be connected to this intricate web of lies and deception. I am in good relations with both the law and the Shelbys, and want to keep it that way.

I make haste to get back to the Shelby house. All previous angry thoughts are long gone and I don’t care if Thomas is still mad at me. Once I close the door I take a deep breath and take in the familiar kitchen. Calm down, you kept quiet. Just stay here and ride out the storm until you can go home.

My invisible mask falters and my eyes start to tear up. In a quick panic I grab a damp cold cloth and head to the living room to sit on the small couch. God, how did I get caught into this? All because I was an idiot and got myself lost!

“Ah, you’re back.”

No. No. Of all the Shelbys to walk in, why does it have to be him?

“Hello, Thomas.” I keep my head lowered and hastily try to block away more tears. “I’d like to apologize again for earlier. My mind hasn’t been very clear these past few days.”

Fate must have a sick sense of humor because Thomas decides to sit next to me. His weight pushes the cushions down further and has me leaning slightly towards him.

“Nobody apologizes to me unless they’ve done something else against me,” Thomas speaks in a dangerously calm voice. “What did you do after you left?”

Fighting my screaming nerves I lift my head up to face his cold eyes. “I was headed to the chapel when one of Campbell’s officers temporarily apprehended me. I was brought to Campbell’s office, where he questioned me.”

Thomas’ eyes flash. “He what?” Thomas grabs my neck, drags me over and pins me against the wall to shout in my face. “Well? What did you tell him? What did you say?!”

I try to choke out a response. “I- I didn’t say anything, Thomas!”

“Why? We never bought you over!” He releases my throat and I gasp for air. “We don’t own you-”

“You don’t have to, Thomas!” I seethe. “I didn’t say anything because A, I honestly don’t know much about the guns. And B, it would be betraying you.”

Thomas doesn’t budge but his eyes soften a fraction. Why must every encounter with him end so violently and not as romantic? I- No. Don’t flatter yourself, Steenstra. There are far more important issues at the moment!

“Really?” Thomas’ voice is calmer, yet still suspicious.

I take a deep breath and put both hands on his chest. “You may not think you’ve bought me, but I still owe a debt to the Shelby family. You took me in. You gave me a job and a roof over my head. If that’s not buying me over, I don’t know what else there is.”

Slowly, Thomas’ hands snake up to grab mine. His breathing has calmed down. He must believe me.

“No one’s this nice, Ms. Steenstra,” he whispers. “You’re not like any other person I’ve met. If you really are this loyal it would be a shame to see you go home.”

I sigh in relief. “So I’m not fired?”

He chuckles. “You always fret about being fired.”

“It’s my first job,” I reply sheepishly. “I’d hate to lose it in such a short time. Plus I really don’t want being fired by the Shelby family to be on my short résumé.”

“You’re fired?!”

We both look over to where Finn is standing, having just entered from the hallway. He’s holding another one of my books, no doubt having finished it already.

“No, Finn. She’s not fired.” Thomas gives me a smirk. “I don’t think she’ll be leaving for quite a while.”

My face falls. “Are you saying you’re going to keep me here against my will, Mr. Shelby?”

He quirks a brow. “You said you owe a debt to us, yes? How’d you like to have your Birmingham experience lengthened?”

I frown. “Meaning…?”

“That you are to stick around until you’ve earned a ticket home and we feel you’ve worked off your debt,” Thomas replies coolly and leans in closer. “Deal?”

A week ago I would have declined on the spot, but the few days I’ve spent here have snatched my interest. Maybe a while longer in Birmingham wouldn’t be so bad?

I smile. “Deal. My only request is that I’m escorted around town in order to not be snagged by Campbell again.”

Thomas tips his hat. “Your wish shall be granted, Verena Nora Steenstra. Welcome to being an accomplice to the Peaky Blinders.”

Accomplice. The word brings a whole new meaning to my job. I’m no longer a simple tutor. I’m part of something much bigger now. It scares me a little, but it’s also rather exciting.

“Yes!” Finn celebrates. “Can we do another lesson now?”

Aw, Hell. I can’t say no to this! My family’s not perfect and neither am I. I was always going to do something drastic someday, and if this is it then I’d love nothing more!

Thomas walks off to the kitchen and leaves me with his brother. You are one peculiar individual, Thomas Shelby.

I smile. “Yes, Finn. Let’s get started!”

[not-so-secret-bi-badge-bunny]

WIP of the day (Temp Title: Evan takes charge)

~~ I have an overwhelming desire to read fic's where Buck is more dominant because Tommy craves it. I like my premise so far but I want to know your thoughts.

Thank you for reading-Em

Tommy has always enjoyed relinquishing control when he can. Years of high stress jobs that require you to be a very fast thinker, making life versus death decisions for not only himself but his co-workers and members of the community, having to make choice after choice, questioning if it was the right one? Was there a better one to be made? Not to mention all the “what if’s” can become exhausting and dangerous if you're not actively taking care of yourself and doing what you can to avoid burnout. He always had little ways to minimize his mental load for himself. He would meal prep for a week in advance to avoid having to make one more choice after a really long shift and he kept as strict of a routine as one can with shift times changing from week to week. His days off were spent trying to recharge in between running errands and household chores. It has been a long while since he felt comfortable asking anyone to help with much of anything, let alone being so very vulnerable.  It has been a really long week filled with too many losses and not enough saves and all Tommy wants to do is let go and let all choices be made for him. He knows that he can ask Evan for help with this, he is sure he would be on board immediately, but trying to put together the words to explain what he wants is harder than he thought it would be. He knows that Evan gets off in a few hours but he doesn’t want to chicken out of asking for help. A call and worry Evan, so he sends him a text instead : “Hey Ev, do you think we could alter our plans for tomorrow? After the week I had I was kinda hoping you could help me by taking off some of the mental load while I recharge so to speak. It is ok if you're uncomfortable with the idea of doing so, we can discuss this more when you get home tonight.  Stay safe, I love you.” Evan responded back impossibly fast for being on shift  “Of course Baby, do you want me to call you so we can talk about it?”  Tommy ponders for a moment but ultimately decides that it can wait “Just call me before you leave the station. I’m ok, I promise.”  “ Ok Baby, don’t miss me too much, I will be home before you know it.” 

[therealmlpguy]

propoganda:

The Enigma of Amigara Fault: They are soulmate, they are destined to be one, but the hole will change Owaki till he is not even more human

Star Wars:

Leia and Tarkin are an insanely dysfunctional match… He is a 64 year old highly ranking military leader and politician for an authoritarian/fascist regime (the Galactic Empire) which usurped the galaxy’s government in the same year of Leia’s birth. She is the 19 year old crown princess and Imperial Senator for the peaceful planet of Alderaan, and secretly uses her status in order to spy and deliver supplies and information for the Rebel Alliance— a small, plucky band of freedom fighters seeking to overthrow the Empire and return democracy/peace/freedom etc. Could I make it anymore obvious 😐 It’s very heavily suggested in the film, and shown in supplementary material (books, comics, etc) that Leia and Tarkin have always hated each other’s guts. Tarkin has long suspected both Leia and her family, the royal house of Alderaan, of being rebel agents/sympathizers. In the book Leia: Princess of Alderaan we see him stalking them about it and trying to exploit Leia’s vulnerabilities to get her to crack.

He invites her to to his office for tea and basically implies that he will have her parents assassinated and install her as a puppet ruler of her planet in their stead. She’s also sixteen at that point. Then, at the beginning of the main film, Leia— now nineteen— gets captured by Darth Vader while on a mission— Vader is also kind of sort of under Tarkin’s command at the time. Leia is taken to the Death Star— a giant battle station which can blow up planets, which Tarkin has been given charge of— and held as a prisoner. There she is tortured using spooky sci-fi devices for information about the rebels, including the location of their base, which Tarkin and Vader want to destroy. Vader’s the main torturer but it is clear that Tarkin is involved in supervising the whole thing and may have participated directly off screen. (The torture includes stuff like: injecting her with hallucinogenic drugs that make her believe herself to be in super duper pain (like she’s on fire), shocking her, pinching and poking her with stuff, etc etc). Leia does not tell them anything.

When Vader reports back to Tarkin that he hasn’t broken Leia, our crusty villain is not pleased. Until he comes up with a worser more evil plan…. And so he has Leia brought to the bridge of the station to show this evil plan off. He orders her execution and taunts her about it while creepily touching her face, then blows up her entire home planet of Alderaan in front of her as an elaborate means of psychological torture. Keep in mind Alderaan is full of a ton of civilians who have nothing to do with the war. This is a war crime. Beforehand a horrified Leia feigns breaking and giving him the rebel base’s location in order to try and buy time to save her people; Tarkin thinks she told the truth but still destroys Alderaan anyway because the planet she named was “too remote to provide an effective demonstration” of the Death Star’s capability. In short he has no respect for life and wants to see her suffer.

The entire time this scene happens he’s being very cold and clearly taking sadistic amusement in Leia’s pain and in getting to kill all these innocent people. He also invades Leia’s personal space a lot in a very creepy way. We can see that Leia— who is genuinely a very brave girl— is pretty scared by him at this point. But also very angry. The moment he finds out Leia’s information was a lie he becomes enraged (he can excuse planetary genocide but he DRAWS THE LINE at getting tricked by a teen girl he’s holding captive) and demands that she be terminated (executed) immediately. Fortunately da boiz (Luke Skywalker Han Solo Chewbacca Obi wobi etc) arrive on the Death Star just in time to save the beautiful princess from dying of Terminal Old Man.

She leads said boiz back to the real rebel base and delivers the plans to the Death Star so that they can blow the thing up. They blow it up, killing Tarkin. TL;DR -This ship is between a very young girl and a very old man and that’s the least of their problems -They hate each other and are political enemies. Moreover he kind of borderline stalked her as a teen. -She was captured and became his prisoner. He had her tortured for information. -when she didn’t break, he blew up her entire planet, killing 2 billion innocents solely to traumatize and spite her. -He sentenced her to be executed, and she played a vital role in the battle that led to his actual death. Both have strong intentions to kill the other. There is not a UNIVERSE in which the relationship between these two wouldn’t be something messed up and VILE. That is a big draw for them. They have a weird sort of chemistry. I love them sosososososoo much. Hopefully this educated you on how messed up they are. Like sure your enemies to lovers ship is good I bet but is your bad guy an irredeemable fascist who killed 2 billion people because your heroine made him mad??? Probably not. 

[king-midas-fortnite]

Journal Entry: The Island Shifts

Midas jots down some thoughts on the changes

The island has changed again. I think there were a number of us who felt a shift coming. I'm glad I had taken the yacht further off shore before it happened. As well I am glad Valeria agreed to come with me. I know it was not easy for her to leave. Her railway station was already gone, but Glacier still stood. She was already there when I had called her, gathering a few items of sentiment and just...saying goodbye, I'm sure.

Walking away from anything you hold dear for the last time is incredibly difficult. She seems to be handling the change well enough, though I am not surprised by this.

Deadpool Wade was here as well. At least, I know he was towards the start. The man has a habit of popping in and out of my peripheral vision. However, I haven't seen him on board since the change. He probably made a quick exit to look around himself.

A guest I am less happy for, but nonetheless resigned to accept, is Kado. I extended a "hand" (bastard) to him as a courtesy to Valeria. We have not spoken since our altercation. When he attacked me for making a joke or two at his expense when some "unimportant" documents of his got leaked out. Unimportant enough to try and kill me over, evidently. Regardless, he joined on the yacht as well to wait everything out.

He's been tense the whole time, on edge as he watches the skies closely. For what specifically, I have no clue.

At one point there had been a number of those rift butterflies that had come down to the boat. Many of which seemed keen on Val, landing on her shoulders and hands. It was nice to see her smile at them. Nice, too, to see a few flutter into Kado's eyes as he was swatting and hissing.

Anyway, an island I know all too well is back. Everything here feels so painfully nostalgic. This island was home to me in many ways, but it's very different than it was before.

The Agency is back, but it's clearly not the one I knew. It's someone else's. All the hard work of my past sitting in the middle of the island, a monolith to my failures covered in tacky dogs and flourishes as if to mock me personally. The Zero Point sure does have a funny way of making me feel that way.

That's not even to mention the other version of me that's here now. This...Meowscles/Me creature. I simply cannot spend too much time thinking about him before I get a headache. I'll just keep my own yacht moored by Sweaty Sands, away from his for now.

I will make contact, I don't doubt that we'd have enough to talk about to get along. I just...I don't think I need to explain why a version of me that is also my feline friend is a tad uncomfortable.

Regardless, the island I know best is back in a strange way. Not the change I expected in the least, but it is what it is.

The Underworld being gone (hopefully returned to its rightful plain of existence), is a monumental weight off my chest. Hades already owes me for dealing with Mephisto and returning his rule to him, but it is an extra boone to not have to see my own personal hell sitting in the distance.

I expected the souls that speak to me in my vulnerable moments to have left with it, but they remain. They stubbornly cling to me like glue. I imagine they'll be with me forever. At least they still grant me the shade step.

Perhaps with Mizuki's offer for help, I'll learn to live in harmony with these voices, rather than merely tolerate. A quandary for another time. For now, I have much to learn about this island and it's differences.

My main concern is naturally what lies underneath the "Doggpound". I know it is no longer my building, but I can't imagine it isn't here for much the same purpose. If the same hubris befalls whoever is in charge...

I hope we can avoid another flood. Reminder: Unless discussed, these are not "public" to other Tumblrverse characters. Okay to reblog, but please do not roleplay on journal entries!

[chaoticxbeast]

Raphael talks to the school counselor

Content: Just some angst and talking about emotions

It was around 3 in the afternoon. He was at school, so he was wearing his school clothes. Jeans, a cool grey hoodie. He liked the clothes, but they got all worn out so fast. Then again, he sort of liked the holes around his knees and elbows. Raph thought it was kinda badass. Today was his first time at the school therapist, and he wasn’t sure how he felt. Something was stirring in him, perhaps a small worry that he was messing up things for his bros by getting asked to come in for these talks.

Raph knocked, and when he heard her call him in, he opened the door and entered. She had a nice office, it was bright, lots of natural light, and yellow walls, a few plants, a small work station with a very tidy workspace.

Linda, the school counselor, spun around in her chair, a warm smile ready on her face. But the smile faltered the moment she saw the teen standing in her doorway. Raph looked rough—really rough. A cut ran across his eyeridge, a bandage covered the back of his head, his hands were wrapped tightly in gauze, and a smaller bandage sat crooked across his nose. His eye was bruised and swollen, and who knew what other injuries were hidden beneath his tough exterior.

"Oh my God. What happened to you?!"

"Oh eh, nothing, just..training."

"You are black and blue. You didn’t have anything to do with the fight that broke out in the gym, did you?" She took some quick notes, before gesturing for him to take a seat in chair. There was a small table beside it with a box of tissues.

"Oh no, I eh..I mean..." Raphael rubbed his neck and gritted his teeth nervously, looking guilty as charged. He hadn´t talked to anyone about that, and was kind hoping the event would just pass by.

“It’s okay. So… you know me. My name is Linda.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled, stuffing his hands between his knees. He glanced at her briefly, feeling awkward and out of place in the small chair.

“And I’m a psychologist. My specialty is… well, youth! So, lucky you!”

“Uh… yeah,” Raph muttered with a sigh.

“Does it feel weird to be here? Or… are you okay?”

“A little weird, I guess. I’ve never talked to a psychologist before.”

“That can feel scary,” she said, her face scrunching slightly as if she understood the feeling.

“I guess,” Raph replied, avoiding her gaze and letting his eyes wander around the room instead.

“Well, any kind of emotion is okay here with me. You can be sad, angry—whatever—as long as we’re talking it out and staying respectful.”

Raphael felt a lump rise in his throat, a strange tightness spreading through his chest, like he might cry. He didn’t really get why. Maybe it was because he felt weird, or dumb, or something he couldn’t put into words. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat, pushing the feeling away.

“So… how much do have you thought about why we feel the way we do, you know..why we get angry, frustrated..feeling intense feelings like that?”

Raph shrugged, trying to look indifferent.

“Well… look at this poster,” she said, pointing to an image on the wall. It showed an iceberg with the word anger written in bold at the tip. “This is an iceberg. But see, we can’t see what’s below the water. Underneath, there’s so much more—hidden layers of ice. It’s the same with emotions. Underneath anger, there might be feelings like sadness, stress, insecurity, hopelessness, disappointment, grief, guilt, exhaustion, hurt, loneliness… even pain.”

Raphael stared at the poster, the words sinking in deeper than he wanted them to. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and called out, as if she saw right through him all of a sudden. He blinked hard as his vision blurred, tears welling up. He didn’t want to cry—especially not when he couldn’t even explain why he felt so heavy all of a sudden.

“Do you ever feel that way?”

Raph cleared his throat and frowned, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I guess. Maybe… maybe I used to feel that way a lot before.”

“Not anymore?”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Do you feel that way at home?”

"No..I mean..Maybe. I guess. I love my bros, and my dad. But..I.."

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“Well… I have three brothers, like you know. And… since I was small, I’ve always been bigger than them. Dad always said that you—uh, humans—would kill us, or milk us, or whatever. I was scared, but… since I’m the bigger than them, I had to protect them. That’s my role. And I can’t always do that!”

“Mhm… we can’t always protect everyone,” Linda said gently.

“And Leo… I’m so mad at Leo.” Raph wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his fists clenching tightly. “He’s just so… scared and anxious all the time. He’s so goddamn insecure, and I hate it. I just wish, for once, he could say, ‘It’s gonna be fine. You can rely on me.’ But I can’t! I can’t rely on him because he’s so scared all the time. And it’s stressing me out—because he’s so stressed out!”

Linda sighed softly.

"Well. I think.. for now, let´s focus on school and do less of the crime fighting. Why don’t you focus on your training, and just having fun, and take a break from conflicts. What do you think?"

Raph frowned, deep in thought. For some reason, conflict always seemed to find him these days.

"Have fun..and take it easy. You look like you need it. Lets talk again soon huh. How about next week?""

"Yeah, okay, thanks.." He picked up his bag, and tossed his onto his shoulder, going to the door.

"And remember, take it easy. You know? Maybe do something nice this weekend, you and your family. Get away for a bit."

"Yeah, see ya." He smiled at her, before leaving the room. A trip somewhere seemed like a good idea.

[amecrailuvshoegazemusic]

BETTER KNOWING YOU'RE HERE CHAPTER ONE:

WHO: Soldier Boy X OC, Soldier Boy X Fem!OC WHEN: Season Two (I'LL GET TO THE SON OF A BITCH WAIT) WHAT: Evangeline Knows She's A Killer; Butcher Contributes To Her Butchery

TW: Mentions Of Death, Violence, Language, Greif, Loss Of A Parent-Like Figure, Homelander & His Actions, Blood, Gory Descriptions, Talk Of Stormfront, Stereotypes

WORD COUNT: 3577 GL!!

     PARRACIDE WAS AN ABNORMAL TERM THAT Evangeline's relatives never imagined they would label on their niece's, cousin's, sibling's, and mother's actions. Evangeline didn't even grasp its importance. Not only was she a murderer, she was a psychopath. She ruthlessly ripped apart her only second chance. 

The police channels had picked up on a 911 call that alarmed officials on a Supe terrorist. A female voice rambled a brief description, but her frantic voice was cut off, only squeezing out the villain's eyes and hair. Eyes cold, barely able to see into without getting chills. A light brown hair cast a shadow over their face, bringing out the traces of a rough night. The victim suspected the cause would only lead back to a cold-hearted attack they would've made earlier. The caller ID was local, only a few blocks from the police station. The police almost couldn't believe it. A reckless one, the notorious Supe of America picked up on police readings and headed straight for the scene. His flight abilities caused the atmosphere to whip around his speeding figure.

A heroic pose, mid-flight. Palms facing the Earth's ground and dirty fingernails to the moon. His hands extended beyond him, ready to tear apart anything that flimsied across his path. A flick of his wrist has wrecked and devastated, the power causing a dramatic adrenaline rush to volt throught his veins, taking charge of any damages made. Again, he chuckled to himself. Homelander didn't get hurt. Homelander is both invincible and inevitable. His cocky attitude followed him to smell out the rustic scent of blood. Typical to his field of work, he kept the same pace, and casualties were bearable. More than bearable, he walked right past them, not sparring a glance. As the wind ruffled through his now tousled hair, he jolted, plummeting straight into the concrete sidewalk neighboring a gas station.

For a second, his eyebrows jumped. Destruction was the only paintbrush, the canvas full of gory visuals, blood seeping from every open wound, flesh apart from the bone. He could hear the vibrations of last or shaky breaths, and he could now feel a rib pierce a lung. He could see Maeve gagging to a rolling eyeball. His cape whipped against the harsh weather conditions, trees rustling with the vicious wind, giving Homelander a cheeky smile. He enjoyed this. Finally, he became deliriously thrilled. His heart thumped wildly, excited to try and take down evil. Rather than "giving it all" to beam a pair of red lasers to burn through a vulnerable piece in his little chess game. Where he was the king, dominating the 8x8 board. 

His immaculate vision enabled him to view the firestarter—a taller figure, maybe the same height as him, grabbing the hold of a poor pawn. A sniper narrowed to the deer's dome. The figure's back hunched over the bleeding-out victim, eyes motionless and open over his shoulder. A skinnier man is what Homelander figured—not giving a second to spare as he called out, "Hey, buddy! What's going on in there? I see there's some people hurt in there." 

Before he could blink, he was completely drenched. His tongue succumbed to the back of his throat to try and get rid of the horrible taste of an alcoholic beverage. This was unfamiliar; he had never had to ingest a drink so potent. It was repulsive, so repulsive he didn't hear a match striking. His cape began to disintegrate under the flame's terror. 

The figure rolled over his wrist, throwing its own opened wound into the air, down to where it pained his bare skin. His gloves felt like they flew off. His heartbeat sped, and he blinked his eyes open. The flames heating his backside gave the unknown face a gloom. 

The Supe, the man, terrorist, and flame starter, was a woman. Evangeline pistoned her fist into his nose, sending him to topple over a street curb. His feet found stability soon after. His muscles clenched, veins bulging. The flames fell short as he flailed to fly around, the wind assuring security. Evangeline stayed below, taking cover back within the gas station. 

She tsked, the blood dripping from her wrist came to waste as she was barely able to get a scratch on Homelander. He pulverized the ceiling, knee crushing soon into the ground. His beams were aimed at Evangeline. She swerved, ducking between his stance and kicking out a shin. His knees buckled to transition to a solid kick to her face. She flew backward, tumbling under the hard asphalt. She held her chest, gasping at the loss of breath. She wouldn't be able to get away. Not yet. She only noticed that the deranged Supe was already heaving her high up above his head, choking her due to the damage on his cape. 

Harry, her younger brother, ran around the kitchen, a blanket tied to his back. He acted as a vampire, causing chaos with his non-existent fangs. He bared them, just as America's most valued man did, a devilish grin imprinting his lips. Harry jumped on Evangeline's back, biting into her flesh and sucking her soul. Homelander slammed her back into a nearby wall by throwing her up and booting her. He didn't engage in battle with hefty kicks. His enemies were only punched, choked, and lasered. However, this was no amateur. Not one that had found his kryptonite, although she challenged his powers. No, he wanted this one to know she was a pathetic bug squashed by his red leather boots. She gagged out some blood, bruises already forming, causing her tanned skin to become a purplish-yellow mush. 

She grits her teeth as Homelander applies pressure to her neck, his hand burrowing within her wild head of hair. He was gripping her burning scalp. Her temperature had skyrocketed, and she felt the stress of his weight on her ribcage. 

"What scum are you, and why the hell do you believe it would be anywhere near our gorgeous country?" He had to act, even when this girl was bleeding to death. 

She remained quiet at first, trying to squeeze out a yelp as he further leaned into her body with a mean stomp. She was wheezing rather than breathing. Even though he had stopped holding her neck, she was at a loss for words. She truly understood the fright that criminals, robbers, and vigilantes had to endure against a heavy force like Homelander. Her squinted eyes held the most pain, red from the loss of oxygen. Slowly, she unreleased the tension, making herself as small as possible against his towering over the position. 

Evangeline wanted to unlock her power. To give this man fear, fear for the first time. No matter how much she thought he would deny from his insane ego, she knew that he would see that he would be frightened. His hands would get grippy and sweat to the point that he would have to take off his gloves. The scarred slashes across them would only be visible to him. His damages were seen as much as he saw copper. But deep, teh scarring underneath it all, where he hid, he saw the strain of power loss that she unlocked. His eyes would well as he had as soon as he booted her nose. She strained herself, twisting and withering beneath him to try and make an opening. 

This was more than just entertaining for Homelander; it was something that he needed in the self-loathing part of his brain. A stress reliever. That weight on his shoulders to keep up his patriotic but strong demeanor was sickening. He had no say in expressing what he wanted to. His battles lasted minutes to get there but less than a minute to finish. For him to build up to be victor, he was overwhelmed with his immoral conceptions. Inevitably, he would raise over her corpse, burning it to ash to diminish any evidence of his brutality. 

"I am an American," Amelia growled as she had one hand on his wrist and the other on the ankle of his foot. "And, I-" Her anxiety spiked as she was losing more than a liter of blood, the setting surrounding her clouded with internal confusion.

Her actions were panicked and rushed. She struggled trying to get under Homelander's foot, where he had merely smashed her fingers to the point where they snapped. She shuts her eyes, remaining quiet to give him the impression that she will get out of this. Inside, her mouth was parched, causing her tongue to stick to whatever surface she rummaged around. She tried to suck around the empty space near her teeth to build up some spit. Homelander picked up, shattering the bones in her digits.

Homelander only had his iconic, stupid grin on his face, engulfing himself with the thought of her lifeless eyes rolling to the back of her head. Her legs heaved up as her hands began to collapse into her body. The skin rubbed against one another, bones smashing. 

"I am here, the scum, to get one of you fuckers," She gasped as she caught him off guard, sending him flying as her legs wrapped around his waist, lifting her to headbutt him to the ground. "Dead!" 

Time seemed to slow; blood seeped from her forehead, and more than a drop fell into his mouth. That familiar, robust scent turned to taste; he beamed his lasers through her skull, causing her face to heat up, flesh and bone melting off her face. 

Finished, squashed, exterminated. Homelander shot up, his chest slowly crushing in on itself; he gasped, eyes widening in pain. A perfect shoe shape felt as if it were embedding into his ribs, organs squishing into one another. Every breath was rushed, sagging with the loss of proper oxygen. He suddenly grew hot. Specifically on his head, he felt as if he were scratching a bug crawling into his skull. Some of his hair was falling out, the weak strands failing against the skin of his head, which was aging faster than the rest of his body. When The Deep read that in an article, he didn't know a new fear that opened up Homelander's vulnerability: aging. His mouth was gaping like a fish. Their eyes were wide as if he were submerged underwater for too long.

What the fuck? What's happening? Who is doing this? He rolled on the ground, catching sight of that limp bug. The Junebug that snuck through your door in the summer, dead in the corner, was now awake. Resilient like a cockroach. It was on its hind legs. Dirt-stained Converse that turned perfectly white Converse to a mustard brown. Grass stains covering symbols. Straight black cargo pants shaded her silhouette, and a grey thickly-strapped tank top was underneath. The imprint of his boot remained, and the logo of Vought was there to shine right on her abdomen. 

Some spit had dribbled down to his chin as if she were acting on him with her mind; he was beaten. Fates refabricated, destined for the sole purpose of rid, now for sweet revenge. Every kick, chokehold, throw, now all fell onto him. Ignoring all evident problems, he would skip along like an innocent adolescent. Until he fell, wailed as he scraped his knees, and continued to cry out in agony once all of those abandoned crises weighed on top of his noggin. Soon, that beam, which seemed fatal to that pesky bug, seemed to mirror her suffering directly into his own eyes. 

His voice was hoarse from calling out on the girl, slurring slurs, crying cries, his teeth cracked from how hard he locked his jaw. Evangeline leaned down on a knee and opened her mouth, eyes creasing, "Get out of my country, you goddamn freak." Homelander would only have her voice to remember, slowly echoing through his brain's wicked corners. Her face was covered in blood, staining the gorgeous skin underneath. 

She was unrecognizable, with a crazy look in her eyes, bloodshot, ready to victimize poor pedestrians and store clerks. The image was set by Vought, with healthy and happy supes that couldn't struggle. When she stepped back into the small store, she sucked in a hitched breath. Anything that went against Vought would benefit Evangeline. That picture-perfect slot that needed to be filled with having absolute zero compassion didn't have a single lick of her appearance. She passed through the doorway, tears falling down her cheeks. 

Gabriel was an elderly, strongly-hearted, Scottish man with marks of sun damage and droopy eyelids that Evangelien suggested getting plastic surgery for. He whipped his non-existent hair, a habit he picked up from his grandchild, Abigail. She had long, strawberry-blonde locs that were close to reaching her thighs. She would toss her hair to emphasize every emotion. He picked up on it but didn't have much to work with as his hair had stouted from hair loss. He said it was because he would think so hard when he was younger. In truth, it was the same conundrum Homelander feared. 

Every chip bag held a chunk of meat that had flown off of customer's faces as the chips were on the top shelf. Sweet clothes that Evangeline had even complimented a girl on were now drenched in that crimson red. The floor was sopping wet. No mop could go over once; the tiles would be cleaned but stained in the acquaintance of lost souls. It enervated her spirits; she would gag on the smell, yet she was already choking. Drowning in her thoughts, she saw the absolute worst. Gabriel. 

He was a weakening man, although his years seemed longer than expected. Everyone hoped for the best, and his conclusion included those he valued most, peace and warmth. Flowers would parade his hospital bed after he had fallen, broken a bone, and the doctor's CT scan encountered a significantly colossal issue. His eyes remained in that same daze, unconcerned with his new state of health that was now detrimental. As he was overwhelmed only by the people who loved and supported him. Evangeline would grow more wretched; he impacted these people's lives with his sweet words, warming jokes, and disregarded empathy. He was a man of great honor. His death welcomed no peace or warmth as the walls of his insides darkened, trying to keep the organs at bay, sucking in any access blood from his libs. His fingertips, skin, and toes were abnormally cold. He had talked of his summer tan remaining on his customary white skin. He was too weak to see the skin on his hands and make another stupid remark that would probably cost him his life. Suffering from overusage; exhaustion. 

Evangeline trudged through the countless bodies, her empathy sagging as she kneeled down to flip their eyelids to a close. I wipe the blood off of their faces, hoping to cleanse my actions. But it was already tainted, ingrained into this very gas station. It would be recorded as one of the most immense devastations a gas station ever housed. No sort of purification would fix this. No wipe down or fix up. She felt just as cruel as she imagined Homelander. Homelander. Her time was ticking; as much as her breathing was hoarse from his kicks to my stomach and diaphragm, he was superhuman, able to bound back up to whatever knocked him down. Evangeline rushed over to Gabriel, gasping as his eyes slowly opened. 

"Evangeline, hey...do y'mind carrying me on up? It's glaicket of me not to follow your silly workouts," Gabriel warmly smiled and struggled to move. Blood leaked out at a significantly higher rate. 

Evangeline didn't want Gabriel to panic or feel any more down in this painful moment. "How about we just lie down for a little, uh, little bit more? Puh-please?" She kept herself as composed as possible, saying every word slowly as if reading it from far away.

"Mince, I think I'mma get on with it," Gabriel urged himself, coughing out some blood, which caused his brows to jump. "What?" 

She pressed her lips together in a straight line, trying for him to not see her cry and figure that this was something awful. Evangeline held his hand, wiping off the mouth that oozed out from the corners of his lips. He was lethargic, unaware of how he could bypass this situation. His health continued to diminish faster than the told time the doctors estimated for him after his CT scan; her eyes glinted in tears. 

"Let's just breathe for right-right n-uh-now, yeah? How about we- uh-" Evangeline's tears now flooded out and her breathing was frantic.

She engulfed his perishing body with her own, squeezing lightly so he could feel that he wasn't alone. Give him that comforting warmth that she always hoped he would receive. Her hand was on his head, his cap falling to the ground. She carefully leaned his fading body against the freezer doors. Ben & Jerry's behind his head. Slowly, his arms wrapped around Evangeline, taking in all available support. 

"Let me go easy, an'tell Abby, that.. she sure do," He chuckled weakly. "She the prettiest, most long-haired girlie in the world."

She cried into his shoulder, nodding her head. "Can always do it yourself."

He loved it when I told him that. A tired smile was imprinted on his face before his weight fell on my hands.

As long as her family didn't know to use parricide on their close relative, she would be okay. Gabriel's family should have no knowledge of the word, either. Only a man from New Zealand, paired with a black leather coat and Hawaiian relaxed polo, would use it. 

"Didn't know you had it in ya, mind telling me?" William Butcher, a new client, had ended up on the other side of your table. A false description of his time as a goalkeeper on a foreign team allowed him to come in. 

The darkness shrouded Evangeline when she walked away from Gabriel that day, abandoning the morals she had left there. "My job matters, specifically because I ask the questions, Butcher."

"You know that you want the job back, especially after what 'Omelander made y'do." Butcher kept his face stoic, manspreading and crossing his arms over his chest.

Evangeline mirrored his position, slumping her the coach, letting her head lean over. "That's not fair, I was 14. You know that I did that to repay these...these, uh, simple acts of kindness that seem like they died after you did one good thing for me." Before Butcher could open his mouth, she continued. "I strayed away from my class, and a perv picked up on it. So what? That doesn't mean I haven't already repaid you, completing these sinister, down-right messed-up actions!" 

"Could ya just tell me to fuck off and save me the ear load?" 

"Fuck off, I have a job that actually pays me." She said bluntly, a coldness dressing her voice tightly.

"I paid you, now your the down-right, messed-up cunt," Butcher accused, eyes narrowing down on the numb woman ahead of him. 

"Cunt? That's common of you. Are you now going to teach Terror how you jack off to Homelander, losing popularity? 'Cause I've heard some true, down-right, messed-up shit come out of your room," Evangeline loudly repeated her phrase for the final time. It didn't shut Butcher up or gag him. He remained quiet to rub the crook of his nose before he stood up, walking around his couch to lean over the furniture. 

"I'll pay you what Grace's paying both me and Frenchie," Butcher looked at her through his eyebrows cocking a grin at your intrigued face. The slightest glint in your eyes paid notion as no new expression read over your face since he got to writher his way into her office.

"How did you know I needed money?" Evangeline stumbled over her words, wondering how long he had been watching her. 

"Lucky fucking guess." 

She knew that wasn't the case, seeing through his lies. She didn't prod it out of him, however. As long as he is willing to pay, Evangeline can get a break from work. She would convince her patients that her grandma just got the news that she was now terminally ill; the best estimate would be a month and a month only when measuring her passing. She had had enough of lying, so this would be her last big one. Evangeline couldn't fight off lying to Gabriel, falsely reassuring him that he would be okay. That he would be able to tell Abigail herself. 

She placed her hands on her knees, sucking in a gasp before she floundered to Butcher, acting as if she wasn't filled with newfound excitement, which was rare these days. The darkness under her eyes felt gone. No more expensive eye creams that so rich-bitch influencers promised would help. She only looked into it since her clients would now refrain from making eye contact, making them uncomfortable with their therapist's well-being. Butcher would get a kick out of both disrespecting her and seeing her being contemptuous of it. Her acting wasn't great, so he ended up reading. She was enlightened to hear about her current wealth status going up. Her palm extended to his, showing off her cracked nails and dry knuckles. 

"Well, don'tcha look a million times more, not murder-y?" Butcher's grip was tight, but Evangeline squeezed tighter. 

“ONLY WHEN I TAKE MONEY OUT OF YOUR GREEDY POCKETS.”

A/N: Did You Guys Enjoy Chapter 1? Sorry It's A Lot But Yet Vague To The Storyline, But That's How All Intros Are. I Hope You Guys Enjoy My Story, Give Me Some Feedback, & Ask Me To Tag You For My Future Chapters!

Another A/N: Soldier Boy Isn't Too Far Away, But Right Now, This Is Set In Season 2, Episode (Whenever Stormfront Was Talking About Super-Terrorists ((WE HATE HER SO MUCH)))

[ajockeynamedpod]

new oc just dropped again

Balmain Brooks! He’s the son of Levi (the guard who was blinded by Pucci) and Arden Brooks, and he is the user of Barracuda.

Balmain had it instilled in him as a kid to always fight for the truth, even if it’s hard or you have to make sacrifices. After all, Arden put his own brother behind bars and was framed for it, who better to learn from?

Well, Balmain took the lessons to heart and took them up a notch. With his parents’ being good people but having to suffer unfairly, he developed a strong sense of justice. Extremely strong.

So strong, that he takes up the causes he believes in and makes sure people will listen. He gets angry when people, especially vulnerable populations, are treated unfairly. He rallies and protests, and if he feels unheard (which is often) he gets agitated and starts using his baseball bat and his stand to make sure he can’t be ignored. Jail time? Fines? Sure he’ll do it. As long as he has a chance to make a change. Peaceful? No way. Innocent suffering isn’t peaceful, the people causing it don’t deserve peace in his eyes.

His stand, Barracuda, affects impacts that Balmain makes with an item. Ordinarily, if you hit something with a bat, the impact causes damage. Barracuda creates an explosive force upon impact. It doesn’t blow items up (like Kira does), it creates a new explosion between the bat (or whatever other item he uses) and the surface he hits with it. This causes a lot of property damage as you can imagine, and is usually fatal if done to a person without good protection.

Police stations, banks, government buildings, and the people in charge therein have all fallen victim to Barracuda. Balmain doesn’t care what he has to do to be seen and heard and make changes happen, his parents suffered undeservedly so it’s the least he can do to try to keep others from suffering… and make the people causing the suffering pay for it.